Then the NCOs proceeded to paw through the piles.
Almost everything was deemed contraband. Phones, media players, computer pads, hardcopy books and magazines, civilian clothing . . . it was all unceremoniously shoved back into whatever luggage we recruits had brought with us, then each bag was closed shut with a zip tie to which a tag—with the respective recruit’s number and barcode on it—was attached. The bags were then stacked on several carts, and the carts were wheeled out. No explanation given, other than that the recruits would be seeing their bags again when they left Armstrong Field for Advanced Technical School—or washed out.
Food and drink of any sort was trashed.
I grunted at my wasted effort. I had tried to travel light, bringing only those things which had been on the packing list that my recruiter had given me. But I found out quickly that the packing list was next to worthless. Virtually everything I’d carried with me was being taken away, save for a small toiletries satchel and a neutral-colored towel.
But I was lucky. Some of the other recruits were literally in tears, watching their toys and their games and their Most Favorite Of All Things taken from them and hauled off.
When the shakedown was complete, numerous recruits appeared to have been hollowed out. And that was just the first personally-invasive violation of the day.
Next came medical, where males and females were split off into separate lines and funneled into locker rooms where they were ordered to strip to the skin. I deposited both shoes and clothing into a plastic bag, which was zip-tied and tagged just like my luggage—presumably to be disappeared off to wherever it was they were keeping everyone’s stuff.
Nude, cringing, and clutching my hygiene satchel, I went with the rest of the males—more variously-shaped naked bodies than I had ever seen in one place in my entire life—into a second room that appeared as if it might double as a torture chamber.
Eyes. Ears. Nose. Mouth. And apertures too sensitive to mention. It all got checked and rechecked by a busy-bodied horde of Fleet personnel in medical scrubs, some of them wielding arcane and sometimes ferocious-looking medical equipment. Beeps and boops from the med computers told the med personnel yay or nay, and a few people had to be directed off to yet another room for a full physician’s inspection.
Everyone else—myself included—processed through with as much dignity as could be salvaged, right before getting hit with several injector guns that left swelling welts on our thighs, biceps, and butt cheeks.
Then came the barber.
One by one, each of us lay down on what looked like a massage table, while an automated hood closed over our scalps. A violent sucking sound, followed by devilish whirring and snipping, and each male emerged with approximately one millimeter of hair on his head.
I forlornly rubbed at my stubbly scalp while the uniform sizer’s lasers did a quick sweep of my body, and the computer chirped at me that the recruit in question had been correctly measured, and would he please move along and make room for the next person.
It occurred to me that I was on an assembly line, with people as the product. We were never allowed to stand in one place for too long. The indignity of the process might have been tremendously upsetting to me were it not for the fact that everyone else was going through the exact same form of humiliation. Somehow that made it all right. Though I could tell my sentiment on the matter was far from universal.
Grown men—with bodies like linebackers—appeared to be on the verge of tears.
I put their pain out of my mind and tried to pay attention to the next task at hand.
Past the sizer was a long, windowless and doorless hallway, behind the walls of which could be heard a great deal of automated machinery. At the hallway’s end there was a huge duffel waiting for each man—with a printed number and barcode on it identical to that which had been stamped on our hands. Each man hefted each duffel—some of us staggering to do so—and then we were herded into yet another locker room where a male NCO stood on a stool and ordered us all to ground our duffels and take a seat on the benches.
“I don’t want to hear any complaining,” said the sergeant, whose name tape read FUJIMORA. “So far today you’ve each received several thousand international dollars worth of clothing and medical attention. And you’ve not even done anything yet. So be grateful for the free stuff, and get ready for what comes next.
“I can tell that some of you feel like crying. That needs to stop right now. You’re going to be with us in Reception for several more days. Use that time to toughen up and grow some thicker skin. It gets worse from here on out, not better. But for those of you willing to put in the effort, it will be more than worth it. Earth needs you. The colonies need you. Fleet is the only thing standing between your families, and the mantis threat. We can’t afford to fail. Winning is all we care about. Winning is all you will be trained to do. Do I make myself clear?”
I was one of the loudest when the room yelled, “YES, SERGEANT!”
“Good. Now, let me introduce you to some of the uniforms you’ll be wearing during IST. Everything you have in your duffel is what’s called your Entry Kit. It includes five sets of uniforms that you’ll be using during physical fitness training, and five sets of uniforms that you’ll use during your daily routine. The proper wear and display of each of these things is part of your transformation from civilian to soldier, so pay attention and don’t be afraid to ask questions . . .”
* * *
We were all back in our original rooms where they’d first dumped our bags, males and females remixed together. Everyone’s scalp had been buzzed—even the girls’—so that everyone looked equally unfortunate as a result.
But the uniforms did look good, I had to admit. The Garrison and Field Fatigue, which everyone came to know as the GFF, was a wash-and-wear synthetic fiber outfit identical to that which we’d seen on the first sergeant and the other NCOs we’d encountered that day. Pants, topcoats, boots, even the undershirt and underpants—granny panties, one female recruit groused—fit nicely, per the computerized sizer’s instructions, as relayed to the automated tailor that had lived behind the walls of the hallway.
With duffels over shoulders, we recruits were hustled into platoon formation, four ranks of ten each, then filed out of the room and directed up several flights of stairs to the barracks level.
The walls were brick, and covered in a thick layer of slate-gray semi-gloss paint. The floor was covered in brightly-shining institutional tile—white, with little speckles in it—and at the edges there was black rubber molding. The whole place stank of disinfectant, mixed with an artificial pine aroma; both of which might have been better suited to a pet morgue than any place humans might want to inhabit. These smells grew especially intense any time I walked past the door to a bathroom—what the NCOs kept referring to as the head.
Corporals with e-pads and barcode readers came around and began directing males to their bays, and females to their bays. When I got to my designated bay—essentially a large, open room with bunk beds and lockers around the perimeter—I was surprised to see other recruits already there.
When one of the corporals noticed the questioning expression on my face, the corporal said, “Barlow, you’re with holdovers.”
“Corporal, what’s a holdover, Corporal?”
“People who didn’t ship during last Pickup Day. Various problems.”
I looked at the holdovers, who were all doing their best to ignore the new bodies trudging in, and I felt my stomach turn over.
Bunks and lockers were divided up by name, and I got stuck sharing with one of the holdovers, who didn’t so much as say hello to me as I grunted and shoved my duffel up onto the top bunk, and waited for the corporal to come around and give further instructions.
“You new people,” said the corporal, “need to understand that even though this is temporary lodging, you’re expected to keep it as immaculate as it is now. Cleaning and watch duty rosters will be made up before the end of the day, and
everyone will be instructed on how to make and keep their bunk, their locker, and their common area. Much of that’s going to be a team effort. I feel compelled to remind you that arguing and fighting is only going to get everyone in trouble. Work well as a team, and the next few days will go smoothly. Work badly as a team . . . Well, we’ll just have to find a way to fix it.”
The holdovers snickered among themselves, and I had a suspicious feeling about the hidden meaning behind the word fix.
“Recruit Thukhan,” said the corporal to the holdover that was bunked with me, “is the bay sergeant. You go through him before you go through me or any of the other NCOs. Chain of command is very important. If you come to me or another NCO and we find out you didn’t go through Thukhan first, you’re wrong. And we will make that point abundantly clear. Understood?”
As a bay, “YES, CORPORAL!”
“Thukhan, you know the drill. Help these new recruits get unpacked, draw linen, and fill their names in for duties.”
“Corporal, yes, Corporal,” said Thukhan.
“Any questions?”
When nobody raised a hand, the corporal pivoted on a heel and walked out of the bay, leaving myself and the new recruit males to mill about and begin talking to each other for the first time since we’d gotten off the buses in the dark at three in the morning. I felt my stomach growl, and wondered why at this time of the day we’d not had lunch.
I turned to the Thukhan to ask about it.
“They don’t feed you the first twenty-four hours,” Thukhan said. “There’s more medical stuff tomorrow and they want you to fast before they draw blood. Don’t worry, you won’t be doing any PT until the third day here.”
“What’s PT?”
“Physical fitness. Ass on the grass.”
“Oh.”
I waited for Thukhan to say something else, but Thukhan just turned away and went to the back of the bay where the other holdovers were occupying several bottom bunks and conversing amongst themselves. I waited for a few moments, looking around the bay, and went to my locker. Opening it, I found a top shelf, a bar for hangers, and a cabinet with three drawers, all empty. It seemed like a waste to have to unpack and arrange everything when we were just going to have to repack and carry everything off again the following week, but the rules were the rules, and I went hesitantly to speak to the holdovers while the other new recruits broke off into pairs or trios, sitting on the bottom bunks and gabbing about everything which had happened to them up to that point.
“What do you want, Barlow?” said one of the holdovers, a pug-faced little man whose name tape read GORANA.
“Corporal says we should unpack and get bedding and stuff, and Thukhan is supposed to help us with that.”
Gorana sniffed and pointed at me ironically. “Newbie.”
The Holdovers laughed, and I felt my cheeks begin to burn. Angry—but determined to not make a fight about it—I turned to Thukhan, who still acted as if I wasn’t worth noticing.
“Where do we go to get blankets?”
“I’ll show you when I’m ready, Barlow. Shit, you’ve got all effing day to take care of things. Just relax and don’t worry about it.”
I looked back at the room full of men—boys, mostly, and all of us entirely too eager to kick back—and decided I needed to press my case.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea if we wait. What if the corporal comes back and finds us all just sitting around like this. Won’t he be pissed?”
“So what if he is?” Gorana snorted. “Limp-dicked little effer isn’t my problem. I’m out of here in thirty days, and I’m not lifting a finger for any of you chumps.”
Laughter from all of the holdovers.
I turned my attention strictly on Thukhan.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?”
The bay sergeant sighed. “You already are. Too much, in fact. What now?”
“I mean privately, please.”
Gorana and a couple of others snickered loudly, and seemed to think that I made for great comedy. When I didn’t sulk away as expected, Thukhan stood up irritably and stalked towards the back of the bay. “In my office, Barlow!”
I followed, walking through a swinging door into what was, apparently, the bay’s head.
Thukhan spun and faced me, arms crossed over chest.
“What is it?”
“First of all, I’m Harry,” I said, holding out my hand.
The bay sergeant looked at my hand, and didn’t respond for several tell-tale moments. Then he reluctantly put out his own hand—dead-fishing me—and said, “Batbayar.”
“Batbayar. That’s . . . Mongolian?”
“Can we just cut the crap, Barlow? In case you haven’t noticed, none of us holdovers is particularly thrilled to be here. Maybe you’re still feeling all special about yourself for having volunteered, but for some of us it’s either this, or prison. Think I’m happy to be here instead of jail? No, I’m not. This is just jail of another sort. You’re new so you don’t know what it’s like, but you’ll learn. So go back to your bunk and lay down and chill until I’m ready. Do you understand?”
“I think so,” I said.
“Good. Now stop bothering me,”
Thukhan turned and walked out of the head before I could get in another word.
CHAPTER 17
WE MET THE MANTES IN ORBIT AROUND A NAMELESS TERRESTRIAL planet, far from the boundaries of human space. The mantis ships were shaped like mammoth footballs, their surfaces studded with sensors and weaponry. I watched the alien vessels through the portholes of the Fleet frigate, Calysta. We’d brought some big stuff too. Opposite the cluster of mantis vessels—across the black expanse of space—was a squadron of Earth dreadnoughts unlike anything I’d ever seen before. Not that size and armament would do a lick of good if those new ships couldn’t break through the mantis shields, as Adanaho had suggested. Hopefully we wouldn’t have to find out, though I still wasn’t sure anything I did or said could make a difference otherwise.
I looked over to Captain Adanaho, who had followed me to the observation deck.
“Fifteen minutes,” she said.
“That means the general wants us there in five,” I said.
She smirked at me.
“Always arrive ten minutes before you’ve been told,” I said with a slight smile, “and then it’s hurry-up-and-wait.”
“The years on Purgatory haven’t completely dulled your memory,” she said. “Though it’s obvious you’re not happy about your current position.”
I looked down at my uniform.
“No, ma’am, not really. I was nineteen when I signed up. The Fleet tried to take Purgatory a couple of years later, and then I spent the rest of my time either as a prisoner, or trying to follow through on a promise I made to my old boss before he died.”
“It must have been an important promise,” she said.
“I thought so,” I said.
“But didn’t you consider that promise fulfilled, once the armistice was reached?”
“Not really, because by then the Professor and his school kids were showing up all the time. Plus, I had more human customers coming in the door than I’d ever had before. People seemed to think the chapel was special. Significant. It grew to be a landmark in the valley. Somebody had to stick around and sweep up. And it’s not like I had anything more important to do. Maybe if the Fleet had returned right away, I’d have jumped at a chance to go home. But when a couple of years went by and it was obvious that Fleet wasn’t coming back to Purgatory any time soon, I decided to make my plans for the chapel into long-term plans.”
“And yet our research shows that you don’t hold services there,” she said, raising an eyebrow.
“Like I said, I’m not a chaplain. I’m just the assistant. This little silver bar you guys put on my collar, it doesn’t make me a chaplain either.”
“Would you like to be?”
I thought about it, still looking outside into deep space. Something I had no
t seen in many years.
“No,” I said, slipping my hands into my pants pockets. Like having facial hair, hands in pockets was also against regulation. But screw it, certain rules are made to be broken.
“Why not?” she asked.
“I’m not a preacher,” I admitted. “I’m also not a theologian.”
“So why even become an assistant? Of all the jobs in the Fleet available to you?”
“Seemed like the best fit,” I said. “I’m not a tactical guy, and I’m not that great with equipment either. But people? I like people. When hostilities with the mantes broke out, some of my friends signed up immediately. I kind of went along for the ride. It was a chance to go to space. What kid doesn’t dream about that? But I didn’t want to kill stuff nor fix stuff nor do a lot of the other work on the list the recruiter showed me.”
She shook her head.
“And yet you were the one who managed to use the single piece of leverage we needed to stop the mantes.”
“Yeah,” I said, “dumb luck, that.”
She checked her watch.
“Well, it’s time to see if you can’t scare up a little more, Padre.”
We walked from the porthole to the nearest lift car, went down three decks, and wound our way to the frigate’s largish main conference room. Marines in freshly pressed uniforms guarded the hatches, with rifles at port arms. There were some mantis guards as well, their lower thoraxes submerged into the biomechanical “saddles” of their hovering, saucer-shaped discs.
Every mantis I’d ever seen was technically a cyborg. Their upper halves were insectoid—complete with bug eyes, fearsome beaks, antennae, wings, and serrated-chitin forelimbs. Their lower halves were integrated into their mobile, floating saucers. It was the saucers—the computers and equipment in them—which allowed the mantes to speak to humans, and have our own speech translated back into their language, among many other things.
The mantis guards all raised forelimbs in my direction as we approached, though they seemed to be ignoring the captain.
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