Freehold (27 page)

She explained her background in detail, since the recruiters had all the data anyway. He nodded periodically and asked some leading questions. He didn't seem to find her story problematic.

"I've heard all kinds of backgrounds here," he said. "Don't sweat it."

Then he asked, "Am I right that you are a bit below things as far as physical strength?" She agreed. "Okay," he nodded. "Then understand this: on the one hand, there aren't any allowances for that. On the other hand, we don't want you hurt. Keep me informed if there are any problems and we'll either get you supplemental training or, not likely, medical treatment if necessary. If anything has you confused or is outside your experience, ask. You have the right to know you are being treated within our safety requirements, and we need to know about any problems to do that."

She agreed politely and thankfully and returned to the barracks with him. Three other recruits arrived that evening. There were thumping and banging noises at night and when she awoke there were eleven of them. The main rush arrived by bus at 3 divs, bringing the total to fifty.

They were walked rather than marched to the training depot and had all their documentation from the recruiters redone for clarity. Some minor points were corrected and one person sent home on medical profile. He was directed to return in three months. Kendra never found out why.

Next, they were lined up for medical exams—very
complete
medical exams. Nanoprobes, electronic scans, and physical tests, including samples of blood, skin and hair. They were immunized with both nanos and a few hypodermics and given paper copies of the transaction as well as datachips. There were several briefings on training, procedures and other details. Kendra learned that there were Christian chaplains on base, including a Roman Catholic, although not a Catholic Reformed. Still, it was something. And she had a choice of local clock or Earth clock for worship. She decided that every ten local days was adequate, not being exceptionally devout. Besides, the idea of adapting every seven Earth days at twenty-four hours to the local schedule was bound to create waves and get her noticed.

"Strip," Carpender ordered. "Place your civilian clothes in the bag and line up here for haircuts. No talking, and keep your noses in your study manuals when not otherwise occupied." She was almost used to nudity with strangers, and peeled out of her unitard and slacks. She joined a cluster that was getting sorted into lines, and fell in.

They were lined up by height, which put Kendra near the front as the tallest woman by far, and the first one in. She could see ahead of her the men having their heads shaved. It was hard for her to believe that barbaric rituals like that were still part of a modern military. She pretended to keep her nose in her book, as ordered, but watched obliquely. Some of them were relaxed and expecting it, others nervous.

She was quickly at the front of the line and wondered how short they'd clip her. Collar? Neck? She stepped forward as a chair emptied,and a bib was slipped around her neck. "How short?" the . . . well, "barber" was the wrong word, but . . . 

"Collar-length?" she half inquired.

"Back to the collar," he agreed sadistically, as the shears swept back from the center of her forehead. She gasped. They shaved women, too?? She quickly was despising the medieval thugs who had designed this course of training. What the hell were they thinking?

She was bald in seconds and urged out of the chair. She remembered her doccase through her daze, walked through the indicated door, and stifled her outrage. She fumed silently, afraid to touch her head and feel the stubble.

She joined the lines for uniforms and snuck a glance at the man currently on the pad. Light beams scanned him quickly, calculated sizes and reported it to a duty soldier. They still drew uniforms from the racks by hand! Why such a primitive approach? Automation existed for such minor details.

She stepped forward, ready to be scanned, when a firm grip on her arm pulled her aside. "Over here, recruit," a woman's voice ordered. She turned to see a sergeant and a private. "Legs spread and arms straight out. Eyes front," the sergeant continued. Turning to address the private, she said, "Around the neck—" and Kendra felt a band wrapped around her throat. It dropped away and the private yelled, "Thirty-four!"

The sergeant continued, "Chest and waist," and the private ordered, "Breathe in and hold, recruit." She complied. In seconds, she'd been measured by hand and sizes scribbled on a sheet. She was urged toward one of the troops drawing uniforms and as she handed her measurements over, heard the sergeant say, "Not bad. Try the next one." Apparently it was a training exercise. Well, it was good to know how to measure if the system was down. It would never happen on Earth, of course. Touching someone without a specific invite was grounds for criminal action. The detailed waivers doctors had their patients sign was proof of that.

She was handed a stack of uniforms and pointed at a painted square on the floor. "Get dressed and keep all gear inside the lines!" someone ordered. She'd give them this: they were very fast and efficient. And, she found out seconds later, they issued uniforms that fit. It took only segs to be back outside, carrying a duffle full of clothes.

The remainder of the day was all processing. Typical military, but with little "hurry up and wait." No one wasted any time and the recruits were processed fast. They were fed, escorted back to the barracks and bedded down.

The next morning, Carpender was an utterly different human being, if that was the term. He entered the bay shouting, kicking and throwing things. If asked, Kendra would have admitted she'd never dreamed such language would be used in a civilized nation's military.

"Dry those sticky fingers and hit the fucking decks, you worthless worms! Three fucking seconds! I want you outside in three fucking seconds! Did I say grab any clothes? Move your saggy, no-load asses! Don't talk! Don't think! When I want any shit out of you I'll rip off your head and scoop it out!" 
 

Shocked senseless, Kendra swarmed outside with the others. Few wore more than the shirt and underwear she did, some were naked. It was cold outside. She wrapped her arms around herself and wondered what the hell was going on.

Suddenly, he was in front of her. "Where the fuck are you from, loser?" 

"Minneapolis . . . on Earth, sir."

"I can't hear you! one would think with a chest like that there'd be lungs underneath somewhere . . . Well?" 

Unbelievable! Sexual innuendoes? Kendra decided she would not be the first to complain. But Rob's warning seemed shallow in comparison to the reality. Carpender was about to bellow again, so she inhaled and shouted,
"Yes, sir!"
 

" 'Yes, sir,' what??" 
 

"I have lungs, sir!" 
 

"Glad to hear it," he said and began pacing. "Because they are crucial to surviving recruit training and you will exercise them regularly. Do you all understand?" 

There was a ragged chorus of "Yes, sir."

"Bullshit! I want to hear balls and titties shaking when you answer! The commander is getting a little deaf, and can't hear you over there in his insulated office. If he can't hear you, he thinks I'm not doing my job. So you will sound off loud enough to reassure him and keep me gainfully employed shattering your wills. Do you understand?" 
 

"Yes, sir!"
came the bellowed reply.

"Work on it," he advised, and strode back to Kendra.

"Don't they have cold in mini-no-place?"
he bellowed, nose almost touching hers.

"Yes, sir!"
she replied, loud enough to hurt her throat.

"Then suck it up and take it, princess, because it is going to get colder and hotter than you can imagine!" 
 

"Yes, sir!"
she shouted.

He addressed the whole formation again. "There are footprints painted on the ground. Put your feet on them. Knees relaxed, backs straight. Arms straight down, thumbs along where your pants seams would be if you had any. This is the position of 'attention,' and it draws excess blood away from the brain, enabling miserable, vomitous, slimy little shitballs like yourselves to listen more clearly. 

"I am Senior Sergeant Recruit Instructor Joseph P. Carpender, and you are worthless maggots. You will refer to anyone higher in rank than yourselves, which is anyone, by their rank and rating. Since you are all clearly too stupid to memorize 'Senior Sergeant Recruit Instructor Carpender' and since the war would be lost before you could say it . . . I'm not laughing, why are you, maggot? . . . You will address me as 'sir.' Can anyone spell 'sir?' " 
 

"S-I-R?"
someone replied.

Without looking, he demanded, "You will state your name when answering and address me properly. Try it again, assmunch!" 

"Asher Denson, Sir! Sir is spelled 's-i-r,' sir!" 
 

He strode over and looked down at the recruit, who was in the younger-than-average category. "Your first name is 'recruit,' maggot! Maybe someday you Will get a manly pair of balls and be allowed the honor of changing it to 'soldier!' Make your corrections." 

"Recruit Denson, sir! I'm sorry for the error, sir!" 
 

"You're sorry, all right. Now apologize. Shut up!" he bellowed contradictorily as the kid tried to reply. He turned and paced again. "For your information, 'sir' is spelled 'g-o-d.' I am god, and you will learn from me or be struck down."  

He was clearly reciting from rote as he continued, "This is without a doubt the sorriest bunch of limp-dicked, banana-tittied, ass-breathed, masturbating, runny-nosed, slack-jawed, potbellied, macaroni-muscled, shit-sucking, gutless little trolls I have ever had the misfortune to have assigned to me! I do believe the commander is pissed off at me for being too gentle! Therefore, I will be harder! In the past, I have crushed the souls of some genuine ladies and men with my thespian talents. I feel my skills will be wasted reducing such a sorry bunch of nail-biting, pud-pounding, pussy-stretching, panty-wetting, jabbering yokels to tears and soggy pants!  

"But it is my duty, and I will do it. 
 

"You do not have to, and will not, enjoy anything that happens here for the next eighty-six days. You will ache, you will cry, you will be humiliated and degraded, you will bleed. All this will do one of two things: either send you back to mama with your eyes bloodshot and teary or qualify you to become a proud member of the freehold military forces—the meanest, baddest, most brutal bunch of professional KILLERS who ever struck the fear of the god and goddess into an enemy ten times their size.  

"Learn now the first lesson," he said as he came to attention and faced them. "anything you do can get you killed. Doing nothing will get you killed. You have all taken those psych tests where there are no wrong answers. This is a test with no right answers.War does not determine who is right. War determines who is left. 

"None of you are dressed as prescribed in the recruit Training Manual. Since you have not yet been read the relevant section, and since your literacy is questionable, I will be lenient. You should each be wearing nine articles of clothing minimum on this and every day of your existences from now on. You will each count how many articles you are wearing, subtract it from nine, multiply the result by twenty. That is how many pushups you will do as a reminder. Don't even think of fucking with me by trying to do less. You are not paid to think, and I can and will multiple track you. Now drop and pump!" 
 

A hundred and forty pushups??
Kendra thought to herself as she threw herself at the ground.
In this gravity??
But Carpender was counting and she tried grimly to keep up with the count. Then she fell behind. She kept her own count as they progressed, until she collapsed at forty-three. She hadn't thought she could do that many.

"Problem, princess?" Carpender snapped from above, almost gently.

"My arms won't support me, sir," she grunted.

"Your arms will do anything your brain and guts want them to. Get with it," he said, then moved through the ranks to haze others. She forced her muscles to respond and shook through twelve more. The ranks were thinning as some finished and headed inside, but Kendra had plenty of miserable companions to keep her company.

Carpender came back. "That's ninety, isn't it, princess?"

"I have only finished fifty-five, sir!" she half howled, half whimpered.

"Well, there's no rest for the honest. You will stay here, with your tits freezing to the ground, until such time as you finish," he advised. "So suck it up and pump 'em out." He hoisted her aloft by her shirt collar, the fabric biting into her neck, and let go. She fell painfully down, banging her chin. "Take that one as a freebie," he said, walking off, "just for being honest."

Kendra was last to finish and struggled inside. Her arms were blessedly numb and most of her body was, also. She fumbled, shivering, into a uniform and back outside into formation.

Carpender flicked his eyes at her, but said nothing as she filled in the last slot. "Walk this way," he ordered.

They straggled along, not quite in step, and were passed by several platoons of more advanced trainees. Insulting cadences and jeers rang out, most of them familiar to Kendra, if blunter and ruder. She smiled inwardly. More roots she could recognize.

"Recruit, recruit, don't feel blue
My recruiter fucked me too."
 

And

"Ain't no sense in looking down,
Ain't no discharge on the ground . . ." 
 

They walked until they reached the issue depot again. Inside, they were tossed more gear, this time suspension vests and packs, body armor, tools, canteens . . . and rifles. They were issued their rifles once and expected to keep them for life. That shocked Kendra at first, but upon consideration, it made sense. A soldier who was honorably discharged was no different a person the next day, and no less trustworthy. Here, as in the UN, all veterans could be recalled to duty if needed. It did seem reasonable that they have their gear with them, rather than needing a reissue that would take days at best.