Fiction:To Leave a Life Behind

To Leave a Life Behind is an episode in the life of Alexandre Valéry, set the night of a dance at Highton University to celebrate the upcoming graduation of the fourth-year class.

To Leave a Life Behind
May 18, 2738, Europe

It was the night of the Highton University Leaver’s Ball, 2738. Set in an old-fashioned ballroom reminiscent of Victorian English upper-class society, the old-age architecture clashed brutally with the new-age atmosphere. The lights––holographic candles hanging from chandeliers overhead––had been dimmed and the floor was swarmed with youth prancing awkwardly about in formal wear. Chaotic chatter drowned out the music to the point where one had to strain an ear just to catch more than a few notes of it.

Above all of the glamour, the posh, the excitement, stood Alexandre Valéry on one of the few empty balconies that overlooked the dancing floor. The rest had been taken and shut off by couples he was only too happy to ignore. Valéry counted himself lucky. One of many Frenchmen attending the English Highton, he promised to graduate at the top of his class. He was a natural leader, they said. Strangely, he had attended this event not out of a desire for the social interaction, nor had he hoped to chance upon a surprise encounter. No, he had come out of a strange sense of duty. To whom or what, he could not quite tell. He had paid little attention to the Leaver’s Ball in the past, what was so different now?

He was leaving in a few months, that’s what was different. Highton, the place where he had spent four years of his life was about to become a distant memory. He had thought that he would be relieved, though all he could feel that night––dressed in a dashing black suit opening on a crimson dress shirt––was melancholy.

“Alex, your date’s on the floor,” came a voice behind him, accompanied by thundering footsteps up the spiraling wooden staircase. It was Connor Hathaway, also a fourth-year soon-to-be-graduate. Valéry neither liked him nor disliked him. Truth be told, the two hardly spoke, though they knew very well of each other though several social circles. It helped that Connor was vice president of the student body. “And she’s dancing alone. It’d be a shame if something were to happen to her.”

Indeed, Valéry spotted her out of the corner of his eye. “We’re here as friends, Connor,” he replied in an even tone of voice. “Don’t get me wrong, she’s nice, a wild and unpredictable thing.”

“Then why aren’t you with her?” Connor teased, joining Valéry on the edge of the balcony and crossing his arms.

“She’s not my type.” Valéry’s answer was curt and one of many stock phrases that had become more common than vernacular over the ages, but it conveyed his meaning nicely with little investment of thought.

“So what’s your type?” Connor asked.

“A different kind of wild and unpredictable.”

Silence fell between them as Connor leaned on the railing of the balcony with his elbows, gazing at the ballroom floor. Opposite them, enormous flags had been draped over the walls as decoration, representing the different nationalities of the soon-to-be graduates. Flanking the blue of Europe was the light blue of the Fjord League and the French tricolor, which Connor was staring at.

“When this is all over,” Connor said. “I’m thinking of joining the military.”

“You?” Valéry acted surprised. In truth, he was not. Connor was just the type: aimless, idealistic, and most importantly, restless. “Why?”

“I want to get out of this place and away from these people. They’re too… plastic, too proud."

“And you think joining the European Starfleet is going to help with that?”

“It’s the whole country, Alex,” Connor said. "I––I was actually thinking of joining the Legion.”

That, Valéry had to admit, took him by surprise. The conversation was beginning to interest him. “The French Foreign Legion? Really?”

Connor turned to him. “It’s different, a melting pot of cultures, a brotherhood of man, not just a bunch of guys trained to kill people. And France is...”

“Different?” Valéry suggested.

“Yes… Different. It acts, gets its hands dirty.”

Valéry laughed. “While Europe sits on its ass, pleads neutrality, and does strictly nothing?”

“Yes, that’s it,” Connor smiled. “What about you? Where are you going?”

Valéry looked back across to the French tricolor. He knew it was silly, but he couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride every time he laid eyes on that haphazardly colored piece of cloth. “Out of the three colors on the flag of the French Republic,” he said, completely changing the subject, “I enjoy red the most. The white’s too pure, and the blue’s too soft––even though that’s the color most of us parade in. But the red… It’s a symbol of strength.”

Connor shook his head with an uncertain grin on his face. “I’m not sure I follow.”

The two spoke at length in the relative privacy of the balcony for the rest of the night before they parted. The next morning, drunk on sleeplessness, they egged each other on towards the Foreign Legion recruitment office. Both had idly considered the same thing, but they needed each other to make it a reality.



"Highton. I’ll be perfectly frank, I hated that place; that’s something I realized the moment I was out. I am almost grateful for the Legion’s long two-hour drills at strange hours of the morning, where sergeants labored over me for months to undo my 'higher education’. Without them, I would have entered the world complacent, disorganized, aimless, doomed to failure. I had no ambition. The Legion honed me into a weapon, taught me that no tank, starship, or missile was more dangerous than the human mind, that stopping meant failure and doubt meant weakness. I am merciless, and I will never look back."