by John Dalmas
She nodded. Her answer was little more than a whisper. "Yes, sir."
He gestured to a door in the back of the room. "Meanwhile, just this one time, you may use mine if you wish."
"Thank you, sir," she repeated. Her gratitude was too heartfelt to be hidden by her embarrassment.
When she'd entered his little toilet and closed the door behind her, the captain spoke quietly to Sergeant Hawkins. "What is she doing in this company?"
"Sir, there's another Wesley in the platoon. Recruit Esau Wesley. I believe they're husband and wife."
"Ah. What does he look like?"
"Bigger than most Jerries, sir, and looks-like no one to fool with."
"Um-hmm. Good. And Jerries are supposed to be pretty straitlaced. All right, stay here till she comes out. Then take her outside and dismiss her."
Shortly afterward she emerged, and left with Sergeant Hawkins. Which reminded Captain Mulvaney of something he needed to do. Getting to his feet, he stepped to the orderly room door. "Sergeant Henkel," he said, "come in here please," then returned to his desk and sat down.
Henkel came in and stood at attention. He'd spent thirty years around officers. He could smell when something was wrong. "Yes, sir?"
"Sergeant Henkel, the Sikh style of command is different than yours. Therefore I am reassigning your command duties. That will give you more time for your administrative tasks, which in any case have been very much your main duties."
He paused.
"Yessir," Henkel said, but his eyes made it clear that his "yessir" was acknowledgement, not agreement. "You're aware, sir, that my duties are prescribed in our TO."
Their eyes met, the sergeant's resentful, the captain's mild. But behind that mildness was no give at all. "An old marine gunnery sergeant like yourself," he said, "doesn't need to be reminded of my authority. And the appeal authority is back on Terra. Pod time each way is fourteen days. I have no idea how long the turnaround time is at War House, in times like these, but I'm sure things are prioritized by importance.
"Meanwhile, War House has seen fit to provide field commanders with extraordinary authority. The army, the fleet-even the Corps are re-creating themselves, doing things in new ways, to fit the time and resources available. And War House is giving us elbow room to do it."
Henkel's resentment was fading. He'd never had a CO like this one before, and there was something about the man he liked.
"Look around," Mulvaney went on. "The two-tier cadre system itself is new, a necessary response to the enormous training load, and the lack of experienced personnel."
Again the captain paused, then spoke with fresh crispness. "Field Sergeant Fossberg will carry out the command duties that you would otherwise carry. Tomorrow, you and he will go over your job description, write up the changes, and give them to me for approval. By 1700 hours."
The old marine saluted sharply. "Yessir, Captain," he said. "By 1700 hours tomorrow." He still was less than happy with this surprising development, but it would make life easier; he'd mellowed with age, and the captain held a handful of aces.
The company stood in ranks in the slanting rays of an evening sun, facing the company commander and Field Sergeant Kirpal Fossberg Singh.
"Men," Mulvaney said, "when I call you men, I include the sole woman in the company. It has been brought to my attention that among the people of New Jerusalem, men and women do not bathe together or use a latrine together. However, we do not have separate facilities for the two genders, and during duty hours, the opportunities to relieve yourselves are few and crowded.
"Therefore, it will be necessary that men and women use the latrine together. And the shower." He paused. The company stood at ease, but furtive glances flicked, largely avoiding Jael, who stood fiery faced.
Mulvaney went on. "I have consulted with Recruit Spieler about this. For any who don't know him, Spieler is a speaker of the books. He tells me that your religion forbids people to show themselves naked to others. That means men to men, as well as women to men and vice versa. So using the showers with the other gender should be no worse a religious misdemeanor than using it with others of your own gender.
"Some of you will also be sharing a hut with your female comrade. At appropriate times you'll be changing clothes there. So-" He paused, then raised his voice. "LISTEN UP! When someone of the other gender is naked in your presence, you will not stare, you will not make comments or gestures, you will not touch them, even accidentally! If you do, you will receive company punishment! Which is whatever I say it is, or whatever Sergeant Fossberg says it is, or your platoon leader or platoon sergeant!"
Again the captain paused. "You are in the army now, and you'll find many things different than you're used to. If you have difficulties with this, talk to Recruit Spieler about it. I've appointed him the company's religious advisor.
"Now! Back to business! The mess hall opens for supper at 1730 hours. That's in fifteen minutes. It closes at 1815. At 1900 you will muster here in field uniform for an evening speed march."
He turned to his field sergeant. "Sergeant Fossberg, the company is yours."
Fossberg nodded. "Thank you, sir." He turned back to the recruits. "Company," he bellowed, "dismissed!"
That evening the company learned what speed march meant, at least to Sergeant Fossberg, at least on that day. They jogged an easy quarter mile, then walked another, alternating the two for an hour and a half in the warm humid summer evening. And on Pastor Luneburger's World, the hours, minutes, days, were 1.13 times as long as Terran standard. As they ran, they were joined by the local version of mosquitoes, which came out in force about sundown. And though the recruits had lost essentially zero conditioning during stasis, few had had distance running as an important part of their life-style at home. At 2100 hours they were dismissed, slick with sweat. Knowing intuitively that the experience had been just a foretaste of the weeks to come.
Then they headed for the showers. The most difficult thing Jael Wesley had ever done was go to the shower room with no more than a towel wrapped around her. Wrapped around her chest, it was not adequate to hide her loins, while around her waist it left her breasts exposed. She draped it around her waist, and with a truculent-looking Esau glowering beside her, walked to the shower room. Then of course came the new most difficult: she had to remove the towel to shower. Esau stayed by her, his scowl daring anyone to say or do or perhaps think anything out of line. If they did, they hid it. Any erections were concealed by turning away.
After a few days, mixed showering would seem routine, though Jael was never totally comfortable with it.
At 2200 hours the Charge of Quarters threw a switch, and the lights went off throughout the trainees' huts. But the night was clear, and rich in stars, and after a minute, Esau's eyes adjusted. Dimly he could make out the cot next to his, and the shadowed form of his wife. It stimulated him; he wanted her very much. Nonetheless he waited; there were men all around them, not yet asleep.
He lay there for half an hour anticipating, not sleepy at all despite the long day. Then, leaning half out of bed on his left hand, he reached toward her with his right and touched her arm. She flinched out of sleep as if burned, sat half up, then saw her husband's arm, and rested her hand on his. He swung his legs out of bed, and stood. She stood too. For pajamas, the troops wore short, dull-green summer drawers, Jael with a dull-green T-shirt. Esau paused, and from his locker took his poncho. Jael did the same, and they padded very carefully out of the hut. Keeping to the shadows, Esau led her through the night to the latrine building, and around behind it. There was the water heater room, its door without a lock; he'd done some advance scouting. They didn't speak till they were inside with the door closed, and didn't leave for nearly an hour.
Back in bed, Esau thought about how he might get a mattress-something for padding-and stash it behind the large water heater. Jael, for her part, thought about what might happen if she got pregnant. She hadn't in six months of trying back home. What a cruel thing it would be t
o get pregnant now.
The Wesleys weren't the last recruits to get to sleep that night. Not by a long shot. It was 0255 hours when Isaiah Vernon settled groaning onto his cot. He'd discovered one form that company punishment could take. Under the occasional eye of the Charge of Quarters, he'd dug a hole some six feet long, six wide, and six deep. In loamy clay, while water seeped in around his feet. Then, when the hole had met with the CQ's approval, he was ordered to climb out, urinate into it, and fill it up again.
He'd been careful not to ask why.
Chapter 19
Another Shortage
In the Office of Military Resource Planning, Captain Bruno Horvath scanned a message on his screen. "It seems we have a shortage, Colonel," he said laconically. "A critical shortage."
Colonel Wiktor Kobayashi raised a graying bushy eyebrow and grunted. There were endless shortages, most of them flagged critical. "Is that so? What's this one?"
"Nothing new. An old one getting more urgent." The captain flicked it to the colonel's screen. "With three red flags now," he added.
Kobayashi looked. It was the shortage of qualified warbot volunteers again. Warbots carried the cyborg concept to the ultimate, and lots of them were needed, but qualifying was tough. You needed to have lost at least three limbs, including both arms, or two limbs and your eyes, or be dying from incurable injury or illness, or be serving a life term in prison. The central nervous system had to be functional, intelligence normal or above, and personality profile acceptable. Thus most quadriplegics, amputees and convicts were ineligible, as well as older invalids with significant decline in CNS function.
"Nothing to it," the colonel said wryly. "We'll assign a regiment to meet the evacuation ships with swords, and cut both arms and one leg off everyone on board."
"Sorry, Colonel, but we've got a serious shortage of swords. Would laser saws be all right?"
Kobayashi was rarely sarcastic, and didn't like it when he was. And the shortage of warbots was real and serious; sarcasm wouldn't reduce it. It directly and seriously affected the combat readiness of all infantry divisions, of which 63 were now in training. Some of those divisions had begun or were approaching interactive tactical training-so-called unit training. Within five months, the plans called for a total of 300 divisions in service or training. And tactics-even strategy-called for each to have a "normal" contingent of warbots.
He was well-informed on the subject, and knew the arithmetic too well. Three hundred divisions, each with eight regiments, each regiment with two platoons of warbots. Forty-eight hundred warbot platoons; some 110,000 bots overall. But the latest figures showed only 4,400 qualified volunteers. If every one of them completed training successfully, that would still mean fewer than two bots, let alone platoons, per regiment. And for most warbot tasks and missions, "organics"-ordinary infantry-were not suitable substitutes.
Producing trained warbots took time and care. First the central nervous system had to be extracted from the body. Then came its painstaking neuro-electronic bottling. Installing the bottled CNS in a battle servo was similarly demanding. And finally a period of neurological, and sometimes psychological detraumatization and "breaking in" was required, before the individual was ready for warbot training.*
But the basic problem was the demanding legal qualifications for volunteers.
"Shit," the colonel muttered. The captain was tempted to answer "Yessir. I'll be right back, sir," but he sensed that just now, humor would not be appreciated. Certainly not that kind.
Kobayashi touched a pair of keys and began to dictate.
I see no possibility of providing the necessary warbots without (a) modifying the legal qualifications for volunteers, and (b) promoting intensively. Therefore I STRONGLY RECOMMEND that the army:
(1) Accept candidates with two useable limbs; volunteers with four useable limbs but who are blind; and volunteers with debilitating conditions, even though promising research is under way toward a cure. The latter limitation in particular permits all manner of opinions to block us.
It wasn't the first time Wiktor Kobayashi had proposed that. But previously he'd been rebuffed by government attorneys under political pressures. This time he would add to it. If he became sufficiently extreme-who knew? They might go along with his more moderate suggestions.
(2) Attach recruiters to all hospitals, including emergency rooms, with access to candidates over the objections of hospital personnel.
(3) Accept able-bodied volunteers-if they can pass appropriate mental and psychological tests-and to hell with family approvals.
Number three awed the captain. It seemed to him that reasonable mental and psychological tests would automatically eliminate able-bodied volunteers. And the part about attorneys and family approvals would offend a lot of politicians.
He hoped it wouldn't result in Kobayashi getting transferred. If it did, he'd probably be named to replace him, a dreadful thought.
(4) Before long, we will start shipping divisions to combat sites. There they will suffer casualties, and some will become bot eligible. Therefore I ALSO STRONGLY RECOMMEND (a) that each division carry neuro-electronic conversion teams, and extra BEIUs and servos; (b) that all organic trainees get effective virtuality training on warbot operations and tactics. The training they already receive as organics will go a long way toward getting them ready. Let the motto be, "today's serious casualty, tomorrow's warbot."
As it now stands, the warbot situation makes a charade of our entire defense program. If prompt and effective measures will not be taken to correct it, I recommend throwing in with the Peace Front and rolling out the red carpet for the invaders. It will save a lot of effort and money, and the result will be the same.
(Signed) Colonel Wiktor Kobayashi, Assistant Director for Human Military Resources.
Captain Horvath stared aghast. Kobayashi scanned his monitor, then pressed SEND. Thereby committing professional suicide.
Horvath blew softly through pursed lips. Maybe a suicide was needed. Maybe somewhere up the line, someone would pay attention. Maybe Lefty Sarruf would lay his neck on the block; surely someone would pay attention then. If it comes down to it, Horvath decided-if they can Kobayashi and promote me to the job, I'll send the same goddamn message up lines, verbatim. And fuck the pettifogging, obfuscating, political sons of bitches. It's the survival of the human species they're pissing around with.
Chapter 20
A Day in the Life
B Company was gasping and staggering when it reached the top of the slope. And sweating profusely, although the sun was still low. This was only their third week, but already their morning run had been extended to thirty long Luneburger minutes. And this was the first time it had been routed up what the Terrans had dubbed "Drag Ass Hill."
Despite their cadre, who'd snapped relentlessly at their heels, their ranks had strung out pretty badly on the hill. But once at the top, their pace firmed. Through stinging, sweat-blurred eyes they could see the regimental area some five hundred yards ahead, and their company hutment with its orderly rows of small gray buildings.
Almost there, thought Esau Wesley. Grimly. He'd never liked taking orders, even as a boy from his father. And looking back, his father's orders had mostly made sense. But where was the sense of running uphill? Or running at all, if you weren't in a hurry? For toughness, they'd been told. For physical conditioning. He had no doubt he was tougher than anyone in their cadre.
"Hup, hup, hup two three four!" The voice was Sergeant Fossberg's, and seemingly effortless, though he was sweating as much as any. Esau didn't notice. He was too busy being angry. Then, some three hundred yards from the company area, Fossberg shouted, "You're on your own! The last ones to reach the mess hall and slap the wall get punishment!"
Esau snarled his anger-wanted to shout it. Lowering his head, he ran hard. Too hard. With a hundred yards to go, his legs began to fail. He fought it, eyes slitted with effort, his gait increasingly heavy-legged. 2nd Platoon had been second in the column, yet witho
ut being aware of it, Esau had fought nearly to the front of the now badly strung-out company. Anyone in his way, he'd elbowed aside. But he staggered the last twenty yards, barely keeping his feet. When he'd slapped the wall, he stumbled aside and fell gasping to the ground.
After eight or ten seconds he looked back. Most of the company was still coming. Some had slowed to a walk, alternating with a staggering trot to avoid being last.
Jael was not one of the very last. Perhaps fifteen or twenty were farther back, most of them from 3rd and 4th Platoons, who'd started out in the rear. Wobbling, she staggered through the fallen and touched the wall.
A few had given up the struggle entirely, and knelt or lay in the dirt along the way. It was their names the cadre spoke into their belt recorders. Esau could hear someone retching-more than one-their heaving dry; the company hadn't eaten breakfast yet.
Although they didn't know it, B Company's trainees had just been through a test. Less of themselves than of the training pace. Was it too hard? How much could they tolerate?
Fossberg didn't let them stay collapsed for long. "Company!" he bellowed. "On your feet! Fall in and stand at attention!"
Their platoon sergeants and ensigns herded them into ranks, where they stood, still breathing hard, facing the company commander and field sergeant. It was Captain Mulvaney who addressed them. "All right, B Company," he said, "stand at ease." As always his voice was effortless but easily heard. "You're making progress. You've got a long way to go, but you've started out nicely. Some not as well as others, but you'll catch up. We'll see to that. It's our job."
He paused, scanning the ranks in front of him. Esau noticed resentfully that the captain wasn't sweating. He hadn't run, just strolled out of his office to watch them arrive.
