Rykor rolled one eye open and sourly looked up at Frazer, one of her assistants. “You want?” she rumbled.
“There's a vid for you. From Prime World.”
Rykor whuffled through her whiskers and braced both arms on the sides of the tank. She levered her enormous bulk up and over into the gravchair. Folds of blubber slopped over the sides until the frantic chair tucked them all safely in place. She tapped controls, and the chair slid her across the chamber to the main screen. Frazer fussed beside her.
“It's in reference to that new Guards recruit. The one you put the personal key on.”
“Figures,” Rykor muttered. “Now I'll get more walrus jokes. Whatever a walrus is.”
The screen was blank, except for a single line of blinking letters. Rykor was mildly surprised, but touched the CIPHER button, and added the code line. She motioned Frazer away from the screen.
It cleared, and Mahoney beamed out at her.
“Thought I'd take a moment of your time, Rykor, and ask you to check on one of my lads.”
Rykor touched a button, and a second screen lit. “Sten?”
“Now that'd be a good guess.”
“Guess? With your personal code added to the computer key?”
“That's always been my problem. Never known for bein’ subtle.”
Rykor didn't bother with a retort. Too easy a target. “You want his scores?”
“Now would I be bothering a chief psychologist if all I neededwas a clerk to recite to me? You know what I'd like.”
Rykor took a deep breath. “Overall, he should be what I've heard you call a ‘nest of snakes.'” Mahoney looked puzzled, but decided to let it pass. “Exceptionally high intelligence level, well integrated into temporal planning and personnel assessment.
“Which does not compute. He should be either catatonic or a raving psychopath. Instead, he's far too sane. We can test more intensively, but I believe he's primarily functional because his experiences are unassimilated.”
“Explain.”
“Analysis—bringing these problems, and his unexpressed emotions into the open—would be suggested.”
“Suggested for what,” Mahoney said. “We're not building a poet. All I want is a soldier. Will he fall apart in training?”
“Impossible to predict with any certainty. Personal feeling—probably not. He's already been stressed far beyond our limits.”
“What kind of soldier will he be?”
“Execrable.”
Mahoney looked surprised.
“He has little emotional response to the conventional stimuli of peer approval, little if any interest in the conventional rewards of the Guard. A high probability of disobeying an order he feels to be nonsensical or needlessly dangerous.”
Mahoney shook his head mournfully. “Makes one wonder why I recruited him. And into my own dearly beloved regiment.”
“Very possibly,” Rykor said dryly, “it's because his profile is very similar to your own.”
“Mmm. Perhaps that's why I try to stay away from my own beloved regiment. Except at Colors Day."Rykor suddenly laughed. It rolled out like a sonic boom, and her body moved in undulating waves, almost driving the chair into a breakdown. She shut the laugh off.
“I get the feeling, Ian, that you are tapping the Old Beings Network.”
Mahoney shook his head.
“Wrong. I don't want the boy coddled through training. If he doesn't make it...”
“You'd send him back to his homeworld?”
“If he doesn't make it,” Mahoney said quietly, “he's of no interest to me.”
Rykor moved her shoulders.
“By the way. You should be aware that the boy has a knife up his arm.”
Mahoney picked his words carefully. “Generally the phrase is knife up his sleeve, if you'll permit me.”
“I meant what I said. He has a small knife, made of some unknown crystalline material, sheathed in a surgical modification to his lower right arm.”
Mahoney scratched his chin. He hadn't been seeing things back on Vulcan.
“Do you want us to remove it?”
“Negative.” Mahoney grinned. “If the instructors can't handle it—and if he's dumb enough to pull it on any of them—that gives a very convenient escape hatch. Doesn't it?”
“You will want his progress monitored, of course?”
“Of course. And I'm aware it's not a chief psychologist's duties, but I'd appreciate it if his file was sealed. And if you, personally, were to handle him."Rykor stared at the image. “Ah. I understand.” Mahoney half smiled. “Of course. I knew you would.”
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“My name is Lanzotta,” the voice purred. “Training Master Sergeant Lanzotta. For the next Imperial Year, you may consider me God.”
Sten, safely buried in the motley formation of recruits, glanced out of the corner of his eye at the slender middle-aged man standing in front of him. Lanzotta wore the mottled brown uniform of a Guards Combat Division and the pinned-up slouch hat of Training Command. The only decoration he wore, besides small black rank tabs, was the wreathed multiple stars of a Planetary Assault Combat Veteran.
He was flanked by two hulking corporals.
“Bowing and burnt offerings are not necessary,” Lanzotta went on. “Simple worship and absolute obedience will make me more than happy.”
Lanzotta smiled gently around at the trainees. One man, who wore the gaily colored civilian silks of a tourist world, made the mistake of returning the smile.
“Ah. We have a man with a sense of humor.” Lanzotta paced forward until he was standing in front of the man. “You find me amusing, son?”
The smile had disappeared from the boy's face. He said nothing.
“I thought I asked the man a question,” Lanzotta said. “Didn't I speak clearly enough, Corporal Carruthers?”
One hulk beside him stirred slightly. “I heard you fine, sergeant,” she said.
Lanzotta nodded. His hand shot forward and grabbed therecruit by the throat. Seemingly without effort, he lifted the trainee clear of the ground and held him, feet dangling. “I do like to have my questions answered,” he mused. “I asked if you found me amusing.”
“N-no,” the boy gurgled.
“I much prefer to be addressed by my rank,” Lanzotta said. He suddenly hurled the recruit away. The trainee fell heavily to the ground. “You'll find a sense of humor very useful,” Lanzotta added.
“There are one hundred of you today. You've been chosen to enter the ranks of the Guard's First Assault Regiment.
“I welcome you.
“You know, our regimental screening section is very proud. They tell me that less than one out of a hundred thousand qualify for the Guard.
“Under those conditions, you men and women might consider yourselves elite. Corporal Halstead, do these—whatever they are—look like they're elite to you?”
“No, Sergeant Lanzotta,” the second behemoth rumbled. “They look like what's at the bottom of a suit recycler.”
“Umm.” Lanzotta considered. “Perhaps not that low.”
He walked down the motionless ranks, looking at the trainees closely. He paused by Sten, looked him up and down, and smiled slightly. Then walked down a few more ranks. “My apologies, corporal. You were right.”
Lanzotta went back to the head of the formation, shaking his head sorrowfully. “The Imperial Guard is the finest fighting formation in the history of man. And the Guard's First Assault is the best of the Guard. We have never lost a battle and we never will.”
He paused."Some general or other said a soldier's job is not to fight, but die. If any of you fungus scrapings live to graduate, you'll be ready to help the soldier on the other side die for his country. We aren't interested in cannon fodder in the Guard. We build killers, not losers.
“You'll be in training for one full year here at the regimental depot. Then if I pass you, you'll be shipped
to the field assault regiment.
“Now you beings have three choices for that year. You can quit at any time, and we'll quite happily wash you out into a scum general duty battalion.
“Or else you can learn to be soldiers.”
He waited.
“Are any of you curious as to the third alternative?”
There was no sound except the wind blowing across the huge parade ground.
“The third option is that you can die.” Lanzotta smiled again. “Corporal Halstead, Corporal Carruthers, or myself will quite cheerfully kill you if we think for one moment that you would endanger your teammates in combat, and there's no other way to get rid of you.
“I believe, people. I believe in the Empire and I serve the Eternal Emperor. He took me off the garbage pit of a world that I was born on and made me what I am. I've fought for the Empire on a hundred different worlds and I'll fight on a hundred more before some skeek burns me down.” Lanzotta's eyes glittered.
“But I'll be the most expensive piece of meat he ever butchered.”
Lanzotta, as if unconsciously, touched the assault badge on his breast.
“Now, I will give you the first four rules for staying alive andhappy. First, you should think of yourselves as two stages below latrine waste. I will let you know when I think you are qualified to consider yourselves sentient beings. Right now, I don't think that will ever happen.
“Second, when a cadreperson addresses you, you will come to attention, you will salute, you will address him by his rank, and you will do exactly what he tells you to do.”
He nodded sideways to Carruthers. The corporal ran forward to one recruit. “YOU!” she shouted.
“Yes.”
The corporal's fist sank into the trainee's stomach, and he collapsed to his knees, retching. Carruthers took one step to the side. “YOU!” she screamed at the trembling woman.
“Yes ... corporal,” the trainee faltered. “JUMP!”
The girl gaped. Carruthers’ fist blurred into her chin, and she went down.
“THEY AREN'T LISTENING, SERGEANT.” She sidestepped. “YOU!”
“Yes, corporal,” the third trainee managed.
“JUMP!”
“Yes, corporal!”
The recruit started bounding up and down. “THATS NOT HIGH ENOUGH!” The trainee jumped higher.
Carruthers watched, then shook her head in satisfaction. She rank back to her position beside Lanzotta.
“Third,” Lanzotta went on as if nothing had happened. “You will run everywhere except inside a building or when otherwise ordered. And fourth—” Lanzotta stopped. “The fourth rule is that everything you can do is wrong. You walk wrong, you talk wrong, you think wrong, and you are wrong. We are here to help you start doing things right” Lanzotta turned to Halstead.
“Corporal. Take this trash out of my sight and see if there's anything you can do to improve them.”
“YES, SERGEANT.” The corporal snapped a salute, then ran to one side of the formation. “Right ... face!” he shouted.
Sten blinked as he found his body responding to hypno conditioning he'd been programmed with in the sleep lectures.
“Forward ... harch! ... double-time ... harch!" The formation of trainees stumbled forward.
“This is your home, children,” Halstead's voice boomed down the long squad barracks. Sten and the other recruits each stood next to a bunk.
“We give you a bed, which you'll be lucky to see four hours a night,” Halstead went on. “You got one cabinet to put your equipment in. We will show you how to store it.
“I know most of you were brought up in a sewer works. You will keep this barracks clean. But it will never be clean enough.”
Halstead walked to the door. “You have two minutes to gape around. Then fall outside to draw clothing and equipment.”
The barracks door slammed shut. There was silence for a moment, then the excited buzz of conversation. Sten looked around the room at his fellow trainees. They looked fit, healthy, and terrified. He wasn't quite the smallest of the group, but close.
“Farmers. All farmers,” the trainee beside the next bunk said. Sten looked at him. It was the young man from the tourist world. He held out a vertical palm to Sten. “Gregor."Sten touched palms, and introduced himself. “Is there something the matter with farmers?” he asked curiously.
“Not a thing. Just what the Empire needs to make into heroes.” Gregor might have curled a lip.
“But not you?”
Gregor smiled. “You are on it. Not me.”
Sten lifted an eyebrow.
“Officer. That's the ticket. You hide and watch. When they start combing the losers out...” Gregor smiled again.
Halstead's whistle shrilled suddenly. Boots clattered as the trainees dashed for the door.
“YOU'RE TOO SLOW, CHILDREN. WAY ... TOO ... SLOW. THE LAST FIVE OUT ARE ON MESS DUTY!” Halstead bellowed.
“NEXT!” the corporal screamed. Sten, standing naked in the long line, wondered if Halstead could talk normally. Probably not, he decided. The trainee in front of Sten dashed to the large coffin, ran inside, put his toes on the mark, and Halstead banged the door shut.
He waited, then jerked it open. “OUT OUT OUT,” he bellowed.
The man jumped out, and ran down the corridor to a dispenser trough that was already filling with packaged uniforms.
Sten pulled his head out of the ultrasonic barber. He ran his fingers dubiously over his suddenly bare skull.
Carruthers grinned at him and growled, “Yeah, you look even dumber than you feel.”
“Thank you, corporal,” Sten shouted, and ran back to the waiting formation.Sten, the clumsy transport bag dangling from one shoulder, ran back toward the barracks.
“FASTER, FASTER,” screamed Halstead. “THAT ONLY WEIGHS FORTY KILOS, SCUM.”
Out of the corner of his eye Sten saw Carruthers kneeling on the chest of one recruit who'd gone down under the weight of the bag.
“You've got to understand,” Carruthers crooned, “we're just trying to help you, skeek.” She suddenly bellowed, without getting off the panting man, “NOW ON YOUR FEET!”
“Oooh,” Lanzotta moaned as he walked down the long line of trainees. “You think you look like soldiers?”
He stopped in front of one trainee. Instantly Carruthers and Halstead were beside him. “Son, your tunic lines up with your pants fastening.”
“DID YOU HEAR THE SERGEANT?” Halstead howled as he yanked the trainee's cap down over his eyes. “HE SAID YOU LOOKED LIKE DRAKH,” Carruthers screamed in the boy's other ear. Lanzotta went on, as if the two bellowing corporals weren't there. “We want you to look your best.” He shook his head sadly and walked on, as Halstead straight-armed the recruit back across his bunk, which collapsed sideways.
Lanzotta stopped in front of Sten. Sten waited.
Lanzotta looked him up and down, then stared into Sten's eyes. A smile touched the corners of his mouth again, and he walked on.
There was a heavy whisper in his ear. “I think the sergeant likes you,” said Carruthers. “He thinks you'll make a fine soldier. I do too. I think you ought to show us all just how good you are."Pause.
“DROP! DO PUSHUPS! DO MANY, MANY PUSHUPS!”
Sten went down, caught himself on his hands, and started down. Carruthers sat on his shoulders, and Sten collapsed to the floor. “I SAID DO PUSHUPS,” Carruthers shouted.
Sten fought to lift himself clear of the ground. Carruthers got up.
“ON YOUR FEET,” she howled. Sten snapped up, back at attention.
“I THINK WE WERE WRONG. I DON'T THINK YOU'LL EVER MAKE A SOLDIER,” Carruthers shouted. “YOU WON'T EVEN MAKE A GOOD CORPSE.”
Sten stood motionless.
Carruthers glowered at him for a moment, then went on to the next victim.
“Your father didn't love you, did he, trooper?”
“NO, CORPORAL.”
“Your mother hated you, didn't she?”
“YES, C
ORPORAL.”
“Why didn't your mother love you?”
“I DON'T KNOW, CORPORAL.”
“She hated you because she was losing business until she had you aborted. Isn't that right, recruit?”
“YES, CORPORAL.”
“Who is the only person who loves you, trainee?”
“YOU ARE, CORPORAL."Sten winced as Carruthers hurled the recruit against the wall.
“WHERE ARE YOU FROM, SCUM?”
“Ryersbad Four, corporal.”
“WHAT? WHAT DID YOU SAY?”
“Ry—Ryersbad Four, corporal.”
“GET THAT TRASHCAN, RECRUIT.”
“Yes, corporal.”
“PICK IT UP. OVER YOUR HEAD.”
The garbage cascaded over the recruit's shoulders.
“GET IN IT.”
The trainee knelt, lowering the steel container over his body. Instantly Carruthers and Halstead thudded kicks into the can.
“SCUM—crash— YOU DONT HAVE ANY HOME—crash— THE GUARD IS YOUR ONLY HOME—crash— WHERE ARE YOU FROM—crash.”
“Nowhere, corporal,” came the muffled voice from inside the can.
Halstead moaned, and tried to tear his cropped hair. “It's hopeless,” he said quietly. “Absolutely hopeless.” Screaming again: “RECRUIT, YOU WILL GET OUT OF THAT TRASHCAN.”
He helpfully kicked the container over. The trainee crawled out, his uniform stained and smeared.
“YOU LOOK LIKE YOU JUST FOUND A HOME, RECRUIT. NOW YOU TAKE THAT CAN OUT OF HERE TO THEMESSHALL. AND I WANT YOU TO STAND IN IT AND TELL EVERYONE WHO COMES BY THAT THAT'S YOUR HOME.”
“Yes, corporal.”
The recruit shouldered the container and stumbled toward the door.
“In your bunks,” Lanzotta snapped.
The naked recruits dove for their beds. Lanzotta walked toward the door.
“I want you to know something, children,” he said. “I can truthfully say that I have never spent a worse first training day with a sorrier group of scum. I'm not even going to enjoy killing you. Don't you agree?”
“YES, SERGEANT,” came the shout from a hundred bunks.
“I really can't stand it. Good night, children.”
Sten [Sten Series #1] Page 11
