by Sara King
Joe stiffened. Some of the prisoners in the front row were beginning to cry.
“This,” Tril said, touching the black gadget, “is the controller that every battalion commander carries around with him. It’s indestructible, so don’t any of you furgs get any ideas. It has nine settings. The lowest—what you are about to experience—will leave you dazed for a few hours afterwards. It also makes you release your bowels, so it would be in your best interest to undress before I use it.”
The children glanced at one another tearfully, unsure what to do.
“He said strip!” one of Second Company’s battlemasters snapped.
Still, only a couple obeyed.
“Suit yourselves,” Tril said. “By the authority given to me by the Universal Congress as your Commanding Officer, I hereby sentence you to the First Degree of perceptual punishment.” At that, he touched the black pad in his fingers.
A hundred kids fell to the ground, shrieking. It was worse than anything Joe had seen in the mock battles. This was long, unyielding agony. At least the blue goop killed them quickly. Tril’s little black device gave them no quarter, and did not allow them the relief of a fake death. Joe grew sick watching and had to close his eyes. As he stood there, the stench of excrement filled his nostrils and still they screamed.
In that moment, watching the kids writhe on the ground, Joe knew that he would always hate Congress. No matter what came in his future, no matter how many rewards they gave him, he would always hate them. Shaking, Joe had to turn away. When he did, he saw Battlemaster Nebil standing stiffly to one side, sudah whipping silently in his neck. He wasn’t watching the screaming children like everyone else—he was watching Tril.
Exactly twenty minutes after it began, Tril ended their torment. The kids on the ground gasped and stared blankly at the sky. They lay like the dead, only the rise and fall of their chests indicating they were still alive.
“Battlemasters, tend to your platoons.” At that, Tril turned and walked back to his haauk. Without another word, he flew away.
“Come,” Battlemaster Nebil said, sounding tired. “You owe me an hour for losing Sixth’s battlemaster.” He paused. “And Zero, you get eighteen laps for your sleeves.”
CHAPTER 22: Capture the Flag
Joe wore his sleeves rolled up proudly the next morning, and caught more than one strange look from other battlemasters and Ooreiki from other Battalions. Nebil had said absolutely nothing about them since he’d run his laps the night before.
“Where’d you learn to do that?” Maggie asked as soon as she saw them that morning. She ran a fascinated finger along the band of cloth around his arm. “I wanna do that, Joe!”
“You can’t,” Joe said. “Nebil will make you run.”
“I don’t care,” Maggie whined. “I want to have my sleeves rolled, just like you, Joe.”
Joe put his foot down, however, and had to endure Maggie’s pout for the rest of the day. That night, when they formed up in the plaza for their nightly inspection, Commander Tril saw Joe’s sleeves for the first time.
“Battlemaster Nebil, have you lost your mind?” Tril demanded, coming to a stop in front of Joe.
“Zero chooses to run eighteen laps each night to keep them, Commander,” Battlemaster Nebil said with a shrug. “There’s nothing I can do.”
“Nothing you can—” Commander Tril broke off in the middle of his sentence, gaping at Battlemaster Nebil. To Joe, he said, “Fix your uniform, recruit.”
“It is fixed,” Joe said stubbornly.
“You see?” Nebil said. “Nothing I can do.”
Tril’s sudah were fluttering wildly in his neck. “Nebil, you will see me in my quarters tonight.”
“I will be sleeping in my quarters tonight, Commander,” Nebil replied. “If you want company, you should go back to yeeri academy and apply for motherhood.”
Tril stared at Nebil so long that other battlemasters started to fidget. Nebil met his eyes unflinchingly, his sudah utterly calm, hands twined casually behind him around his switch. Seeing that, Joe got the distinct idea that Nebil was a moment away from using the weapon on Tril.
Apparently, Tril saw it, too. Sudah fluttering madly, he spun and, without another word, their secondary commander stormed off, leaving Nebil once more in charge of his platoon.
“Well,” Nebil said. “Now that that unpleasantness is over, how do you pukes feel about a little shuteye?” His eyes caught on Zero. “Except for you, you fire-loving Jreet sooter. You run laps.”
Joe felt a surge of triumph that his battlemaster had the balls to stand up to Tril. A lot of the other battlemasters did not, and their platoons often didn’t get enough to eat because Tril ordered them to do more drills than they could reasonably fit in one day. Joe found himself proud of the fact that Nebil, despite Tril’s orders, made sure his platoon got three meals and a full night’s sleep each night—as long as his recruits weren’t stupid enough to want to run eighteen laps at bedtime to prove a point.
Joe ran his eighteen laps that night grinning, finding this small means of rebelling to be exhilarating instead of exhausting. Each lap left him with more energy, until he was running all-out, his head up proudly as he served his penance.
When he finally charged up the stairs an hour after the other recruits had gone to bed, Battlemaster Nebil was waiting by the door.
“Looks like a member of your groundteam will be joining you tomorrow,” Nebil said as Joe stepped inside. Without another word, he touched the control pad and the door dripped shut between them.
Joe turned and saw Maggie with her tongue stuck in the side of her cheek, rolling up her sleeves in big, childish bunches. The other children in the barracks were watching her silently, though they had enough sense not to follow her lead.
Joe groaned. He knew Maggie would pass out before the tenth lap. “Mag, what are you doing?”
Maggie wiped her face and Joe realized she had tears in her eyes. “They don’t look as good as yours, Joe,” she said. “I can’t make them look that good.”
Joe took her jacket and frowned at the crude little wads of sleeve she had made. He started to unroll them.
“No!” Maggie cried. “Battlemaster Nebil said I could have them!” She wrenched the jacket out of Joe’s hands and cradled it in her lap. Soon she began to rock back and forth, crying.
Joe glanced at Libby. “Did he?”
Libby shrugged. “He said she could if she wanted to run.”
“Damn it,” Joe muttered. “Mag, what are you doing?”
“I want to be a soldier like you, Joe!” Maggie wailed. “I just want to have sleeeeeves.” She threw herself down on the bed, sobbing.
Joe took a deep breath and squatted beside her. “Mag. Listen to me. I’ll roll your sleeves for you tonight, okay? But I’m not rolling them again after that. If you take them out because you don’t want to run anymore, I’m not rolling them back up again. Got it?”
Maggie stopped sobbing and nodded vigorously.
Sighing, Joe pulled her tear-stained jacket out of her clutches and gently tugged the sleeves loose. “Now watch how I do this, okay? You don’t just roll them up. You’ve gotta fold them and smooth out the wrinkles. And up here near the top of the arm, you gotta pinch the sleeve shut as you roll it so it’s not baggy on your arm.”
Maggie’s face contorted with concentration as she watched him work. Joe felt like he was a horrible person, giving an hour of nightly running to a five-year old, but he reminded himself that she didn’t have the body of a five-year-old anymore. She could have been fourteen or fifteen, back on Earth. In fact, some of the twelve-year-olds had been giggling under the covers at night, and Joe had a pretty good idea they weren’t discussing the Bible.
That reminded Joe of the way his own body had changed, and how some of the oldest girls caught his eye at the most awkward moments. It was becoming embarrassing—mentally, he knew they were all still kids, but physically, he really, really needed a girlfriend.
“There you go,” Joe said, handing the jacket back to Maggie. “Try that on. If the arms are too tight I can loosen them for you.”
“They’re perfect, Joe!” Maggie squealed and danced on the bed, showing her new jacket off to all the other recruits in delight. “Thank you Joe! I love them!”
“You’re not gonna love them when you’re running tomorrow night,” Libby said dryly.
Maggie stuck out her tongue and turned to let Scott inspect them, giggling like a little girl.
She is a little girl, Joe reminded himself again. She just looks older.
When he finally got Maggie calmed down enough to sleep, he couldn’t stop thinking about the way Libby’s leg was touching his where she slept beside him. Off in a far corner of the barracks room, he heard two of the older kids murmuring as they fumbled under the blankets. Joe felt a hard-on coming on—he hadn’t had a chance to get off since the last time he’d stolen a peek at his father’s Playboy collection back on Earth—and he was painfully aware of how his balls were beginning to ache. He quickly tried to think of something else.
Libby, however, wasn’t helping matters. She was sprawled out right beside him and her childish body had grown athletic and leggy, her lithe form as perfect as a model’s. Even her face, which was always serious while she was awake, was soft and delicate as she slept, her exquisite features only a few inches away.
Like he usually did when he couldn’t sleep, Joe rolled onto his back and began to wonder what it would be like to get laid. The thought stuck in his brain and, added to his body’s hyped-up energy level from his run, he found himself wide awake for several hours.
Desperate for some rest, he moved as far as he could toward the edge of the bed, but he could still feel where his leg had brushed Libby’s. It had been as smooth as silk, so feminine it sent shivers through his body. For the first time since getting abducted, he realized that he was sleeping next to three almost-naked girls. He got rock-hard despite himself, and spent the next hour wondering if there was a safe place to jack off without the other kids seeing him.
The sounds of the other couple making out eventually ended and the entire room fell silent. Still Joe waited, listening. He was only going to get an hour or two of sleep, at most. Finally unable to stand it any longer, he got up, snuck to the far wall, and began to beat his meat into a chamber pot.
When Monk spoke beside him, he almost pissed himself. He scrambled to put everything away before turning to face her.
“Joe?” Monk asked again.
“Yeah,” Joe said, his face blushing so hard it felt like it would explode. “What is it?” He backed away from her, feeling like he was going to die.
“You okay?” she asked, moving closer. She was still only a few inches taller than she had been when they first met, but her body was developing in ways that he hadn’t noticed until now. She was so close she was almost brushing against his thigh. He jerked away and closed his eyes.
She’s still a kid, Joe thought. She’s a kid. Suddenly very disgusted with himself, he cleared his throat. “I’m fine, Monk. Go back to bed.” His balls were aching bad, now. He needed some relief, even if it meant half the barracks watching him jack off.
“Are you sure?” Monk insisted. “Why are you still awake? Aren’t you tired?”
“Damn it, Monk, I’m fine,” Joe growled. “Please, leave me alone.”
“What are you doing over here?” Monk asked, glancing at the chamber pot. “Is something wrong with you? I saw you trying to pee.”
“I’m not trying to—” Joe cut off abruptly, realizing that his sarcasm would be lost on her. “Look, Monk, just go back to bed.”
“I don’t like Libby,” Monk said. “Do I have to sleep next to her?”
“Yes,” Joe said. “Just go, okay?”
“The battlemaster says we’re gonna be doing the fighting game again tomorrow. We get to wear black this time, though.”
Joe leaned against the wall in despair. “I know, Monk. Please, go.”
In the darkness, Monk made a face. “Libby’s being mean. She keeps saying Elf is dead. That’s why I don’t want to sleep with her.”
Joe looked up sharply. “Elf is alive.” Then it hit him. The dead-eyed human climbing down the staircase outside the Dhasha’s tower… It had been Elf.
“What?” Monk said. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Joe swallowed hard. He was remembering Elf’s skin, all those scars… Only his hands had been unaffected. He had been completely unrecognizable, like those pictures of guys mauled by bears. Quite abruptly, Joe’s hard-on was gone.
“Monk, promise me something.”
“What?” she asked, instantly wary.
“If you get picked by Knaaren, kill yourself as quickly as you can.”
She wrinkled her nose at him. “You’re weird, Joe.”
Joe sighed and moved away from the wall. “Yeah, I know. Let’s get to bed.”
He had no problem falling asleep, though his dreams were filled with nightmares of perfect, unscarred hands dragging him down a tunnel towards something horrible waiting to rip him apart.
#
“You publicly disobeyed me, Battlemaster.”
“So I did.” Nebil sounded amused. “On a full night’s sleep, too. Fancy that.” He had arrived after breakfast with the commanders—who had taken to shunning Tril to the point that Tril now ate alone in his room—still eating a spore-cake from the chow hall.
Tril tried to ignore the boredom in Nebil’s voice, but knowing a battlemaster was enjoying the morning revelry at breakfast with his peers, taking a spot that rightfully belonged to Tril, made his fists clamp down on his desk in fury. He took a moment to size the other Ooreiki up. Nebil had seen over four hundred turns. His skin was shamefully loose for a battlemaster. Any other Ooreiki would have taken his last four-rank penalty and begun climbing the ladder again, but Nebil had stubbornly refused to leave battlemaster after his command had cut him down from Prime. Repeatedly.
“How long have you been a battlemaster, Nebil?”
The question seemed to catch the older Ooreiki off guard. He gave Tril a long, analyzing look, then said, “In all?”
Tril nodded.
“Eighty-five turns.”
Longer than Tril had been alive.
Trying not to look surprised, Tril carefully pried another black growth from his new ferlii plant with the grooming tool. One thing about ship air—at least it didn’t contain the spores that caused ferlii to try and grow on other ferlii. In the wild, draak would scrape them off and eat them, but here in the barracks, Tril had to do it by hand.
“How long were you a Prime?”
“Forty-three.” He said it immediately, without hesitation.
“Don’t you want to regain the ranks you lost, Nebil?” That he’d lost…three times, now. That still boggled Tril’s mind. Promoted to Prime…only to bungle it to ashes and get kicked back to battlemaster. The wriit had to be some sort of jenfurgling.
“No.”
Tril frowned at him. “Then why re-enlist? Why not resign? Why stay forever trapped in a pathetic rank like battlemaster?”
Battlemaster Nebil laughed. “What do you want, Tril?”
Tril eyed Nebil a moment before putting down the grooming tool. “Why do you let Zero keep his sleeves?” Nebil stiffened and Tril held up an arm. “I’m not telling you to get rid of them—you wouldn’t listen to me anyway. I just want to know why.”
“Zero is a recruit battlemaster,” Nebil said. “It helps his platoon to identify him quickly.”
“If his recruits can identify him, Lagrah’s recruits can identify him.” Tril retorted.
Nebil’s face stretched in an evil smile. “Exactly.”
#
Sixth Battalion was dressed in black, clutching guns loaded with the poisonous blue solution as Commander Linin discussed the plan of the day. Linin had noticed Joe’s rolled sleeves but, as Nebil had done, he ignored them, acting as if they didn’t exist.
The kids on the skimmer gave Linin wide-eyed looks that were more terror than understanding. Joe could sympathize. As the attackers, it was horrifying to know that, if they didn’t retrieve the flag, they would all have to get hit with the goop by the end or they would get punished with Tril’s little black box. Everyone on the skimmer was nervous, their grips on their rifles tight as they waited for Linin to offload them from the haauk.
Commander Linin made a frog-like grunt into the silence. “Commander Tril says you Takki get an hour of free time for every squad leader you take down, three hours for every Battlemaster. If he wants to pamper you pussies, that’s fine. I’m not gonna question that Takki ashsoul, but I am gonna add something of my own. For every recruit that dies within the first nine tics, the entire company will run for eighteen tics.”
Which, Joe was pretty sure, would negate any battlemaster or squad leader kills they gained. “So what do we get if we capture the flag?” he asked.
Linin snorted. “You get the pride of knowing you’re the first Human company in the history of Congress to successfully infiltrate an enemy battalion’s tunnels, you worthless Jreet bastard.” Linin croaked out an Ooreiki laugh. “Anyway, you wriggling Takki sooters aren’t gonna get the flag. Tril’s pitted us against Lagrah, so unless you all learn to grow hahkta in the next couple hunts, we’re all gonna be writhing around in our own shit until they decide to pull us from the regiment. Just try to stay alive past the first nine tics, then we can talk about burning flags.” He turned to open the gate at their feet.
