at one another, and the entire world waited, tense, fearing what would happen if the giants should decide to war.”
“I know that feeling,” Jorgen said. “With Krell weapons pointed at us.”
“Indeed. Well, Stanislav was a simple duty officer, in charge of the sensor equipment that would warn his people if an attack had been launched. His duty was to report immediately if the sensors saw anything.”
“So his people could get away in time?” Jorgen asked.
“No, no. These were weapons like the Krell bombers use. Life-ending weapons. There was no escape; Stanislav’s people knew that if an attack came from the enemy, they were doomed. His job was not to prevent this, but to provide warning, so retaliation could be sent. That way, both nations would be destroyed, not just one.
“I imagine his life to be one of tense quiet, of hoping—wishing, praying—that he never had to do his job. For if he did, it would mean an end to billions. Such a burden.”
“What burden?” Jorgen said. “He wasn’t a general; the decision wasn’t his. He was just an operator. All he had to do was relay information.”
“And yet,” Gran-Gran said softly, “he didn’t. A warning came in. The computer system said that the enemy had launched! The terrible day had come, and Stanislav knew that if the reading was real, everyone he had ever met, everyone he loved, was as good as dead. Only, he was suspicious. ‘The enemy has launched too few missiles,’ he reasoned. ‘And this new system has not been tested properly.’ He debated, and he fretted, and then he did not call and tell his superiors what had happened.”
“He disobeyed orders!” Jorgen said. “He failed in his most fundamental duty.” He kneaded his dough more furiously, pressing it against the base of the wide, shallow bowl.
“Indeed,” Gran-Gran said. “His will was tested, however, as the computer reported another launch. Larger this time, though still suspiciously small. He debated. He knew that his duty was to send his people to launch their retaliation. To send death to their enemies while still able. The man and the soldier warred inside him.
“In the end, he declared the computer’s report to be a false alarm. He waited, sweating . . . until no missiles arrived. That day, he became the only hero of a war that never happened. The man who prevented the end of the world.”
“He still disobeyed,” Jorgen said. “It wasn’t his job to make the decision he did. It belonged to his superiors. The fact that he was right makes the story justify him in the end, but if he’d been wrong, then he would be remembered as a coward at best, a traitor at worst.”
“If he’d been wrong,” Gran-Gran whispered, “he wouldn’t have been remembered. For nobody would have lived to remember him.”
Jorgen sat back and opened his eyes. He looked down at the firm dough in his hands, then started working it harder, folding it and pushing it, feeling angry for reasons he couldn’t explain. “Why are you telling me this story?” he demanded of Gran-Gran. “Spensa said you always told her stories of people cutting off the heads of monsters.”
“I told her those stories because she needed them.”
“So you think I need a story like this? Because I like following orders? I’m not an emotionless machine, Gran-Gran. I helped Spensa rebuild her spaceship. At least, I didn’t tell anyone what she was doing when she brought Hurl’s booster back. Against protocol.”
Gran-Gran didn’t reply, so Jorgen kept working the dough, smashing it over and over, folding it like the old swordsmiths used to fold metal.
“Everyone thinks that just because I like a little structure, a little organization, I’m some kind of alien! Well excuse me for trying to see that structure exists. If everyone were like this Stanislav, then the military would be chaos! No soldier would fire his gun, out of fear that maybe the order he’d been given was a false alarm! No pilot would fly, because who knows, maybe your sensors are wrong and there is no enemy!”
He slammed the dough down and sat back against the wall.
Gran-Gran grabbed his dough, pressing it between her fingers. “Excellent,” she said. “Finally some good kneading out of you, boy. That will be some bread.”
“I—”
“Close your eyes,” Gran-Gran said. “Humph.”
Jorgen wiped his brow with his sleeve. He hadn’t realized how worked up he’d gotten. “Look, maybe I was right to tell Spensa to go. But maybe I shouldn’t have. I’m not—”