* * *
The rain had stopped, and occasional rays of sunlight were touching down here and there, as the NCOs began to pound on the metal siding with their rifle butts. “Up and at it, people . . . Inspection in thirty minutes. That includes you and your shed. So turn to.”
All of the females were housed in building three. And all of them were as filthy as the interior of their shed. So the first step was to place their gear on the top racks and wash the place down. A process made possible by the presence of hoses, plenty of hot water, and drain holes in the floor.
Working under the supervision of the so-called HPIC (Head Puke In-Charge) the women went about the process of scrubbing the decks. Once the dirt had been loosened, it was time to spray the place down.
The HPIC for building three was a beefy woman named Nora Pachek. She had tattoos all over her face, neck, and arms. She was buff, very buff, and had already served a tour with the marines. Why Pachek left the green machine for the Legion was a mystery and likely to remain so because none of the other recruits had the guts to ask her about it.
Though not a member of Pachek’s all-female posse, McKee liked her straight-ahead style and had been careful not to complain when she drew various shit details. Maybe that was why Pachek assigned her to scrubber duty. It was hard work. But once the job was done, the scrubbers could hit the showers, and the first ones in were the first ones out. That meant they would have more time to prepare for inspection. And one of the many things that she had learned over the last few days was that little things could make a big difference.
So she was able to enjoy a hot, if somewhat brief, shower before putting on the uniform of the day, which consisted of a tank top, shorts, and barracks boots. The latter was for show and, as one wag put it, “to piss us off.”
After that, it was time to go outside and line up. The sun was out, a swirling mist hung over the swamp, and the day feeders were in full cry as the inspection began. The cacophony of hoots, howls, and gibbering sounds was a constant reminder of the fact that FBC-4 was a very small island in the middle of a very large swamp.
Most of the recruits, McKee included, were found wanting where their boots were concerned and assigned to shit details that would eat up some if not all of their free time that evening. Once the inspection process was over, Hasker laid out the agenda for the day. “After chow, you’re going to build an obstacle course. Not inside the fence, where everything is all snuggly, but outside the wire, where the creepy crawlies live. The T-1s will try to keep the frogs away, but one or two of the slippery bastards could still get through, so stay sharp. If you see something suspicious, let us know.
“Ideally, you would be packing heat,” Hasker continued. “But with the exception of Pachek and a couple of others, most of you pukes wouldn’t know a rocket launcher from a mop. So right after lunch, I’m going to introduce you to your new best friend—and that’s the L-40 Assault Weapon.”
Breakfast consisted of a boxed MRE (Meals Ready to Excrete). Then it was time to switch their barracks boots for jungle boots. They were equipped with steel shims designed to protect the wearer from the spikelike pogi sticks the frogs liked to plant in the shallows near game trails.
Then it was time to pass through a gate, wade into the surprisingly cold water, and start work. Tall stakes marked the points where the various obstacles were to go. So it was a matter of hauling raw materials out and bolting, binding, or in one case welding them together. The result was a circular course that included a high wall, a rope challenge, a zip line, and more. All supervised by NCOs who weren’t required to get their feet wet thanks to the fact that they were high and dry on cyborgs.
Lunch came next, followed by the distribution of weapons, all of which showed signs of heavy use. Pacheck tore hers down and put it back together in a matter of minutes. “This piece of crap is more like a shotgun than a rifle,” she complained. “Where’s the rifling?” It was a rhetorical question. But having heard it, McKee made a note to find out what rifling was and why she should care about it.
The empty shipping containers had been stacked to form bleachers by that time. So the boots had a place to sit as Corporal Anders stood on a module repurposed as a stage. A holo projector had been placed on top of the box and quickly came to life. The weapon had a boxy look. The image was a bit thin due to the sunlight streaming down from above, but still viewable. And Anders, who clearly relished the role of instructor, was in top form.
“Listen up, maggots,” Anders said, “and listen good. The weapon in your hands is called the Axer Arms L-40 Assault Weapon—often referred to as the ‘AXE’ for short. Do not under any circumstances refer to the L-40 as a ‘gun.’ Because a gun is a crew-served weapon like a howitzer—and there ain’t none of you pissants big enough to carry a cannon.
“Now that we got that straight, let’s get to it. There will be a fucking test, and the people who flunk will wind up dead. Every time the L-40 fires a cartridge, it is fed down into the rotary breech from a magazine located on top of the barrel. Each 4.7mm caseless round is square in order to reduce friction and to maximize the number of rounds that can be loaded into a magazine.
“The cylinder rotates clockwise, bringing the cartridge into alignment with the barrel. When you squeeze the trigger, the firing pin will set off the round, and gas pressure will be used to feed a new cartridge into the chamber. By now you blockheads have noticed that all of the L-40’s moving parts are sealed inside a protective housing. That means you can submerge the AXE in water, march through a sandstorm, or go belly down in the mud, and it will continue to fire.
“Now take a look at the grip. It is located near the vertical gravity axis, which makes the L-40 easy to use. The grip includes the trigger, the safety, and the fire selector switch. That allows you to choose between single-fire, burst, and full auto. You can expect to put out six hundred rounds per minute in the sustained-fire mode—and two thousand rounds per minute in the three-round-burst mode. Finally, we have a carrying handle up top, complete with a variable optical sight that can be used in low-light situations.
“So the next time you run into an Imperial taxpayer, you should go up to him or her and thank that taxpayer for providing you with the finest assault rifle in the whole fucking galaxy. Is that clear?”
The answer came back. “Sir! Yes, sir!”
“Good. It’s nice to have people agree with me. From this point forward, you will carry your AXE to chow, you will carry your AXE into the showers, and you will carry your AXE when you take a shit. Because this planet is not a safe place to be, and there ain’t no place to hide. Okay. Let’s go down to the water and see if you can fire those weapons without killing each other.”
The next couple of hours were spent loading magazines, learning how to insert them, and taking turns shooting at nothing in particular. Partly because the range hadn’t been set up yet—and partly as a way to familiarize the boots with their weapons before worrying about accuracy. And as McKee sprayed the swamp with bullets, she couldn’t help but think about Empress Ophelia and wonder what it would be like to kill her.
* * *
The sunny weather was too good to last. And by the time the recruits rose the next morning and lined up for inspection, a gentle rain was falling. Thousands of overlapping circles covered the surface of the muddy water as McKee followed a boot named Laraby into the obstacle course. The AXE was on a sling, and it felt heavy, but she was happy to have the weapon since one of the T-1s had nailed a frog during the night. And there it was, out in the middle of the O-course, with a sharp stick up its ass. The point was protruding from between the creature’s shoulder blades, and its head was hanging to one side. A warning, Hasker said, which would help keep other indigs away.
McKee wasn’t so sure about that since it seemed as though the impalement could easily attract trouble as well. But such considerations were above her pay grade. So rathe
r than worry about the right and wrong of it, she took the opportunity to eyeball the creature from about ten feet away.
The indig had a snakelike head, a skinny body, and mottled skin. The warrior’s arms ended in three-fingered hands that lacked opposable thumbs but had skin-covered bone spurs that served the same purpose. The individual in front of her had long, muscular legs that led to webbed feet. The latter was the only aspect of its physiology that was reminiscent of a frog. McKee felt sorry for it, tried to convince herself that it was stupid to do so, and failed. It was a victim of the empire, and she was a victim of the empire, which meant they had something in common.
The obstacle course was tough. But as McKee’s upper-body strength continued to increase, she was getting better at physical training and managed to get through with only one boost from a fellow recruit. He took the opportunity to squeeze her butt cheeks as he pushed her up over the highest wall. She looked back over her shoulder and swore at him. And when he laughed, she saw that the offender was none other than a mud-smeared Larkin. The incident served as a reminder, and a timely one, because McKee knew she would have to deal with the bully eventually.
After completing the O-course, it was off to the recently completed firing range. It consisted of a level spot just outside the fence, a dozen pieces of metal siding to lie on, and two ranks of targets out in the swamp. There were ten of them at three hundred yards, and ten more at five hundred yards, with the second row being higher than the first.
Fortunately, there was no need to go out and retrieve targets, or to put more up, because the fabric through which the bullets passed was not only self-healing but designed to record the exact location of every hit. Data that was transmitted to a portable reader board set up on the beach.
Rather than use their own weapons, which, as Pacheck put it, “are pieces of shit,” the recruits were given new L-40s to fire. Both rows of targets could pop up and down, forcing the shooters to switch back and forth between them. Each boot was entitled to forty shots. Twenty-five hits were required to pass, thirty hits were required to earn a sharpshooter’s badge, and thirty-eight hits were required to qualify as an expert. No small task with a short-barreled weapon.
Twenty shots had to be taken from a prone position, ten while kneeling, and ten using only their arms to support and control the L-40. McKee had excellent eyesight, as well as good eye-hand coordination, and managed to score twenty-six hits the first time on the firing line, a performance that earned a “Not bad,” from Anders. High praise indeed.
By the time dinner rolled around, McKee felt fairly good about her performance for that particular day. She was sitting on a crate, working her way through an MRE, when a familiar roar was heard. She had a good view as a reentry-scarred shuttle lowered itself through the overcast and settled onto the huge X at the center of the compound. Such arrivals weren’t unusual. And as the transport’s ramp made contact with the ground, McKee wondered who would be chosen to go aboard and hump supplies. Then, as a lone figure appeared at the top of the ramp, McKee felt something akin to ice water trickle into her veins. Because the silhouette looked very familiar. Frighteningly so.
She reached for the AXE, checked to make sure that the safety was on, and brought the weapon up. A quick look through the telescopic sight was sufficient to confirm her worst fears. A synth! On Drang. Why?
Suddenly, her appetite disappeared, and she felt a little bit dizzy as Hasker went over to speak with the android. The call went out over the PA system a few moments later. All of the recruits were to fall in. No exceptions.
For one brief moment, McKee toyed with the idea of opening fire on the robot or making a run for it but knew she’d wind up dead either way. No, the smart thing to do was to keep her cool and hope for the best. Besides, the odds were that the synth was there for a reason that had nothing to do with her.
So she took her place in the front rank of the second platoon and was standing at attention as both Hasker and the visiting android took up positions in front of the company. McKee knew Hasker pretty well by then. They all did. And judging from the noncom’s expression, he wasn’t happy. “Listen up, people . . . This is Tracker Fyth. It’s looking for a fugitive named Catherine Carletto. If you are Catherine Carletto, or know where Catherine Carletto is, speak up.”
McKee felt as if she were going to faint. It took all of her resolve to keep her head up and look straight ahead. The situation was bad. Very bad. Ophelia’s security apparatus was looking for her on Drang. But McKee knew she had a couple of things going for her. One of which was the Legion’s closed culture.
“All right,” Hasker said after five seconds of silence. “Tracker Fyth has requested permission to inspect the ranks. You will remain at attention.”
McKee watched out of the corner of her eye as the android started with the first platoon and inspected the recruits one by one. The process seemed to last for hours. But in all truth, less than ten minutes had elapsed by the time Fyth sidestepped into a position directly in front of her. And as McKee stared into the robot’s red eyes, she knew it was comparing her features to those stored in its onboard computer. Everything was at stake—and time seemed to stop.
CHAPTER: 5
* * *
Humans have many weaknesses, not the least of which is their extensive reliance on cyborgs and robots. No good will come of it.
HAK HAKNA
Ramanthian xenoanthropologist
Standard year 1972
IMPERIAL PLANET DRANG
As the android made its way along the ranks of legionnaires, he could “hear” the Trooper Is talking to each other on the squad-level push. The cyborgs were heavily armed. And Fyth knew that if he found his target, he would have to be very cautious. The cyborgs might destroy him if he put a bullet in her head. Because humans were prone to act on emotion rather than logic, and the fact that they were wearing electromechanical bodies wouldn’t make any difference. So the best strategy would be to arrest Lady Carletto, take her off-planet, and shoot her somewhere else.
Making the situation even more difficult was the fact that while the noncommissioned officer named Hasker was acting in a compliant manner, his face was devoid of expression. That raised the possibility that he was concealing negative emotions, a behavior that would be consistent with the Legion’s tendency to protect its soldiers from civil authorities.
Fyth had registered two possible “hits” during the last few minutes but neither one held up under more intense scrutiny. So as the search continued the android kept a picture of Lady Carletto up where it could “see” it. Another face appeared as Fyth sidestepped into position directly in front of a female recruit. The Carletto image contracted to more closely match the size of the woman’s closely cropped head. At that point the android experienced a pleasant buzzing sensation while text slid sideways cross the bottom of its electronic “vision.” “Subject is a 58.2 percent match to target 2999. Investigate.”
So Fyth focused its attention on the superimposed images. There was a definite resemblance. The subject’s hairline, eyes, and lips were a perfect match. But the recruit’s nose was flatter, her face was thinner, and she had a pronounced scar that ran from just over her right eye down onto her left cheek.
That observation prompted Fyth’s processor to replay part of the conversation with Simek. “Judging from the amount of blood she left behind, the cut went deep. A defensive wound most likely. So even if she’s wearing a disguise, there could be one or more partially healed lacerations on her hands or arms.” Could the facial scar have been received on Esparto?
“What’s your name?” Fyth demanded.
The recruit looked at Hasker, saw him nod, and brought her eyes back to Fyth. “McKee . . . Andromeda McKee.”
“Where are you from?”
The recruit opened her mouth to reply but Hasker spoke on her behalf. “McKee was sworn in on Worber’s World.”
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Fyth “saw” the possibility of a match drop to 46.1 percent. “Let me see your arms.”
The recruit was wearing a T-shirt. When she extended her arms, the android saw that they were free of scars. Fyth lost interest. The next recruit was male and way too tall. The search continued. When it was over, the android was left with nothing to show for its effort. A human might have felt a sense of disappointment. But not Fyth. It didn’t have emotions as such. Just a continuing desire to complete its mission.
So Fyth boarded the shuttle, strapped itself in, and began to “think” about the rim worlds. Maybe Simek was correct. Maybe subject 2999 was hiding out along the very edge of human-controlled space. Fyth would find out.
* * *
McKee felt a profound sense of relief as the shuttle’s repellers flared, and the ship began to rise. She was safe. For the moment at least. Thanks to Hasker. Thanks to the Legion. Legio Patria Nostra. It was true.
The troops had been dismissed, and she was about to leave the assembly area when Hasker motioned her over. The expression on his face was serious. “McKee . . .”
“Sir?”
“I don’t know why the synths are looking for you, and I don’t care. But watch your six . . . Maybe this is over, and maybe it ain’t. You read me?”
“Sir, yes sir.”
“Good. Report to your MOS group.”
There was a great deal to learn before the recruits could graduate from basic training and join one of the regiments. Not just any regiment, but the one that Hasker and the other instructors deemed to be most in keeping with a recruit’s test scores, skills, and apparent aptitudes.
The possibilities included aviation, supply, medical, the pioneers, infantry, airborne, and cavalry. The latter was of considerable interest to McKee because it would allow her to work with the cybernetic “forms” designed and manufactured by Carletto Industries. And because members of the cavalry were considered to be part of an elite organization that appealed to her as well. So when Hasker asked if any of the recruits wanted to learn more about the T-1s, her hand shot up. “You’ll be sorry,” Pachek predicted. “Never volunteer for anything. That’s the second commandment.”
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