Dawn of the Mad (39 page)

“He is lying,” the robed figure commented dryly.

“Of course he is. He does not have the knowledge you seek.”

The robed figure replied, “Yes, I have read your report that is in the archive. I am still quite curious as to the extent of your relationship to Mr. Roman while you were on planet X713 Delta. I sense your report is lacking … something, Sergeant Matthias.”

Matthias stepped forward, putting his face close to that of the robed figure. “That’s
Command
Sergeant Matthias, if you don’t mind; I think I’ve earned it. I disclosed everything that went on while on X713 Delta. The others spoke the truth as well. Our faith in the supreme chancellor is unwavering, as is evidenced by our service to him!” The second uniformed man put a hand on Matthias’s shoulder to hold him back. Matthias relaxed a little, and continued. “At any rate, Roman was an insignificant policeman on a primitive planet. He knew nothing when he was brought here a year ago, and he still knows nothing. He is a good man, and I will stand by that. If his girlfriend is indeed a member of a terrorist cell, I am convinced he has no knowledge of that.”

The robed figure stepped backward, into the light, and hissed at Matthias, “I am not concerned about his friends! The invasion of X713 Delta has been ordered, and given that, Roman is now an enemy of the state and of the people. I would watch what I say when talking about him, if I were you. I know you and your friends were corrupted and seduced by temptation on X713 Delta, and if that has clouded your judgment, I will make you pay with your life.” The robed figure exited the room, his long robes billowing around him.

Matthias called out after the robed figure, “What about Roman?”

The robed figure stopped and turned around. “Once he tells the truth and is fully interrogated by my Auger-Seers, send him to the ore mines. His brain will be liquefied anyways. It makes no difference to me what happens to him. His citizenship is hereby revoked.” He turned and continued walking away. The other uniformed man stepped into the light and stood next to Matthias.

“What do we do now?”

Matthias turned and faced the two-way mirror, in which Roman could now be heard describing firebases on Mars and Uranus in great detail.

“My friend, I don’t know. I didn’t think this would happen. We must get Roman off our planet, the seers will lobotomize him. These shadow guys are everywhere now, watching everything we do.” He turned around and faced Scotts and said, “Go find Cruwell. He will know what to do. And be quiet about it. The ISSB is everywhere. ”

CHAPTER 36

“Roman, get up,” the guard said from outside Roman’s cell. “You have a visitor.” The guard opened the cell door with his passkey and activated the overhead lights, illuminating the sparsely furnished cell. The heavy door slid open silently. Roman threw his blanket off and sat up on his bunk. He rubbed his face with his hands and looked up. A look of recognition instantly washed over his bearded face.

“Sebastian. What are you doing here? I thought you had forgotten about me, along with everyone else.”

Sebastian Cruwell walked into the cell, and the door slid closed behind him. He wore his major’s uniform of the ISSB, indicating that this probably was an official visit of some sort. Roman couldn’t help but notice that his calf boots held a shine so bright he could probably shave off of them. He also noticed that Cruwell wore a pistol.

“I heard that you had been arrested. You have to believe me; I knew nothing about it, although I sensed it would happen in time.”

Roman said nothing. A thought of being executed by his old friend rushed into his mind quite unexpectedly.

Cruwell continued, “A lot has been going on in the few weeks you have been imprisoned. The supreme chancellor is surrounded by robed seers now. I think they just didn’t know what to do with you; they aren’t yet mass murdering undesirables. I think the supreme chancellor still wishes to be popular among the people, and executions rarely help in that regard.”

“What do you mean they didn’t know what to do with me?” Roman stood up and reached for his synthetics cigarettes. “I suppose I should feel lucky. I still haven’t been tortured or anything, which is a plus.” He was wearing only his boxer underwear, and after he stood up, he brushed his testicles off of his sweaty leg. What Cruwell said kind of made sense. He had been in this humid, barren cell for just more than three weeks, and no one had offered any explanations. He was fed regularly and was allowed his synthetics (which he kept meaning to quit smoking, but he hadn’t quite gotten around to that yet), but that was the extent of his contacts with his jailers.

“Well, I have secured your release,” Cruwell said. “You have two options. Your official release has assigned you to an off-world mining facility reserved for political prisoners.”

Roman took a drag off of the synthetic cigarette. He had gotten a little more used to them over time, and there just wasn’t much else to do.

“What’s the unofficial release?”

Cruwell walked toward the cell door, and knocked twice. The jailer opened the door. Cruwell stepped out of the cell and returned, holding two large duffel bags. He dropped them both on the floor of the cell.

“Option two may not be any better, but at least you would be free.”

“Go on,” Roman said.

“I have secured your transfer into a penal battalion that is going to your planet, Earth. You could join the fighting, or perhaps you could escape, if you desired.”

Roman put out the cigarette in an ashtray almost filled to capacity. “So you did invade my planet after all?” He wasn’t surprised.

“It will happen. The invasion is currently being planned.”

“I’m in. If it gets me away from here, I’ll go.”

Cruwell walked out through the open door. “Get dressed. You’ll be taken to your unit by an assistant of mine in exactly one hour. Good luck, Johnny.”

As the jailer moved to close the cell door, Roman called out, “Wait. There’s one more thing.”

Cruwell stopped and turned around.

“What about Natasha?” Roman asked.

Cruwell shook his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t know. I think she may have gone underground. I’ll try to find out what I can.” He paused as if to say something more but he caught himself. He quickly changed the subject and said, “I have your cat now. He’s an interesting creature. I’ll give him a good home.” Cruwell left abruptly, leaving Roman to stare blankly at the two duffel bags.

CHAPTER 37

Roman stood among a large group of other prisoners who, like himself, recently had been reassigned to this penal battalion. The penal battalion consisted of three companies, and Roman found himself assigned to the first company. Everyone had two large duffel bags, seemingly identical to the ones Roman had recently acquired, and they talked loudly among themselves. They were assembled in a large hangar, mostly empty except for the men and their bags of gear. They each wore an orange jumpsuit with a large white letter “P” hastily marked on the back. Roman made his way to one side of the hangar and casually leaned against a large support column as he smoked a synthetic cigarette, observing his surroundings. It didn’t take long to find out who was in charge.

“Fall in!” A loud, booming voice echoed throughout the hangar. The assembled group looked for the source of the voice, quieting only slightly, earlier conversations changing mostly to questions to each other about what was happening. Six smartly uniformed men walked down the massive granite steps that led from the main entrance to the hangar itself. The group of six halted just in front of the group. Five of the men wore purple berets. The sixth, a youthful man wearing a yellow beret, took a step forward from his companions. Roman eyed him closely and spotted the rank of infantry assault captain, also noting numerous medals and badges on the breast of his uniform. What stood out most was that the captain had only one good arm, the other was bionic. There was no synthetic skin covering the metallic appendage. Roman also noticed that he carried two unusual canisters hanging off of his belt.

The captain strode across the front line of the group, his one hand fingering the top of one of the canisters on his belt. As he got closer to Roman, his heavily scarred face was revealed in clearer light.

“What a miracle of modern science,” Roman muttered to himself.

The captain stopped abruptly and spoke in a low, raspy voice that somehow projected across the entire hangar. “For the next four weeks, I will be your senior training officer. You will be divided into two platoons and you will be trained by my veteran staff.” As the captain spoke, several in the group made obscene hand gestures in his direction; others continued to ignore him, still engrossed in their own conversations. The captain continued seemingly unaware of the disrespect being shown toward him. “Your training begins now.” He casually withdrew from his belt the canister he had been fingering and pushed a plunger at its top. It began to hiss and emit a red vapor.

Roman immediately opened one of his duffel bags and withdrew his canteen. He unzipped his overalls and removed his white T-shirt. He quickly soaked the T-shirt with water from his canteen, and covered his nose and mouth with it. The captain tossed the vapor canister into the center of the group. Within seconds, the group was enveloped in the red vapor. The men began to cough and gag. Roman’s eyes watered, but other than that, his crude air filter protected him. He remembered the same dirty trick pulled on him as an Army recruit at Fort McClellan, way back in the day. Back then, he had had no warning and no experience, and he succumbed to the gas.

Some of the group tried to break for the exit, but the five men in purple berets guarded it. Whoever got close to them got a vicious shot from a shock baton. The captain and his men seemed unaffected by the red vapor; Roman wondered if they had bionic lungs. Within five minutes, most of the group lay on the ground in a fetal position or were contorted in pain from strikes from a shock baton. They all had tears and snot streaming down their faces. The captain began fingering the second canister on his belt, as if he were going to toss that as well.

“Now that I have your full attention, I will continue. You experienced a training gas grenade. Judging by the way you acted, you won’t live very long in a hostile environment.” He took off his beret and wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. His hair was close cut and parted to the side. He continued, “You will be assigned numbers, and from here on out, you will not use your names. You will address the staff by their ranks. You have no rank and will receive no pay. You are here because the government has deemed you worthy enough to repay your debt to society by serving in the supreme chancellor’s penal battalion. If you survive your term of service, you will receive a full pardon.” The captain replaced his beret smartly. “It is fortunate that your government wishes to train you at all.” He turned and addressed one of the other men. “Senior Corporal.”

The large, muscular man stepped forward. His rolled up sleeves barely contained his massive arms. The senior corporal saluted the captain.

“Assign the platoons,” the captain told him, “and get with Assault

Sergeant Rimanek. She should be arriving shortly to take command of the

1st platoon.” The captain turned around and exited the hangar, leaving the other five men behind. The senior corporal gave orders to the other four men, and all five began shouting at the penal battalion recruits. This time, they all listened.

“Get up! Get off of your asses and recover your gear! Fall in four ranks. Let’s go!”

With a bit of confusion, the group organized into four ranks, each one a duffel bag in each hand. Those who moved slowly received a shock baton strike to the back of a leg.

“You have got to be shitting me,” Roman muttered to himself. “Maybe I should have slaved in the mines after all.” Shaking his head, he picked up his duffel bags and fell in with the rest of the men.

Roman dropped his duffel bags as he found himself in the first rank of the four that formed up. Two corporals walked down the front of the first rank, one carrying a data pad and the other a can of spray paint.

“Name?”

Roman faced the corporal, his hands firmly in his pockets.

“Roman.” He casually removed a synthetic from his overalls and put it between his lips. He refrained from lighting it and thrust his hands back in his pockets. The corporal took no apparent notice and surveyed his data pad intently.

“Political detainee. Low risk. Assigned 1st Platoon.” The corporal looked up from his data pad. “Your number is 769. Don’t forget it.” The corporal moved on to the next man. The other corporal crudely sprayed the number 769 on each of Roman’s duffel bags.

“Turn around.”

“Wha–?”

The corporal grabbed Roman roughly by the collar and spun around, and sprayed the number 765 on Roman’s back, just above the letter “P.” He spun him around again and did the same across his chest.

The pair of corporals walked up and down the formed ranks until the last of the men had been identified and numbered. They returned to the front of the assembled group. The one with the data pad addressed the men.