10.

 

In the morning, training began. Marten viewed the training as the descent of man, even though Highborn theories proved antithetical to Social Unity. Marten’s awareness of the change of basic assumptions didn’t come right away. First, the volunteers from Greater Sydney took a medical examination. Marten endured the probes and pinches, but he hated it.

He donned his clothes afterward and exited through the door the doctor told him. Marten walked down a hall and entered a small room. A huge, uniformed Highborn, an angry-looking giant without any front teeth, scowled down at him. Like all their kind, this man radiated intensity and a heightened vitality. He seemed an auto-trash compacter, eager to crush and destroy. This close to him and in such tight confines, Marten grew tense and worried.

“You believe yourself capable of combat?” the Highborn rapped out angrily.

Marten nodded.

“Speak up, man! Don’t cower!”

“Yes,” Marten growled.

The Highborn sneered. And he rapid-fired a bewildering set of questions, edging closer the entire time.

After the first few questions, Marten refused to be drawn into a debate. He answered as best he could, and he tried to ignore the superior attitude and the too-close proximity. The giant made it difficult. He was towering, and he was probably three times Marten’s weight and was undoubtedly four or five times as strong. His uniform, some type of synthetic leather, crinkled at his movements and showed his lethal muscularity. The snow-white skin seemed much too bright, the face formed of sharp angles and rigid planes. Decidedly inhuman, Marten thought to himself. He didn’t like the arrogance. It was more than just the giant’s position and power. It reminded him of Major Orlov. The Highborn exuded superiority, as if he, Marten, were simple and cowardly. Despite his best resolve, Marten found himself getting angry at the man’s attitude. The Highborn giant loomed closer now and practically yelled down at him.

“No, no!” the Highborn shouted. “Wrong!” And he slapped Marten across the face.

Marten reacted before he could check himself. He lunged at the giant. Then he found himself grabbed by the arm, flipped and slammed onto the floor, hard. It knocked the wind out of him. As Marten struggled to rise, the Highborn picked a marker off the table, held Marten’s right hand firmly and stamped the back of his hand. Then the giant picked him up, set him on his feet and propelled him stumbling out of the room and into a new corridor.

The door slammed behind him as Marten’s lungs unlocked. He blinked in bewilderment and thought about going back. Then he heard the Highborn holler a question at what sounded like the next recruit. What had just happened? Marten checked the back of his hand. A large number 2 had been stamped there. He touched it.

“Move along,” a voice barked through a hidden loudspeaker.

Marten scowled, but he followed the arrows painted on the floor. He came to a holding area, looked for and found Omi, Stick and Turbo. Before they could say much, Highborn herded them toward a parking lot filled with sealed vans. They were hustled onto the vans according to familiarity. Thus, Marten found himself packed with a hundred odd slum dwellers. But not just any slum dwellers, but the gang-members that lived by the fist, blade and gun. Stick and Turbo greeted several old friends. Two drug-running gunmen shook Omi’s hand.

Aboard the bus, most of the talk was about the numbers on the back of their right hand. Turbo wore a four. Stick a three. Omi also had a two. They couldn’t see anyone with a one. Of fives, sixes and sevens, well, that’s what the majority wore.

“What’s it mean?” Turbo said, as he rested his head along the side of the van.

The huge vehicle hummed smoothly. The benches on the sides and down the middle were packed with gang members. Each wore the clothes he’d joined with and nothing else, no suitcases, no personal items, nothing.

“Yeah,” Stick was saying, “is it better to have a low number or a high one?”

“Marten and I have twos,” said Omi.

“So?”

The bullet-headed Korean regarded his hand. At lot of other people were doing the same things. So far, no one had been able to rub out the number, even though many spat on the back of their hand and scrubbed vigorously.

“It’s under the skin,” growled Marten, who hated the tattoo.

“Seems like most people have higher numbers,” Stick said. He’d scanned those around him and across the narrow aisle at those in the middle.

Turbo grunted and rubbed his cheek. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but that guy sure clocked me a good one.”

“He hit you too?” asked Stick in surprise.

That’s when they discovered they’d all been face-slapped.

“Do you think that has anything to do with our number?” Marten asked, wondering if the Highborn’s anger hadn’t been at him but merely routine. Had it been a test?

Omi arched his eyebrows. “What did you do after he hit you?” he asked Marten.

“Attacked the bastard.”

“You’re kidding,” said Turbo. “He was huge.”

Marten shrugged. He was still a bit bemused by what he’d done. “I didn’t really think about it. I just found myself lunging at him.”

“Not me,” said Stick. “I figured he was just waiting for me to do something stupid so he could beat me to death. I figured he was testing for obedience, whether I could take orders I didn’t like.”

“So what did you do?” Turbo asked.

“Hey, what could I do? The guy towered over me, and he was deciding my future, right? I told him give me my knife to even the odds and let’s try that again.”

“What did he say to that?” asked Turbo.

“Nothing. He just grabbed my hand and stamped a three on it.”

“Huh.”

“What did you do?” Marten asked the lanky junkie.

“I told him that was a lousy thing to do. Here they wanted me to fight for them and first thing they did was abuse me. How did he expect me to go all out for them if that’s what they were gonna do?”

“And he stamped your hand with a four?”

“Sure did,” Turbo said, restudying the big number four on the back of his hand.

“Omi?” asked Stick.

“I tried a chop at this neck.” Omi asked Marten, “What did he do when you attacked him?”

“He flipped me onto my back.”

The ex-gunman nodded sagely.

“He do the same thing to you?” Turbo asked.

Ignoring the question, Omi regarded his tattoo. He looked up. “It would be interesting to know what a number one did.”

“If there is such a number,” Marten said.

Stick scanned the crowd. “Might be dangerous to try to find out.”

“How come?” Marten asked.

“Couple different gangs in here,” said Stick. “Kwon’s Crew is over there. And I see Slicks and Ball Busters.”

“Yeah,” said Turbo, jutting his chin toward the front, “and over there is Kang of the Red Blades.”

Marten saw a massive Mongol with black tattoos on his arms. No one sat too close to him. He had flat, evil-looking features, with eyes almost slit shut.

Omi stood and started walking there.

“Idiot!” hissed Stick. “Come back before you start a rumble.”

Omi ignored the advice.

“Them gunmen are all alike,” Turbo whispered to Marten. “They think they can do whatever they want.”

They watched Omi wade past the other gang members, who glowered uneasily. Omi ignored them, moving slowly and deliberately toward Kang of the Red Blades. When he reached the forward area, Omi bowed his head. Massive Kang simply stared at him with his almost closed eyes. His flat, blank-looking face was unreadable. Omi showed him his hand, and then he bowed again and seemed to ask a question. Everyone in the van watched what Kang would do, some in anticipation. Finally, the huge killer showed Omi his hand. Omi bowed his head again and turned. A sigh, a release of tension, drained from everyone. Soon Omi took his place back between Marten and Turbo.

“Well?” whispered Turbo. “What was his number?”

“One.”

“What he do when slapped?” asked Stick.

“He said he waited. And when the Highborn reached for his stamp he slapped him across the face.”

“You’re kidding?” Stick said in awe. “Then what happened?”

“Then Kang said the Highborn set down the stamp he’d picked up and chose another one, the one.”

“Did the Highborn flip him?” asked Stick.

“I didn’t ask.”

“Yeah,” Turbo said, “that was probably smart.”

Marten thought about the numbers and why they’d been given different ones. He spoke to several other men sitting nearby. They had sixs and sevens. He found they hadn’t done much of anything when slapped. What were they going to do to a killer giant anyway? Marten had agreed. A two, was that bad or good? He glanced at the huge, flat-faced Mongol Kang who held court in his part of the van. A two was almost a one. So the Highborn thought he was a lot more like a vicious gang leader than the more harmless sixes and sevens. He wasn’t sure he liked the implications.

After several hours, the smooth van came to a halt. The doors swung open and two towering Highborn in powered battle armor gestured for them to hurry out. They did, forming two long lines around a parade ground as more vans disgorged their occupants. All of the recruits were Sydney slum-dwellers.

They were in the desert, several low-built concrete buildings around them. Barracks, no doubt. In all directions stretched a red sand desert. Here and there, gusts of wind stirred up sand. Marten noticed most of the recruits squinted at the harsh overhead sun just as he did. Most of them had probably never been in sunlight before. It was hot—nothing like being underground in carefully selected temperatures. Sweat prickled Marten’s underarms.

“This is great,” Turbo whispered, who tugged at an already damp collar.

With servos whining, the two Highborn clanked to the center of the parade ground as the convoy of empty vans roared away along the single ribbon of road. Marten figured that maybe six hundred other men stood under the sweltering sun. A squad of beefy Earth soldiers in combat vests and armed with machineguns jogged out of the nearest building onto the edge of the field.

“Regular men,” whispered Turbo. All around the field slum-dwellers whispered likewise.

“Silence!”

Everyone fell silent. One of the Highborn had spoken.

Finally, a huge man strode out of barracks. He had to be at least seven feet tall. He was shorter than the Highborn and not quite as muscled. He wore a black cap, uniform and combat boots, with a knife and pistol on a heavy belt. His face was hawkish, with a long, knife-like nose. He didn’t really walk, Marten decided, but strutted, knowing that he was putting on a show. There was something odd about his features; something twisted, out of kilter. Maybe it was his eyes, too focused, or the little superior grin that kept twitching into place.

He took his place in front of the squad of armed Earthlings. He clasped his hands behind his back and scanned the slum dwellers. There was some of that strange vitality to him that all Highborn seemed to have. Yet….

“Greetings, premen. I’m Captain Sigmir of Training Camp Ninety-three C. I will drill you into competent combat soldiers within six weeks or I’ll see you dead. On the seventh week, you will undoubtedly enter combat of the most ruthless sort. Whether I learn to like you or not is meaningless. You are in an army run by Highborn. I wish therefore to reassure you about nothing. What I will say now is perhaps the most important aspect of Highborn philosophy that you will ever learn,” he said, pausing to look at them all. “Remember this: Excellence brings rewards.”

Captain Sigmir paused as he inspected the recruits.

Marten noticed that twitching smile again, and the almost hungry way Captain Sigmir watched them. There was something strange going on here.

“Let me say again,” said Captain Sigmir: “Excellence brings rewards. In terms of your enlistment, the ability and willingness to kill the enemy is what counts. Little else matters. Neither the….” He seemed to choose his words with care. “Neither the ‘end product’ Highborn nor I care about your opinions. Think what you like, as long as you kill the enemy. As long as you are proficient at arms, as long as you obey orders on the instant, yes, then you may say or think what you like. Oh, but if you are not excellent, if you are not proficient at arms…”

Captain Sigmir shook his head. Then he removed his cap. He was bald, and an ugly, twisted red scar slashed across his upper forehead. He touched it.

“You notice this, I’m sure. I received it in combat. It killed me.” He laughed a little too shrilly as they stared and gaped. “Yes, yes, I assure you I died. Enemy shrapnel tore through my helmet and into my brain. Fortunately, I didn’t die on the instant. A fellow officer shot me full of Suspend. I’m sure you’ve heard how the Highborn are very careful to….” He laughed in that weird way again. “They call it revive, but really it’s resurrection from the dead. They fixed my brain as best as possible, restarted my body and—” He leered at them, his grin transfixed. “Here I am, alive again so I may fight again and possibly die again. My reflexes and thinking aren’t quite what they used to be, but who am I to complain? I assure you I’m not that sort of ingrate. Yes, I can still train. Thus, I am proficient at something. Thus, the superiors still give me rank as well as life. You too can gain rank by excellence. Now, an example is in order.”

Captain Sigmir put the cap back on and began to strut down the line of recruits. Most averted their gaze. A few dared look into his strange eyes, Marten being one of them. One fellow shivered in dreadful fear. The captain stopped in front of him.

“Show me your hand,” the captain said softly.

Trembling, the lad did. He was skinny and shallow-faced, with rounded shoulders.

“A nine,” said the captain. He tugged the lad with him into the center of the parade ground. Every eye was riveted upon them. The two armored Highborn clanked to the opposite end of the field as the squad of normal soldiers.

Captain Sigmir let go of the lad’s hand and took several steps away from him. “What is your name?”

“Logan,” whispered the lad.

“Say it louder!”

“L-Logan.”

Captain Sigmir nodded as he scanned the throng around him. The twitchy smile was now firmly in place. “Logan, do you know how to fight?”

The lad looked up at that. He was red-faced and obviously scared. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Good. I want you to defend yourself.”

“What?”

Captain Sigmir tossed his hat aside and unbuckled his belt, dropping his pistol and knife. “I said defend yourself.” He stepped toward the boy, towering over him.

Logan backed up, confused and more scared than ever, although he lifted his fists. Against the huge captain, it was a pitiful gesture.

“In this army, Logan, if you can’t fight then you’re worth nothing at all.”

Logan shook his head.

The captain shouted and kicked. His booted foot swept through Logan’s two fists to strike the center of his chest. Logan crashed to the ground. Captain Sigmir calmly walked to him and proceeded to kick young Logan to death. The boy tried to knock the iron-toed boots aside, until several of his teeth went flying. Then small Logan curled up into a fetal ball, whimpering and pleading through bloodied lips. Sweat glistened on Captain Sigmir’s face. His scar shone bright red, his strange eyes gleamed and a smile jumped into place every time his boot connected.

During the beating, several men in line grew very tense. One of them finally roared with rage and sprinted at Captain Sigmir, who had his back to the man while he kicked Logan across the side of the head. One of the Earth soldiers smoothly bent to one knee, lifted his carbine and fired a single shot. The enraged man grunted and slammed onto his back, his chest exploding in gore and blood.

Captain Sigmir didn’t bother turning around. Instead, he gave Logan a few more kicks until the frail boy relaxed onto his back, dead.

Two soldiers handed their carbines to another in the armed squad. Then they jogged to Captain Sigmir and saluted crisply. The captain nodded as he dabbed his face with a rag. He lifted an eyebrow as he saw the other dead man, but he made no comment. Each soldier grabbed a dead man by the feet and dragged them away.

The recruits, the majority of whom had grown tense, were clearly terrified of huge Captain Sigmir. They whispered their fear, eyeing the two armored Highborn and the watchful soldiers.

“He’s insane,” Stick hissed to Marten.

“Poor Logan,” whispered Turbo.

Marten noticed that Omi and Kang seemed unconcerned, almost as if they understood what had happened. A few others like them, hard-faced recruits, also watched impassively. Marten wondered if they too had once been gunmen like Omi. He shook his head. Here was the primary lesson. Killers ruled among the Highborn. Become excellent killers and they’d pat you on the back. Suddenly he wanted to be far away from here. But that wasn’t an option. He was trapped again. He felt that turmoil in his gut again. He could sure use a bottle of synthahol.

Captain Sigmir tucked away his rag. “It may interest you to know that I originated from Lot Six. I was one of the experimental firsts. They called us beta Highborn. At the time, it was said that the eugenicists were quite pleased with their efforts. But….” Captain Sigmir glanced at the armored Highborn across the field. “Alas, beta is not superior. Still, a few of us are around; and now they’ve found a place for us—for us… misfits.” He peered at the two, nine-foot tall, armored Highborn. Then he shrugged and faced the men. “Perhaps I am not a superior, but here, as long as I produce well-trained recruits, I may indulge myself in life’s little pleasures. Providing, of course, I avoid unnecessary wastage.

“Now, let me assure you that poor young Logan would never have made a good soldier. His hand had been stamped a nine, the only nine among you, I might add. It meant that he was extremely passive with little to no cunning.” The captain shrugged. “What kind of soldier is passive and without cunning? A soon to be dead soldier. So you see that Logan would have been useless in combat terms. But he still provided use as an example. As such, let us remember Logan. Uselessness brings death. Excellence, well, it provides rank and higher training. Your training here will be hard. Many of you will die, never to rise again. My advice is to make certain you don’t become a useless Logan—or don’t lose your balance and attack a superior officer. That isn’t merely useless, that is rank insubordination. Death is the only reward for that sort of lunacy.

“Also, I wish to address one more issue before you’re assigned barracks. Each of you volunteered to the Free Earth Corps. Second thoughts are bad thoughts. The reason why, is that all volunteer lists are sent to the other side. Unfortunately for you, the leaders of Social Unity consider you traitors. The reason that is unfortunate is that should you be captured….” Captain Sigmir grinned. “Don’t allow yourself to be captured and don’t run to the other side. Torture is what you’ll receive. Believe me, I know, for I’ve seen what they did to my comrades. We overran the enemy holding pens where a few betas had been captured.” The captain shook his head.

“Ripped out balls was the least of it. So! Here you are. Here, as Free Earth Corps, you will live or die. Only victory brings rewards. Defeat…. That brings hideous death, if you’re not already dead by then. Thus, you must learn to fight. Fight, fight, fight, nothing else matters, men. You must learn to fight.”