Descent into Mayhem (Capicua Chronicles Book 1)

by Bruno Goncalves

  The answer sounded horribly wrong to his ears. Mason’s lips curled into a wicked grin and he began to laugh.

  “HAH! Want this? Because you WANT this? Boy, that just doesn’t cut it here! Everyone wants to be the hero, nobody wants to make the sacrifices. That’s rich! HAH! Boy, listen to me and listen carefully, because this is the honest truth. The Army is not a fair institution. If you wanted fairness and justice you should have gone to Varsity and studied Law. The Army cares about only one thing. Putting the right man in the right place so it can get the mission done! And, sorry kid, but I just don’t see you there, I just don’t see you inside a Suit. Have a nice day!” He finished, snatching up a clipboard and brandishing his pen, a satisfied smile on his face as he searched for Toni’s name on the roster.

  Toni didn’t move a muscle.

  The Lieutenant had lightly touched her delicate fingers upon Mason’s muscled forearm, causing the sergeant to freeze as if stopped in time, digital pen hovering a centimeter above the clipboard’s data-slate.

  Toni noticed the Lieutenant’s nametag, finding only her first name there. Her name was Rose.

  “Good morning, Mister Miura, are you all right?” She asked politely.

  “Yes, Lieutenant, quite fine.” He replied quietly.

  “I see you have amber eyes. Almost golden, in fact. Not exactly an ordinary eye color, is it?”

  “No, Ma’am, it isn’t. My mother’s family has had a lot of transgen modifications going back a few generations.”

  “And your father?” she inquired.

  “My father’s a natural. He spent his first years in an artificial atmosphere. Step-by-step adaptation. Six year regimen.”

  The Lieutenant’s pretty eyebrows furrowed, as if the news was particularly upsetting to her.

  “And what does he think of transgenetic procedures?”

  “He’s against them. He – his whole family believes that human adaptation to Capicua’s conditions should be a natural event.”

  “I see. It seems your father’s against a lot of things, isn’t he?”

  “That’s my father in a nutshell, Ma’am.”

  “I am a transgen myself,” she confided as she perused the briefs before her, “and so is our sergeant, here. Every driver out there is a transgen, although exactly what genes are at play is very important for this particular line of work. Your physical performance results are quite impressive. Unnaturally impressive. Especially regarding reflexes, coordination, rapid problem-solving, among a few others. I’ve taken a look at your mother’s file. She has inherited some impressive abilities, but it seems some of your results don’t entirely correspond to her, um, characteristics. So tell me, are you truly your father’s son?”

  That was too much for Toni. He tried to cover his mouth, but the smile kept spreading under his hand anyway. A chuckle escaped from his mouth before he could smother it.

  “Can it, boy!” Mason growled menacingly.

  “I’m sorry, sir. Ma’am.”

  “It’s alright.” The lieutenant answered lightly, still smiling at his reaction.

  “Ma’am, I’m his son for certain.” Toni answered confidently, “We look too much the same, by far. Even people who’ve only just met us usually make the connection. I might not like it, sometimes, but I am definitely his son. A photo should be in my father’s file, shouldn’t it?” He asked.

  “No. Your father did not apply for military service and, since the CDF doesn’t have access to citizens’ personal information, all I know is what you’re telling me.

  “Strictly speaking, your mother doesn’t have a file with us either.” She added, “What she does have is a service record.”

  “Service record?” He echoed.

  “Yes. Your mother fulfilled five years of military service before beginning her civil work with the government. Didn’t you know?”

  “N-no, I didn’t.”

  “Well, in any case either your father is a closet transgen, which he can keep a secret if he likes, or you have at some point in your life been the subject of a genetic procedure. Either way, we’ll know what you are once the genetic profiling results come in.” She studied a document intently as she spoke, ignoring the look of astonishment on the recruit’s face.

  “So, you want to be a Suit driver, do you?” She asked him directly, finally looking up.

  “Y-yes.”

  “Good. You will shortly be informed of our decision. Thank you.” She added, giving him a smile before returning to her reading.

  The only sign that Mason was in any way upset came from the twitching muscles on the forearm the lieutenant had touched. Otherwise, he simply glared from beneath his shaven brows as the recruit silently left the room.

  The Interview was the ultimate challenge after two weeks of blood extractions, painful tissue extractions, urine and stool contributions, full body scans, neural mapping exams, vascular mapping exams, motor reflex and coordination tests, along with a barrage of logic, memory and rapid problem-solving tests that had occupied the first week. Spanning the three days before the interview, the recruits had fallen victim to a second barrage, comprised of personality tests whilst attached to a temperamental neural scanner that kept going into automatic shutdown.

  Toni spent the evenings trying to get along with his fellow hopefuls, as well as reading from the meager partition of the base library reserved for those in limbo. Aside from outdated propaganda pamphlets, Toni had discovered a wealth of technical and mechanical literature, and slowly came to understand that he would eventually be expected to possess intimate knowledge of the Suits’ functions. The realization depressed him, especially when he considered his academic performance at Leiben High. On the other hand, it was with relief that Toni came to realize that the members of his provisional platoon harbored no hostility towards him, apparently preferring to reserve such feelings for the sergeant.

  Screaming Mason drank only at night, seeing as there existed some leniency on-base regarding the pastime, just as long as it was after-hours and off-duty. At three AM sharp in their first night on-base, an impressively drunk First-Sergeant had elected to drag a casernful of sleepy recruits out of their beds and stand them at attention, giving them each an empty stare as the stench of alcohol slowly occupied the compartment.

  The Sergeant had then launched into slurred discourse on the chief military virtues, counting them off one-by-one with his fingers until he miscounted, got confused and gave up entirely, and had then proceeded to explain how his niece currently exceeded all those present in combat preparedness, adding as an afterthought that she was currently twelve. Toni’s eyes had become irresistibly drawn to a crack on the opposite wall, and he had stared blankly at the imperfection for the remainder of the sermon, tuning out the sergeant’s chafing voice until it was no more than background noise (his father had trained him well). The monologue lasted for an impossibly long hour before an unsteady Mason finally abandoned the casern, braying one last insult over his shoulder as he did so.

  The sergeant kept up his nighttime visits with regularity, varying only in hour, number of accompanying corporals, and level of intoxication.

  The day after Toni’s fateful interview, however, the Genetic profiling results finally came in, and before the afternoon’s end he was informed that he would be expected in uniform at 08H00 sharp Monday morning at MEWAC’s Suit Instruction Company.

  The report added that, in answer to Toni’s form declarations, the medical department had scanned his genome and not found any defective genes relating to the metabolization of Folic Acid, and so there would be no need for supplementation or therapy.

  A sizable part of Toni wondered whether some administrative official had somehow botched things and listed him in the Inducted List instead of the Eliminated List. He made no effort, however, to correct their mistake.

  He also realized with some satisfaction that he would no longer have to suffer the Screamer’s abuse.

  *****

  First Lieutenant Matt
hias Templeton was a man whose physique did not suggest a military background. Though of respectable height, his slim build and narrow face suggested a fragile constitution, and his well-combed blonde hair and lagoon-blue eyes provided strangers with the impression of an upper class sophisticate.

  The manner in which he carried himself, however, ram-rod straight and with a distinctive energy in his step, quickly belied such an impression. There was a confident, well-mannered nobility in the way he walked and observed his surroundings, and the treatment he received from the subordinates who knew him bordered on reverence. Screaming Mason, for one, seemed to regard him as the coming messiah.

  The sergeant was grinning broadly as he preened beside his new lieutenant, both men quietly taking stock of the platoon they were supposed to forge into armored Suit drivers.

  A resigned Toni was still adjusting to the dim quarters’ interior, the yellowish lighting above doing a poorer job of illuminating the classroom than the sunlight that shone in through the high windows. There was a desk for each recruit to sit behind, although the group presently stood at attention as their new platoon leader appraised them. The lieutenant signaled to his drill instructor with a discreet nod.

  “Sit down!” Mason barked.

  There was a momentary racket as sixteen wooden chairs scraped against the concrete floor. The general consensus by now was that just about everything on base not made of wood was made of concrete.

  The lieutenant took his own seat on a stout chair of his own, Mason preferring to stand at ease beside him as the officer spoke.

  “First of all, I’d like to welcome all ladies and gentlemen to our esteemed institution,” Templeton began without a hint of emotion.

  “Although you have all been here for the last two weeks, everyone’s been so occupied with physicals and psychologicals that I believe you haven’t yet realized where you’ve landed. I’d like to make that all very clear, so no one can claim ignorance when the screw-ups begin. But before that, I’d like to introduce myself. I am First-Lieutenant Matthias Templeton. You will refer to me as either “Lieutenant” or “sir”. There is no third option hidden in there.” He paused for a moment and stared into the abyss, rubbing his hands together as the silence underlined his words.

  “I am twenty and nine years old and this will be the eighth time I take babies off the tit. What I have just said, in case none of you caught it, is code for “I have already heard every sob story out there”. If I want to hear your sob story, I’ll ask about it. But you can rest assured that I won’t. The only victims I recognize are those who have ceased to breathe. The remainder are either soldiers or those who haven’t the courage to be one.

  “I’ve been a Suit driver for the last ten years, and I will say the following about what I’ve learned over this time. No armored Suit driver is more of a soldier than a footsoldier is. If anyone tells you otherwise, tell them you have it on good authority that they are wrong. You can even quote me, if you’d like. Anyhow, if you disrespect a footman and it reaches my ears, you’ll find yourself among their ranks faster than you can say “chimpanzee”, and that, my comrades, is a promise. Besides being your platoon leader, I am currently the senior subaltern in the Suit Instruction Company, liaison officer for the Leiben Army Education Program, assistant in the Physical Education Department, and manager of the Officer’s Mess. Many of you may wonder if these are what are commonly referred to as “shitty assignments”. No, they are not. They are perfectly respectable tasks and I perform them with the diligence required of a MEWAC officer.” The Lieutenant paused once more, eyeing them as if expecting someone to disagree. Faced with the persisting silence, he continued.

  “But due to these assignments, it is possible I may sometimes be forced to be elsewhere during your training. And so I expect all to regard our First-Sergeant as speaking with my voice when I am absent. His words are my words, except maybe a little louder. Is that clear?”

  They declared in unison that it was all quite clear.

  At his Lieutenant’s beckoning, Sergeant Mason introduced himself, although by now it was a futile exercise; they already knew his vital statistics by heart.

  Mason was the proud inhabitant of Leiben’s May 23rd neighborhood, a working-class community that was renowned for producing about as many soldiers as it did troublemakers (which often meant the same thing, according to the sergeant). He was forty three, thrice divorced, the father of three boys, each from a different mother, one of which was serving as a cavalryman in the North Thaumantias Research Hub.

  And he liked to drink.

  “... and in ‘68 I received my fifth, and last, commendation, from the hands of Colonel Masters himself. I hear he’ll be retiring soon, isn’t that right, Lieutenant?” Mason finished, turning to his platoon leader. If Toni’s memory wasn’t failing him, that would just about mark the end of the First Sergeant’s introduction.

  “Yes, that’s right, in a few months the Colonel will be getting the rest he thinks he deserves.” Templeton answered distractedly as he inspected his hands. There was the lightest of smiles on his face as he spoke, but a moment later it was gone.

  Toni had noticed how that smile had popped up occasionally over the course of Mason’s monologue. He wondered what the Lieutenant truly thought of his sergeant.

  “Alright then. I’d like to hear your introductions next. Name, age, place of birth and why you joined the Army. Yes, that would do just fine.” The lieutenant considered, and he turned to his right, towards a recruit not too dissimilar to him in appearance.

  The classroom’s current seating arrangements had placed the most senior recruit to the extreme left of the front row. The recruit sitting there abruptly stood.

  “Ian Templeton, nineteen years old and Leibenese. I joined because I was told to.”

  The recruit promptly sat down without another word. If the Lieutenant was surprised by Ian’s reasons for joining, he certainly didn’t show it. Instead he nodded curtly to the girl behind him.

  “Rakaia Tani, I’m eighteen and I come from the Terminator Research Hub. I, um, joined so I could get out of there.” She finished awkwardly before returning to her seat.

  Her awkwardness surprised Toni. The only time he had tried to speak to her, the Terminator spawn had given him a cold look, oozing hostility until he had put a safe distance between them. There was something about her pouting lips and widely-spaced doe eyes that had fooled him into thinking she was approachable, but she had wasted no time in ridding him and the remainder of the platoon of that impression. Everyone just called her the Terminator now.

  Lieutenant Templeton nodded and asked “So, what do you think of the day-side?”

  “It’s brighter ...” Rakaia answered quietly. The boy behind her sniggered softly before standing.

  “Raymond Rosa, sir. Twenty two and born in Leiben. I joined ‘cause I wanna be a Hammer Driver.” He sat back down with a haughty expression, having earned a soft smile from his lieutenant.

  Ray was a troublemaker. Which was why Toni liked him so much. They were fast becoming mates, their friendship having received a recent boost due to the seating arrangements.

  “Tell me, Raymond,” Templeton asked, “what have you been doing those long years since you left school?”

  “Been helping my pa at the mines, sir.”

  “I see. Alright, next ...”

  As the following student stood to introduce himself, Toni noticed Mason giving Ray a cold look. He found that odd, owing to the fact that Raymond and their drill sergeant hailed from the same neighborhood. He made a mental note to ask Ray about it at first opportunity.

  Aside from Ian and Ray, none of his fellow recruits had been raised in Leiben, despite all having been born there.

  No one was born outside of Leiben, despite the furthest research center, the Terminator Hub, distancing more than 8000 kilometers from the city. That was the reason why, when someone asked where one was from, one never answered with his place of birth. That was a privilege reserved
only for those who had actually grown up in the city.

  There were many reasons why all births took place in Leiben, all having been duly explained to Toni in high-school. He remembered only the most important one, however.

  The fact was that human births in a Capicuan atmosphere sometimes tended to get a little complicated. As a result, almost half of Leiban’s Central Hospital Complex consisted of a very well-financed and equipped Pediatric and Obstetrics Departments, and possessed a maternity ward entirely sealed in a low carbon dioxide atmosphere. Despite most newborns having inherited exogenous genes rendering them impervious to the quasi-poisonous atmosphere, every once in a while a baby would pop out without said genes having been correctly expressed, or even missing them entirely, thus becoming fully dependent on the maternity ward’s artificial atmosphere until the problem was corrected.

  Then there was the case of the naturals, like those of his father’s family. The Miuras did not believe in genetic manipulation, preferring to place their faith in the proverbial hands of natural selection. Which was foolish, Toni thought. His father had lived for several years in the hospital, his lungs forced to gradually adapt to successively higher concentrations of CO2 until, at age six, he had finally been rolled outside for his first look at the wider world. He had at the time been small, skinny and very fragile.

  It had taken him another eight years to get rid of the oxygen mask.

  “YO TARDY, WE’RE WAITIN’FOR YA!” Toni heard a familiar voice roar.

  There were a few sniggers across the room and Toni shook the image of his father’s emaciated form out of his mind, realizing that the entire classroom was staring at him. He glanced forwards, only to find the Lieutenant sitting silently, expressionless except for a pair of slowly rising eyebrows.

  “Oh!” Toni exclaimed, and hastily he stood.

  “Toni Miura, eighteen, raised on Mushima farm, Leiben district, uh, I’m also here to be a Hammer driver.” He declared, not managing to state it quite as stylishly as Ray had. Nevertheless, as he sat down, his friend gave him a confident thumbs-up sign along with a whispered “alright!”.