Corpsman

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  Chapter 1

  Nine months earlier. . .

  “Not even in your dreams, palito,” Liege Neves said as she stepped around the outstretched hand of the beggar.

  Normally, the destitute left gangrats alone, but here at the crowded Falebella Center, the emaciated young man with the yellow eyes of a dopa addict must have thought he would be immune to retribution.

  He’s right, though, Liege thought. Smart guy for a d-head.

  That didn’t mean she was going to swipe him a few credits, but she had to admire his audacity.

  She almost skipped up the broad steps leading up to the planet’s Federation administrative center. Her heart was pounding in her chest, but she wasn’t sure why. She doubted that any of her irmãs were around to see her; the Commando Meninas’ territory was broad, but they normally left the District alone.

  More than a few of the oh-so-proper suits walking about their business in the plaza eyed her, disapproval turning down the corners of their mouths, but Liege let it slide off her back. She’d long ago built up an immunity to the disdain of positioned society—not that she had much contact with them. Except for the do-gooders who built their small oases in the favelas, suits stayed in suitland and left the favelas to the gangrats, the addicts, and the impoverished who tried to eke out a living.

  Liege angled off to the Munchen Building where most of the second-tier Federation offices were located. There was a queue at security, and she joined it at the rear, patiently awaiting her turn.

  Most of the people in front of her were suits, but there were a few drudges sprinkled among them. No other gangrats; not that Liege expected any. Screening was fairly quick—until Liege was up. She dumped her PA in the tray, then as the screening uniform looked with frank distaste, she pulled her cheek-stick out, brandishing the 12-centimeter chromalloy spike with a flourish before adding it to the tray.

  “Female search!” he called out. “Ma’am, please step through the scanner, then stand on the yellow platform.”

  I bet it kills him to call me “ma’am, Liege thought, trying to keep back the smile that threatened to blossom over her face.

  Liege stepped through the scanner and dutifully stood on the yellow circle to which a female uniform was pointing. She raised her arms as ordered, then stood stoically while getting patted down.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” the uniform said, pointing back to where her tray waited.

  Her PA was there, but the cheek-stick was missing. Another uniform handed her a plastic disc on which was printed the number “202.”

  “You can pick your. . .the spike thing when you leave,” he said.

  Liege didn’t argue. The cheek-stick was in fact more than a fashion statement. It could be an effective weapon in the right hands, and they were somewhat of a trademark of the Commando Meninas, the most powerful female gang on the planet.

  She looked up at the directory to get her bearings. Room 1015 was off to her right, so trying to look as if she weren’t out of place, she strode off with far more confidence than she suddenly felt. It had seemed like such a good idea when she’d discussed it with Leticia, but now, as she walked down the granite-clad hallway, she was having second thoughts. What was she, a daughter of the favelas, a gangrat, doing here? What kind of reception did she expect?

  When she’d made her appointment, it had seemed so easy. She hand’t had to give her real name, so there was no screening. She was merely taking advantage of the rights of every citizen. But getting an appointment was not the same as getting accepted. She took a quick glance at her colors.

  Maybe I should have listened to Leticia, she thought. I could have brought something more, well, drudge to change into. Too late now, I guess.

  She stepped in front of the glass doors to Room 1015, took a deep breath, and then pushed the doors open and strode in as if she belonged. Avó always told her to act like she owned the world. The thought of her grandfather made her pause, and she had to quickly brush away the small tear that had started to flow from the corner of her right eye.

  One of the uniforms, a Marine, she thought he must have been, was walking by, and he asked, “May I help you?”

  “I’m 34377,” she said, having memorized her registration number. “I’m here for my 10:30 appointment.”

  Liege thought she saw the tiniest bit of relief in his eyes as he said, “OK, you’re not mine. Navy or FCDC?”

  “Navy.”

  “Down the passage, first door on your right,” he said, pointing past the reception kiosk and down the hallway.

  Liege thanked him and followed his instructions to the designated door. “Navy Recruiting” was written on the clear material of the door, so she knew it was the right place.

  She waved the sensor to open it, and entered what looked to be an anteroom. Three men and two women were sitting on hard plastic seats. All looked up eagerly when she entered, but when they saw she wasn’t a uniform, they went back to their conversations. One of the men, though, lingered his eyes on the long expanse of thigh visible between her knee-highs and the bottom edge of her mini. Somehow that calmed her churning emotions. They might be drudges or even suits, and they certainly considered themselves several rungs higher than gangrats, but human nature was human nature. She knew how to handle hormone-filled young men, and the fact that his eyes lingered helped her realize that they were all the same. Some might have been born with greater advantages, but people were just people when all was said and done.

  “You here for an interview?” one of the women asked her.

  No, I’m here to run the floor vac.

  “Yes, I’ve got a 10:30 appointment.”

  “Hah! Be prepared to wait. Mine’s at 9:30.”

  Liege checked the time: 10:15. She sighed and settled in for a long wait.

  Liege sat in silence for five minutes before the girl with the 9:30 appointment tentatively leaned over and said, “I love your mini. It’s preme. Where’d you get it? Ferrone’s?”

  Ferrone’s? Liege thought. Yeah, like I’m going to that hiso boutique.

  She looked at the young woman, who was still eagerly awaiting her answer. Liege knew that if she shopped at Ferrone’s, the woman was definitely a suit. She knew the type—rich suits who wanted to appear uber-copacetic by accepting all classes as equals. Maybe the girl was serious or maybe she was just trying to project an image.

  Liege was tempted to tell her to get spiked, but she figured they might be under surveillance, so she said, “No, at Jaya’s,” instead.

  “Oh, Jayas? I’ve heard of that. It’s pretty exclusive, huh?”

  Jaya was Bird’s aunt, and she made clothes for their sept. This suit had never heard of Jaya, so that was utter BS. But Liege guessed as there were only eight girls in the sept, it was pretty exclusive.

  “Yes,” she said, concentrating to avoid her gangrat patois, “it is exclusive at that.”

  “Oh really? You’ve got to get me an appointment. I’m Evangeline,” she said, holding out a hand.

  Liege was saved from having to shake it when Evangeline was called for her appointment.

  “I’ll talk with you after the interview,” the girl said as she followed the uniform back into the inner offices.

  Liege looked around at the others. None were paying her any attention, so she just settled back to wait.

  Yes, it is exclusive at that, she repeated in her mind. Does that sound too hiso?

  Liege could shift from the creole spoken in the favelas to the Commando Meninas’ code-talk to proper Standard without a problem, but she knew if she went into her interview with a snooty super-hiso accent, that would scream fake, and that wouldn’t stand her any good. She just needed to speak Standard like any drudge.

  She was still silently practicing phrasing and tempo when another uniform opened the door and said, “34377, you’re up.”

  He was looking at the only other girl in the reception area, and when Liege stood up, he seemed surprised. The uniform tried to keep a neutral expressi
on on his face, but Liege caught the slight tightening around the eyes that was a true sign of his disdain.

  Liege caught the reflection of herself on the plastiglass as she walked forward, hand out to shake. Her white broganboots were not elegant, but they were weapons when it got down to hand-to-hand. Her pink knee-highs reached to just above her knees, and well above that, her purple mini sparkled as the lights caught the embedded micro-crystals. The tight fitting purple and pink rib-top hugged her form, the vivid colors screaming for attention. With her cheek-spike gone, the next, and perhaps most obvious banner of her existence as a gangrat was the half-brush. The right side of her scalp was depilated close, the skin painted with purple and pink lightening bolts. The hair on the left side of her head, died in fluorescent pink, stuck straight out.

  I look cute, she thought, even knowing that her appearance labeled her as a gangrat.

  She knew her sister had been right; she should have changed. But she was a gangrat, and she couldn’t hide it. Maybe it was better to go in proud than to try and be something that she wasn’t.

  It wasn’t as if the detritus of Federation didn’t join the military or FCDC—especially the FCDC. But the Federation recruiters were selective, and someone like her had to convince them that he or she could adjust and leave that kind of lowso life behind.

  “I’m Petty Officer Russell,” the uniform said after Liege followed him into a small office. “And you are?”

  “Liege Neves,” she said, handing over her ID.

  He did a quick scan and studied the results.

  “OK, I see you’ve finished secondary. Good for that, at least,” he said, more to himself than to her.

  Liege wanted to stand up and throat punch the guy and his condescending attitude. Most favela kids finished secondary, even if their options after schooling were limited. But of course, the reputation of the favelas was that of a lawless anarchy.

  He closed his PA, then asked, “So why do you want to join the Navy?”

  “To serve the Federation, sir,” she immediately replied.

  That was a complete lie, of course. Deep in the favelas, there wasn’t much loyalty to the Federation. It wasn’t a hotbed of rebellion, either. It was just that it didn’t impact most of them.

  Liege was joining the Navy for one reason only. She had to get out of the favelas, and bring Leticia and her Avó with her. His brain was deteriorating by the day, and there was not much they could do about it with Universal Health. All the med-techs did was to sedate him as he sunk into oblivion. The only way he could get real care would be as her dependent and with her in the service.

  That was her prime motive, but it wasn’t the only one. Liege might look like a stalwart warrior for the Commando Meninas, but frankly, she was a gangrat for protection, only. Being a gangrat kept the hollow-heads and freaks away from their apartment, and it kept a brother gangrat from claiming her as chattel. But Liege wanted more in life; she might exhibit disdain for the drudges, but she’d love to elevate herself to that level. She’d love to visit the galaxy, to see how others lived. She was claustrophobic in the favelas, and she had to get out of them and experience life. Joining the Navy was an escape.

  If all she wanted was health care for Avó, she could join the FCDC, the haven for people like her. But in the FCDC, she could easily be assigned to Nova Esperança, and even as a trooper, the Commando Meninas could reach out and touch her—or her family—for forsaking the gang. No, if she was going to renounce her colors, she had to get off-planet, and that meant the Navy.

  She gave pat answers to the uniform; just as his questions were obviously rote. Liege doubted that he had any hopes for her, but as a citizen, she was afforded this opportunity, and he had to play the game.

  When he got to the end, he paused for a moment, then Liege thought that for the first time, she saw the real person when he said, “You know, Miss, I applaud you for volunteering, but you must know that your chances are pretty slim. I think you’d have a much better chance with the FCDC, and I could go talk with them. FCDC pay is the same as the Navy’s, and so if you’re looking for a, well, better life, you can really make a change for yourself.”

  She knew he was being earnest, but Liege felt a spark of anger.

  He doesn’t know shit about me, and he thinks I’m not good enough?

  Liege didn’t have a hair-trigger temper. She rarely got angry, but she felt the need to act out—which would be the worst thing she could do. She’d be refused enlistment on psychological grounds.

  So she swallowed her pride and said, “Thank you, sir, but I really want to be in the Navy. So if you please, I’d like to proceed.”

  The uniform’s eyes slightly darkened, and he gave a shrug.

  “It’s your choice, Miss Neves. Well, let’s do your screening. This is the first test. You must reach our minimums to proceed with the process. Not reaching the minimum scores will result in a failure and stop the enlistment process. Should you fail, you may re-take the test after 30 days have elapsed, but no more than 180 days. After 180 days, your rejection will become permanent.

  “So, do you have any questions?”

  “No, sir.”

  Liege followed the uniform out of his tiny office and down past all the other equally tiny offices to a secured door.

  “Please scan yourself,” he said.

  Liege leaned forward to get her right eye scanned. She didn’t have a record, as far as she knew, but she still felt apprehensive as the red light momentarily flared in her eye. There were rumors that the government knew more about its citizens than it let on, and Liege was in a gang, after all. But there were no warning sirens, no FCDC police rushing to ziptie her hands behind her.

  “Please state your name and citizen number,” the pleasant voice of the security scanner asked.

  “Liege Anna Neves, NE38559453,” she stated.

  “Confirmed. Good luck with your application,” the voice said again.

  Liege had to smile. Programming the scanner to wish applicants good luck was a nice touch.

  Her uniform lifted a card to the lock, and with a whisper, the door opened. Directly inside, a middle-aged lady looked up.

  “Who do you have, Terry?” she asked the uniform.

  “Liege Anna Neves, NE38559453,” he said. “Initial screening.”

  The woman looked at her display, tapped on the keyboard, then said, “OK, I’ve got her now. See you in two.”

  The uniform left, leaving Liege alone with the woman.

  “My name is Darby Kim. I’ll be your proctor for the exam. The exam itself is in four parts, each in 30-minute modules. If you finish any module before the allotted 30 minutes, you will not be able to proceed to the next one until the full 30 minutes have expired.

  “You will be locked in one of the cubicles. If you have a problem, you can reach me by hitting the green button on the wall. I cannot answer any questions, but I can render a decision on technical glitches.”

  Liege knew the woman must have recited the rules thousands of time. Her tone had that repetitive sound to it.

  “If you need to use the restroom, I will escort you to it, but I must warn you that you will not be allotted any more time. So if you think you’re going to need it, I suggest you use it now.”

  Liege started to say no, she didn’t need it, but she wondered if this was some sort of test as well, to see if she was the type to prepare herself. Even if it weren’t some sort of convoluted test, it would be a pretty good idea, so she said she would.

  As soon as Liege returned, the woman continued as if she had never been interrupted, “If there is an emergency, the right light will flash and you may leave the cubicle. Leaving for any other reason will terminate your test and count as a failure.

  “If you have a PA, please leave it with me. We do have block-checks in the cubicles, so if you take a PA inside, it will be fried.”

  Liege quickly took her PA out of her side pocket and handed it over. The woman put it in simple open drawer with T-00
3 printed on it.

  “The test itself is self-explanatory. So with that said, do you have any questions for me?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “OK, then, follow me, please.”

  The woman led Liege to the back of the room where doors to cubicles lined the wall. She stopped at one with T-003 printed over the door.

  “This is your cubicle. Your test will begin one minute after I close the door.”

  She held one hand out, indicating that Liege should enter.

  “Good luck, Miss Neves,” she said as Liege brushed past her to enter her cubicle.

  “Thank you,” she said, looking up to catch the proctor’s eye.

  The woman had a smile on her face, and Liege realized that the woman had never given her the evil eye or the look of disdain that drudges and suits gave her kind. Either she was so inured to the thousands and thousands of applicants wanting government jobs who must have passed through her testing center or she really didn’t care about Liege’s background. Liege hoped it was the latter.

  She took a seat in the small space as the door closed behind her. She took a deep breath as the display in front of her started counting down her minute. As it reached zero, the display switched to a new screen with the heading “Primary Skills Level Test.”

  Come on, Liege! Get it done!

  ***************

  Two hours later, the display died, and after another minute, the door whooshed open.

  “You’re all done, Miss Neves,” the proctor said as she looked at some sort of readout screen.

  Liege was drained. The four tests were much more difficult than she’d expected. She’d been a good student, but she also realized that the schools in the favelas did not have the same resources as those in suitland or even drudgeland. She’d been so confident that the testing would be a breeze; now, she was not so sure.

  “Uh, can I ask how I did?”

  “Petty Officer Russell will do that. I’m just a proctor here.”

  Liege knew she had to be looking at her scores, so if the proctor didn’t want to tell her, they must be bad, she reasoned. If they were good, then Liege thought the woman would be more than happy to tell her that.