“Fuck you,” I said, before I could stop myself.
Food shrugged. “You must be thirsty too,” he said. “Would you like a drink?”
I glowered at him, cursing my slip under my breath. Water knelt down, placed the glasses on the floor and filled them both with water. Food smiled, then picked up the fork and speared a piece of chicken, sniffing it before holding it out, under my nose. The smell was almost heavenly. I could have eaten it all day.
“Just tell us the information,” he said. “Tell us and you can eat whatever you want.”
It would taste like ashes in my mouth, I thought, morbidly.
He swallowed the piece of chicken, then slowly ate the rest of the food in front of me, taunting me. I wanted to look away, but I couldn't; the urge to just start spitting out the words was terrifyingly strong. He finished the plate, took one of the glasses of water and drank it slowly, his eyes never leaving me. I think I hated him even more than Viper at that moment, even though I knew I wasn't being fair. He was just doing his job.
“It won’t get any better from now on,” he warned. “You might as well give up now.”
I glowered at him. He shrugged and carried the plate out of the room. Water followed him, closing the door loudly. An instant later, I plunged back into darkness, taunted by the smell of food. He was right about one thing, I told myself in a vain attempt to keep my thoughts away from my growling stomach. It wasn't going to get any easier from now on. They’d be forced to use less pleasant methods, if such a thing were possible, to get the information out of me. I heard a faint hiss in the distance and realised, in horror, that I was being gassed. My head swam ...
... When I awoke, I was lying on a table, my hands and feet firmly strapped down. Four masked men were surrounding me, their eyes dark with frustrated anger. I gritted my teeth as they spun the table around, then tilted it downwards and straight into a tray of water. There was almost no time to realise what was coming before my head was immersed in foul-tasting liquid. I gagged, then choked, feeling utterly helpless for the first time since I’d entered Boot Camp. Something struck my chest and I vomited; I knew, with absolute certainty, that I was going to die before the table shifted again, bringing my head out of the water. I struggled vainly against the restraints, my heartbeat pounding so loudly I was sure the entire world could hear it. Were they mad? Were they actually trying to get me killed?
“Tell us the information,” one of the men ordered.
I coughed, spitting up water and vomit, then shook my head firmly. They didn't like that; two of the men came forward and started raining blows on my body. Pain surged through me and I knew it would have broken me, if I hadn't been taught how to take punches. They stopped after a long moment, then attached a handful of devices to my arms. Seconds later, I felt my hands start to twitch in pain. It wasn't a pleasant sensation - I later learned they were stimulating the nerves in my wrists - and it grew worse with each repetition. My hands seemed to be practically moving on their own.
“Tell us what we want to know and the pain will stop,” another man said. He sounded calm and reasonable, as if he were on my side. I wanted to believe it, but I knew better. “There really is no point in trying to resist.”
I closed my eyes as they started to beat on me again, then swung the table back around and shoved my head back into the water. This time, it was even less pleasant, but I managed to take a gulp of air before the water enveloped me. Maybe it was a mistake - my chest already hurt badly - yet it let me feel as though I had some control. They pulled me out after a minute, then sat me upright and shouted questions at me. Most of them seemed to be completely immaterial, to say nothing of irreverent. What did I know about the current favourite in the gladiatorial games?
They’re trying to confuse you, my thoughts warned me. And it’s working.
I gritted my teeth and endured as best as I could. They kept shouting questions, then hitting me when I refused to answer. Words hovered on my lips - maybe the pain would end, if I talked - but I was too stubborn. I had come too far to simply give up. But they were getting frustrated too. I tasted blood in my mouth after one of them slapped me across the face.
“We cannot attempt to tell you when you should talk,” Bainbridge had said. “Everyone has their breaking point. You will not know yours until it is too late.”
I clung to his words - and my determination to make him proud of me - as the interrogators closed in again. This time, they were holding a blowtorch; I stared in numb horror as they held it in front of my eyes, just so I could see what it was, and then lowered it until it was pointed right at my balls. The heat rose rapidly; I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that they were going to mutilate me. I’d heard horror stories, but ...
What if this isn't a test? My thoughts asked. What if you’ve actually been captured by the enemy?
“Talk,” the interrogator said. “Tell us what we want to know.”
I tried to cringe backwards, but there was simply no room to move. They could move the flame forward any moment they liked. I looked into his eyes and saw ... nothing; no sense of concern, no sense of enjoyment. He was a sociopath, someone who would do whatever was necessary to make me talk. I had no doubt of it. In some ways, he was more terrifying than any of the sadists who’d ruled the gangs with iron hands. He would never lose sight of his goal.
But I was damned if I was giving in.
“Fuck you,” I said, again.
There was a stab of pain, then blackness. When it cleared, I was lying in a bed.
“Congratulations,” Bainbridge said.
I stared at him numbly, then sat upright and lifted the covers. My unmentionables were still there, still unmentionable. My body ached, but no worse than it had done after the forced marches, or the unarmed combat training sessions, or any of the other exercises we’d done to prepare ourselves for war. There was no sign of any bruises.
“You kept quiet despite the pain,” he said, as I sat upright. “You passed with flying colours.”
I wanted to hit him. Only the certainty that he’d kick my ass, then throw me out of Boot Camp held me back. Nordstrom had repeated his challenge - a chance to actually hit a Drill Instructor without punishment - at every unarmed combat session, but so far no one had actually managed to land a punch.
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “I ...”
He must have been in a good mood. I only got fifty push-ups for saying ‘I’.
I tried again. “This recruit would like to know how far they were prepared to go?”
Bainbridge gave me a sarcastic look. “Do you really believe that real terrorists wouldn't go much further to extract information?”
I shook my head.
“Then you should really understand that we had to push you as far as we could without causing permanent damage,” Bainbridge added, sternly. “No one would have faulted you for trying to dribble out the information, or even for breaking after they started getting physical.”
That wasn't true. I would have faulted myself.
Bainbridge studied me for a long moment. “And one other thing? Don’t compare notes with your fellow recruits.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “Did we all pass?”
“You all did very well,” he said.
I learned, later, that all of us passed the basic requirements. We’d either flatly refused to talk or misled the interrogators. No wonder Bainbridge was in such a good mood. Indeed, he was in such a good mood that he let me have an extra hour in bed before I was sent back to barracks. A small thing, perhaps, but in Boot Camp ...
... Well, let’s just say it was worth its weight in gold.
Chapter Eighteen
One might ask, as many do, why the marine recruits weren't subjected to any form of chemical interrogation. There are, after all, no shortage of drugs designed for interrogation purposes. However, marines - and many other military personnel - are given special enhancements to render such drugs either harmless or lethal. Smart interrogators know bet
ter than to risk using them.
-Professor Leo Caesius
The third phase of Boot Camp was, in many ways, the best.
It’s hard to explain why, at least to a civilian. We were still being pushed hard, we were still being punished with innumerable push-ups - I’m sure Nordstrom invented a few new numbers just so he could inflict them on us - and there was still a very real danger that some of us would quit. But, at the same time, we had earned a considerable amount of respect from the Drill Instructors. I won’t say they were gentler, because they would probably come back from the grave to kick my ass if I did, but they were slightly more patient with us.
And that wasn't the only thing. Having decided we were worth the investment, they started offering us other treatments. Professor’s eyesight - so bad he wore the dreaded Birth Control Glasses - was corrected in a short, but expensive operation. He looked odd after three months of seeing him with his glasses, but I had to admit it would make his life easier. I’d been wondering how he intended to serve in combat while wearing a pair of spectacles that made him a spectacle. Others received their own treatments; I received a handful of DNA modifications that removed some of the hackwork inflicted on my ancestors and added a handful of new enhancements. I did ask if they could compare my DNA to the Empire’s master database, in hopes of identifying my father, but there were no matches. The half-assed fantasy I’d had of discovering my father had been a marine - or something I could respect - vanished like a snowflake in hell.
The downside was that we were expected to assist with the newer recruits, something I think we would have preferred to avoid. We weren't, of course, given a choice in the matter. I enjoyed some of it - playing hunter while the newer recruits played prey - was fun, but I disliked other parts of it. I hadn't expected to loathe the new recruits when I laid eyes on them, as part of their unarmed combat training, nor did I expect the chaos when one of their Drill Instructors started to bark orders and we obeyed without thinking. Bainbridge was very sarcastic about that little mishap.
It was an open secret - we heard it from someone in the fourth phase - that the Drill Instructors were evaluating us, now that we had proved we had staying power. Some of us would go to the Slaughterhouse, some of us would go to auxiliary units ... and some of us, alas, would be directed towards the Imperial Army. It seemed a fate worse than death, as far as we were concerned; we’d heard so much crap about the regulars from the Drill Instructors that we took it as an article of faith that the Imperial Army was a pool for losers. Hell, we’d been told more than once that when the army was on the hunt, the safest people in the region were the targets. They just couldn't shoot for toffee.
(That was, of course, a base libel. But we believed it at the time.)
The most fun part of the whole phase, however, was the introduction to military vehicles. I didn't know how to drive - very few people on Earth knew how to drive, when the lucky few who owned aircars had to submit them to traffic control - but I learned quickly. It helped that the Empire believed firmly in standardising everything; if someone happened to master a military jeep, it was fairly simple to scale up to a Landshark Main Battle Tank. Yes, the steering was a little more complex; the basic principles, however, were still the same. We started with basic vehicles, then moved all the way up to AFVs and tanks. It was unlikely we'd be using them, we were told, but one never knew. Besides, it was good for our confidence.
“You are only expected to know the basics,” Bainbridge told us, after we’d driven a dozen Hammerhead tanks around the exercise grounds. The Hammerhead was a light tank, designed to provide mobile firepower; they were definitely more nimble than the Landsharks, allowing us to take them into places a Landshark couldn't go without smashing its way through buildings and streets alike. “The experienced crews will be far more capable than you.”
We didn't believe him, of course, until the instructors took a tank out onto the field and really let themselves have fun. I’d never believed a tank could move so sharply and fire so accurately, not until I’d seen the results of thousands of hours of practice. The Imperial Army wasn't keen on allowing anyone to practice - again, every requisition of ammunition and supplies had to be accounted for - but the tankers had their ways of getting around the system. Given a chance, they would be formidable foes.
“You should never assume that a tank is an unbeatable opponent,” Bainbridge explained, as we learned their weaknesses as well as their strengths. “A tank can dominate the battlefield, but a smart enemy can still disable it.”
He was right, we discovered, as we worked our way through more realistic exercises. A company of tanks could crush resistance, but they couldn’t hold the ground; that, it seemed, was still the task of the infantry. There was no shortage of wars in history, we were told, where the tanks were cut off from their support and overwhelmed. Learning how to work with the tanks - and aircraft, assault helicopters and orbiting starships - was a complicated task, but we managed it. None of us wanted to give up now.
It was Viper, oddly enough, who asked the question we were all thinking about.
“Sir,” he said, as we made our way back to the barracks, “this recruit would like to know why our technology is so primitive.”
Bainbridge lifted an eyebrow. “You think our technology is primitive?”
“This recruit has seen aircars and hover trucks, armoured combat suits and antigravity lifters,” Viper said, refusing to be cowed. He was still a malingerer, but he had made it into phase three. “There shouldn't be any need to use tracked vehicles that are largely identical to the designs used a thousand years ago.”
“An interesting question,” Bainbridge said. He studied Viper for a long moment, then explained. “Yes, it is well within our capabilities to produce more advanced weapons and vehicles. You will discover, as you go on to later courses, that there are more advanced weapons and yes, you will be trained on them. However, such weapons have their limitations. Would you care to suggest what those might be?”
Viper hesitated, then shook his head.
Bainbridge tapped the rifle he carried, slung over his shoulder. “At its core, this weapon is very - very - simple,” he said. “A dunderhead can learn how to use it; more importantly, perhaps, he can learn how to maintain it. You can pour a great deal of abuse on the MAG-47 and it will continue to take good care of you.”
I smiled, inwardly. We’d had a handful of incidents where a weapon was dropped and the Drill Instructors had gone ballistic. None of the weapons had actually been damaged, but that hadn't stopped them from tearing us new assholes. We’d had to recite the Rifleman’s Creed hundreds of times, while stripping our rifles down and rebuilding them, just to make sure the lesson sunk in.
“If you break a component beyond repair,” Bainbridge continued, “you can replace it with one from another rifle. Or, for that matter, one can be sourced from a mobile support ship, one of the handful of starships we use to support our deployments. If worst came to worst, a civilian-grade fabricator could be used to put one together, if you overrode the safety features designed to keep people from churning out weapons. The rounds you fire off, too, are achingly easy to produce. Even a mobile support ship can churn out hundreds of thousands within a day.
“That’s true, too, of most of our simple vehicles. You can repair a jeep, or a tank, relatively easily, provided you have the spare parts on hand. Again, sourcing them isn't exactly difficult. A stage-two colony world shouldn't have any difficulty producing replacements if necessary. None of the hours you spent practicing were wasted; you should have no difficulty carrying out necessary repairs. You may, of course, discover that the entire vehicle is beyond repair, but that would require a significant level of damage.”
He paused. “But something more complex, even something as simple as a hover tank or aircar, can be a right bastard to repair while on deployment. A relatively simple problem would force the crew to send the vehicle all the way back to the repair yards, which would render it completely u
seless until it was sent back again. Something as minor as a flaw in the antigravity system would reduce your mobile firepower quite considerably. The more complex a system, the easier it is to break down and the harder it is to repair on the spot. A sniper rifle, capable of picking off a target three kilometres away, can break down quite easily and be a right pain in the ass to repair.”
There was a second pause as his words sank in. “There is no shortage of systems that are, on paper, far superior to everything we use in the field,” he said. “Sometimes, someone comes up with something that is actually usable, so we work it into our deployments; more often, the systems have major problems that only show up when a bunch of marines - or terrorists - start looking for flaws. There was a device, once, that monitored the number of humans in a given zone. It looked brilliant until, one day, it started screaming about how there was a billion enemy soldiers advancing on the command post. Someone had pissed on it and that was the result.”
First To Fight (The Empire's Corps Book 11) Page 17