by Tom Kratman
A couple of the cadre of the platoon that would be led by Franco and his partner (and, for military puposes, boss), Centurion Balthazar Garcia, were taking girls’ names, as they reported, and directing them to one of the seven holding areas set up. Those two were Sergeant Castro and Corporal Salazar. Castro, always a nice sort, wasn’t having any problems with it but Corporal Salazar, Franco could see, was visibly trembling with the difficulty of restraint when he longed to shake some of the girls by the scruff of their necks.
I see trouble from that one, Franco thought, trouble in one form or another.
The door of the van he’d seen park opened up. Emerging from it was a woman Franco didn’t recognize, though she reminded him slightly of his mother. She had a few folders under her arm as she went to stand under one of the seven signs for the seven holding areas. Every now and again, the woman would open one of the folders and scan it against the face of a nearby woman or girl. Every now and again, too, she would look around at the disorder and either shake her head or shrug.
I wonder, the centurion mused, if she has some experience of the military or is just the orderly sort, like my own mother was. Now there was a woman, altogether too good for my tyrant of a father.
Franco was slightly startled as a loudspeaker began to blare out names and instructions. All talk from the women ceased. Castro and Salazar, along with the other non-coms, continued to direct and sort them as best they could, being as gentle as they were.
Franco heard a name announced. He already recognized it from the roster he and Garcia had been given. “Fuentes, Maria. Fuentes, Maria. Report to Load Ramp Seven. Fuentes, Maria, report to Load Ramp Seven.” Again the old woman checked an open file.
The other reasons Franco noticed that particular name were twofold. One was that the Duque had apparently taken a personal interest in the girl. The note he’d scrawled into the file suggested as much, anyway. Franco didn’t have the sense, though, that Carrera was looking for a mistress. The other was that the same personal file practically had “toughness, but worn to a nub” written all over it. Looking the girl, Fuentes, over, Franco decided he’d been right in his estimate of what the paper suggested. Fuentes looked already defeated somehow, with no happiness, nor perhaps even the capacity to feel it, left in her.
The young woman carried a child on her hip and a battered suitcase, or perhaps more of an overnight bag, in the other hand. Her expressions didn’t change as the old woman walked up and introduced herself. The child, however, also female, opened her mouth into an “O” of wide-eyed surprise and asked something Franco couldn’t quite read. He’d guessed it was something nice, though, since the old woman passed over an oversized lollipop.
Get them while they’re young, thought the centurion.
Franco turned away from the two women and baby girl at the sound of seven hovercraft skimming the water at high speed as they approached the long ramp that led up to the land adjacent to the pier. One by one, the hovercraft climbed the ramp from the sea to the land, before settling down at marked spots on the asphalt. As each settled, the sound pouring from it dropped down to a comparatively low whine.
We could use a boat, Franco thought, and we do for bulky nonperishable cargo. But transport by hovercraft was almost as pricey as by aircraft, so they only moved the island’s most important cargo, people. And they were used for that, at least half, because they were so strange, providing the same sense of passage, of break, that airplanes did, but at less cost.
Turning away from the sea, Franco let his attention rest back on the three females. Words passed between the two older ones, then the child was given a last hug by her mother before the mother began to trudge toward the nearest hovercraft. Franco thought he saw tears falling to the asphalt, marking the young woman’s passage.
For what I am about to do to you, young lady, may God forgive me.
* * *
Franco followed the last of the girls up the loading ramp, then found himself a spot where he could listen and not generally be observed. He was enough bigger than the girls, though no giant, that they instinctively cleared a way for him, except for the half dozen who tried to get closer.
And you’re operating off of instinct, too, aren’t you, chicas?
Franco was, in the vernacular, a handsome son of a bitch, knew it, and was mildly embarrassed by it.
A horn sounded three times in warning, then the foot ramp whined its way up to the vertical. The engines of the hovercraft began to whine and strain. By fractions of inches, the big machine lifted, then began to turn back towards the ramp and the water of the bay past it. On that water shone one of Terra Nova’s three moons, named for Eris, goddess of strife.
* * *
Franco was gay, totally, completely, utterly gay. There was no doubt in his mind of this, nor in the minds of anyone who knew him. But…
But I’ve always approved of the female aesthetic. Let’s face it, when we are talking “beauty” we are talking feminine. Beautiful mountains that remind one of a woman’s breasts. Beautiful valleys that bring forth life, as women do. Hell, there was a time I thought or wanted to be one, or wished I had been born one. I was even married once, and I wish I could explain to my ex-wife that it was NOT her fault. God knows, I’ve tried.
Three girls, none of them apparently aware of his presence, formed one of those immediate groupings found rarely outside of the military and almost never as strongly as within the military. One was tiny; one the girl, Fuentes, he’d seen give up her daughter to the old woman from Tercio Socrates; and one—he knew from the file—the ex La Platan whore with the medal for bravery under fire.
Besides the one risen moon, Eris, there was really nothing to see but water and wave and the lights of the city, receding behind them. Most of the girls, Franco suspected, and all the ones he could see, began staring backwards at the city’s lights, and the loved ones being left behind. Several of them, two that the centurion could make out clearly, began to sniffle, though at least it didn’t turn into a crying jag.
He heard the tiny girl introduce herself as, “I’m Inez, Inez Trujillo.”
“Maria Fuentes,” said the other, the one Franco had seen turning over her daughter to the old woman.
A third introduced herself as, “Marta Bugatti. And, yes, I’m a bloody foreigner. Moreover, I’ve been in the legion for a while, with the classis.” The girls kept talking, but Franco turned his attention away from those three, concentrating instead on another who was quite possibly the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and this in a country noted for stunning women.
“Just listen to me,” the stunner declaimed, over the hovercraft’s whining. “Stop worrying. This is going to be easy. Don’t fall for the men’s lies. We are smarter than they are. We are tougher than they are. Why, if a man had to go through childbirth, he’d cry like a baby. But we can and we do, all the time.”
Like that one knows anything about having a baby, Franco thought.
The tiny one near Franco muttered, “We’re not as strong as they are.”
Whether the stunner had overheard or not, Franco couldn’t say and rather doubted. Instead, he thought it likely she was just parroting the female supremacist mantra in cadence. Hmmm…I wonder if she’s studied under Professor Torres.
In any case, in accordance with the approved mantra, the stunner continued, “What difference does it make if men have bigger muscles? They have tinier brains. After all, how much of a brain can you stuff into something about six inches long and usually far, far too thin.” That raised a laugh.
Franco thought it was endearingly funny, too, but then mentally amended, You wouldn’t say that, girl, if you had ever seen Balthazar in the flesh…very in the flesh, as a matter of fact.
“And besides,” she continued, “strength is overrated. I’ve seen it on TV; you all have. These days technology is what wins wars. And if men weren’t so stupid, they would realize that, too. Just let us show them.”
Some of the other girls who had ga
thered started to drift away. Franco overheard the large breasted La Platan ex-whore say, loud enough to be heard over the stunner’s speech, “Amazing. Imagine how seldom women would be hit by their husbands or boyfriends if they only knew that muscles don’t matter.”
* * *
The La Platan former hooker was one of a few on the hovercraft who had spent time on the island before. Of course the noncoms and Franco had, but they—and he, especially—were keeping their distance. As they neared the Isla Real, its barely moonlit peak rising from the sea, artificial lights, too, began to appear. Some shone from several places near the summit, while one set seemed to stand several hundred meters above that.
“It’s a solar chimney,” the La Platan explained. She was easily recognizable by her more than half Tuscan accent. “They saved a bundle by running it up the side of the mountain, but it goes straight up even from there. All the power for the island, enough for two hundred thousand people or more, so I’ve been told, comes from that. They’ve got it marked so that helicopters and airplanes don’t run into it at night or in fog or rain.”
“That’s right,” observed another, the tiny one Franco thought, “you’ve been out there before, haven’t you?”
“A few times, yes.”
“You were navy?” the tiny girl asked. “Why did you switch?”
“Bad memories,” the La Platan answered, then wouldn’t say more about it.
The hovercraft began to veer, causing them all to lean to the side away from the turn. Except for the marking lights, there were no others to be seen. Then, suddenly, a battery of overhead lights, powerfully bright, came on to illuminate a large concrete pad. The hovercraft eased itself over a strip of sand, then came to a gradual stop before descending to land on the pad. The engines gave a last whine of protest at being put to rest.
With a whine of a completely different pitch, the foot ramp went down on one side before settling to the concrete with a jarring clang. Up the ramp trotted a man, close-cropped, uniformed, bemedaled and just flat mean looking. He had a sneer of complete contempt engraved across his face. He carried a small portable loudspeaker in one hand. He pushed aside any women who didn’t clear out of his way quickly enough. The stunner went to her rear end with an outraged shriek.
Oh, Balthazar, thought Franco, you always did have an amazing degree of charm and grace about you.
The man stepped up to where the stunner had been sitting, then lifted the loudspeaker to his lips. “All right you stupid twats, get your fucking high heels off.” The man waited for all of ten seconds for the women to complete that task. “When I give the order you will have thirty seconds to clear your worthless smelly hides off this hovercraft. When you get off, the men standing below will put you into formation. Then Tribune Silva, your maniple commander, will speak to you. You will keep your foolish mouths shut. Now GO!”
Pushing each other and scrambling, the women crowded the single ramp. Many tripped and fell, to be trodden on by the others. At the concrete base, a number of noncoms, none of them with a kindly face, slapped and pushed and prodded the women into a single block. To the right, other groups were receiving much the same treatment as they debarked from their hovercraft. Being so far from the center, the men herded the women to their right. At the other end, women were being herded to the left. The end result was a mob of prisoners, surrounded by guards, standing fearfully before a dais that rose about ten feet off of the concrete.
Franco, Castro, and Salazar walked up and joined the “guards.”
A very handsome man—he introduced himself to the women as “Tribune Silva, and your commanding officer”—walked briskly up the steps of the dais. Silva made a little welcoming speech—sort of a welcoming speech. Had they been asked, most of the women would likely have confessed that they had been made to feel more welcome. After all, few welcoming speeches in history had begun with, “You fucking whores,” nor ended with, “Centurions, take charge of your sluts.”
Silva then departed in a legion vehicle, leaving the women to the none-too-tender care of their senior centurions.
* * *
Franco could see and feel it, both, as the girls involuntarily leaned back from the charging malevolence of their common chief, Garcia.
“I am Senior Centurion Balthazar Garcia. You are shit. Introductions being finished, we will get on with business.”
Garcia began to walk slowly from one side of the group to the other, distaste shining in his features. He did not smile. He spoke dispassionately as he walked the line, commenting on each of the women. “Too scrawny…You’ll want to see the docs about getting a breast reduction, swabbie; those things are going to get in the way…No arse…Legs too skinny…Nose? Or is that a bus stuck on the end of your face, girl?…Stringy hair…When did you last douche, pigpen?…Bimbos. You! Bitch! Dry your silly fucking eyes. That’s right, sniveler. That’s right, crybaby…”
It was a ritual that hadn’t changed, couldn’t have changed, since long before the days when some Roman centurion had first taken charge of a group of new recruits. It made a sort of cruel sense, actually, though none of the women understood it at the time. There was only so much time—which is almost the same thing as only so much money, but harder to come by—any army could afford to spend on basic training. The kind of rule that Garcia was establishing cut down on the silly questions and complaints. That saved money and time. Since the time and money thus saved could be spent training soldiers to fight and live, it also saved lives.
It is often better to be insulted than dead.
Even so, Franco took it hard. These recruits weren’t raised for this. They were, most of them, gently raised, raised to be loving wives and devoted mothers. This was just fucking cruel. There had to be a better way.
Then, too, the best thing about beating your head against a wall is that it feels so good when you stop. A moderately kind word from someone who mostly tells you that you are animate pond scum means more than the same word from someone who routinely says that you are God’s gift to the world. It was deflation of the currency of praise.
Mentally, Franco went over the introductory speech he’d worked out with Balthazar: Now, is there among you tramps even one bitch gutsy enough to duke it out with me? Two of you? How about ten of you? Come on, surely ten of you plumped up sluts can outweigh me by a factor of five. What? One man is five times better, pound for pound, than you twats? And you think you’ve got what it takes to be legionaries? My fucking ass. You cunts are just garbage.
Interestingly, for reasons he’d no doubt explain later, Garcia used none of that. Instead, he just went on with the insults for quite some time.
Once Garcia had finished engraving their faces on his memory he shouted out. “Franco?”
“Here, Centurion,” Franco answered.
Take charge of this garbage.”
“Yes, Centurion.” Franco then walked from behind the formation and took a position in front of the new meat.
“I am Centurion, Junior Grade, Rafael Franco,” he announced. Showing a smile neither friendly nor unfriendly, but ripe with anticipation, he continued, “You are going to be seeing a lot more of me than you are going to like over the next several months. Just to be up front with you, I do not like you. I do not care about you. You are just things. Someday, perhaps, unlikely as it seems right now, you may become more. For now, you are using up oxygen that you don’t deserve. Keep your mouths shut and your ears and eyes open and we might—just possibly—learn to get along. Cross me and…well, don’t.”
“Now, you silly little girls, I know you are far, far too stupid to know your right from your left. Take my word on it; that bus over there is on your right. When I give the command ‘Right, Face’ I want you to turn those stupid looking things you hang in front of what passes for brains in the direction of the bus. Got it? Right…face.”
* * *
Though it started with the La Platan, the entire bus gave a collective groan and said, simply, “Oh, shit.” They had ar
rived at Camp Botchkareva.
The camp looked more like a prison than a school. It consisted of fourteen large metal huts, some open fields the women couldn’t guess the purpose of, and about fifty or sixty tents. At the edge of the camp the perimeter was defined by a fence of triple concertina, rolled barbed wire, with two rolls along the ground and one resting above those two. Guard towers and searchlights were at each corner and the solitary gate.
“Off the bus, twats,” said Franco. With the help of a few others, they pushed the women into a kindergartenish double line, that being about the limit of their ability at the time. Then Franco led them through one of the metal huts. There, their clothes and suitcases were taken from them and locked in tiny double-locked compartments. They left the hut bare-ass naked, with only a wallet to call their own.
Franco saw the intensely beautiful one arch her back to show off her bare breasts. Oh, puhleeze. Don’t you have any idea what it means to be in my unit? Silly girl.
There were a few women in the group who seemed…interested. Oh, shit, thought Franco. How fucking stupid can we have been? We forgot about the lesbians. Damn, damn, damn.
“Get your fucking eyes off me,” the La Platan told another woman, bunching her fists. That woman made some apologetic sounds and backed off, keeping her eyes carefully away.
Then came the buzz cuts. That, more than most things, struck Franco as cruel. Even a raped woman doesn’t become less of a woman by being raped. She may be a thing while it’s going on, but at least it’s a fully female thing. Taking their hair away, though…that’s about half as bad a removing a breast.
Has to be done of course; they’re going to be too filthy for hair for a long time to come.
Whatever he felt inside, it was a smiling Franco who gave the order, “Buzz ’em, Pedro.”
He kept smiling, even as some of the girls, looking in the mirrors, began to cry.
Before they were issued any clothing, the women were marched into some mass showers, where they placed their wallets along a shelf on the way in. Most everyone in Balboa took cold showers, at least sometimes. It was no big deal in a place so hot. The water for these showers, it turned out later, was specially chilled to be icy. The women all screamed when Castro turned on the water.
