Dawn of the Mad

by Brandon Huckabay

  Roman stood up and walked to the mirror, knowing quite well someone was on the other side. “Very well, I will tell you. My planet is quite advanced. We have a massive space fleet of star destroyers. If by chance you managed to get through that, we have armies of robots as well as vampires, and we can raise the dead as well.”

  A robed figure stood in the shadows in the next room, looking through the one-way mirror at Roman. He spoke to two uniformed men also watching the interrogation. They listened as Roman continued to spin tales about Klingons and an orbiting battle station called the Death Star.

  “He is lying,” the robed figure commented dryly.

  “Of course he is. He does not have the knowledge you seek.”

  The robed figure replied, “Yes, I have read your report that is in the archive. I am still quite curious as to the extent of your relationship to Mr. Roman while you were on planet X713 Delta. I sense your report is lacking … something, Sergeant Matthias.”

  Matthias stepped forward, putting his face close to that of the robed figure. “That’s Command Sergeant Matthias, if you don’t mind; I think I’ve earned it. I disclosed everything that went on while on X713 Delta. The others spoke the truth as well. Our faith in the supreme chancellor is unwavering, as is evidenced by our service to him!” The second uniformed man put a hand on Matthias’s shoulder to hold him back. Matthias relaxed a little, and continued. “At any rate, Roman was an insignificant policeman on a primitive planet. He knew nothing when he was brought here a year ago, and he still knows nothing. He is a good man, and I will stand by that. If his girlfriend is indeed a member of a terrorist cell, I am convinced he has no knowledge of that.”

  The robed figure stepped backward, into the light, and hissed at Matthias, “I am not concerned about his friends! The invasion of X713 Delta has been ordered, and given that, Roman is now an enemy of the state and of the people. I would watch what I say when talking about him, if I were you. I know you and your friends were corrupted and seduced by temptation on X713 Delta, and if that has clouded your judgment, I will make you pay with your life.” The robed figure exited the room, his long robes billowing around him.

  Matthias called out after the robed figure, “What about Roman?”

  The robed figure stopped and turned around. “Once he tells the truth and is fully interrogated by my Auger-Seers, send him to the ore mines. His brain will be liquefied anyways. It makes no difference to me what happens to him. His citizenship is hereby revoked.” He turned and continued walking away. The other uniformed man stepped into the light and stood next to Matthias.

  “What do we do now?”

  Matthias turned and faced the two-way mirror, in which Roman could now be heard describing firebases on Mars and Uranus in great detail.

  “My friend, I don’t know. I didn’t think this would happen. We must get Roman off our planet, the seers will lobotomize him. These shadow guys are everywhere now, watching everything we do.” He turned around and faced Scotts and said, “Go find Cruwell. He will know what to do. And be quiet about it. The ISSB is everywhere. ”

  CHAPTER 36

  “Roman, get up,” the guard said from outside Roman’s cell. “You have a visitor.” The guard opened the cell door with his passkey and activated the overhead lights, illuminating the sparsely furnished cell. The heavy door slid open silently. Roman threw his blanket off and sat up on his bunk. He rubbed his face with his hands and looked up. A look of recognition instantly washed over his bearded face.

  “Sebastian. What are you doing here? I thought you had forgotten about me, along with everyone else.”

  Sebastian Cruwell walked into the cell, and the door slid closed behind him. He wore his major’s uniform of the ISSB, indicating that this probably was an official visit of some sort. Roman couldn’t help but notice that his calf boots held a shine so bright he could probably shave off of them. He also noticed that Cruwell wore a pistol.

  “I heard that you had been arrested. You have to believe me; I knew nothing about it, although I sensed it would happen in time.”

  Roman said nothing. A thought of being executed by his old friend rushed into his mind quite unexpectedly.

  Cruwell continued, “A lot has been going on in the few weeks you have been imprisoned. The supreme chancellor is surrounded by robed seers now. I think they just didn’t know what to do with you; they aren’t yet mass murdering undesirables. I think the supreme chancellor still wishes to be popular among the people, and executions rarely help in that regard.”

  “What do you mean they didn’t know what to do with me?” Roman stood up and reached for his synthetics cigarettes. “I suppose I should feel lucky. I still haven’t been tortured or anything, which is a plus.” He was wearing only his boxer underwear, and after he stood up, he brushed his testicles off of his sweaty leg. What Cruwell said kind of made sense. He had been in this humid, barren cell for just more than three weeks, and no one had offered any explanations. He was fed regularly and was allowed his synthetics (which he kept meaning to quit smoking, but he hadn’t quite gotten around to that yet), but that was the extent of his contacts with his jailers.

  “Well, I have secured your release,” Cruwell said. “You have two options. Your official release has assigned you to an off-world mining facility reserved for political prisoners.”

  Roman took a drag off of the synthetic cigarette. He had gotten a little more used to them over time, and there just wasn’t much else to do.

  “What’s the unofficial release?”

  Cruwell walked toward the cell door, and knocked twice. The jailer opened the door. Cruwell stepped out of the cell and returned, holding two large duffel bags. He dropped them both on the floor of the cell.

  “Option two may not be any better, but at least you would be free.”

  “Go on,” Roman said.

  “I have secured your transfer into a penal battalion that is going to your planet, Earth. You could join the fighting, or perhaps you could escape, if you desired.”

  Roman put out the cigarette in an ashtray almost filled to capacity. “So you did invade my planet after all?” He wasn’t surprised.

  “It will happen. The invasion is currently being planned.”

  “I’m in. If it gets me away from here, I’ll go.”

  Cruwell walked out through the open door. “Get dressed. You’ll be taken to your unit by an assistant of mine in exactly one hour. Good luck, Johnny.”

  As the jailer moved to close the cell door, Roman called out, “Wait. There’s one more thing.”

  Cruwell stopped and turned around.

  “What about Natasha?” Roman asked.

  Cruwell shook his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t know. I think she may have gone underground. I’ll try to find out what I can.” He paused as if to say something more but he caught himself. He quickly changed the subject and said, “I have your cat now. He’s an interesting creature. I’ll give him a good home.” Cruwell left abruptly, leaving Roman to stare blankly at the two duffel bags.

  CHAPTER 37

  Roman stood among a large group of other prisoners who, like himself, recently had been reassigned to this penal battalion. The penal battalion consisted of three companies, and Roman found himself assigned to the first company. Everyone had two large duffel bags, seemingly identical to the ones Roman had recently acquired, and they talked loudly among themselves. They were assembled in a large hangar, mostly empty except for the men and their bags of gear. They each wore an orange jumpsuit with a large white letter “P” hastily marked on the back. Roman made his way to one side of the hangar and casually leaned against a large support column as he smoked a synthetic cigarette, observing his surroundings. It didn’t take long to find out who was in charge.

  “Fall in!” A loud, booming voice echoed throughout the hangar. The assembled group looked for the source of the voice, quieting only slightly, earlier conversations changing mostly to questions to each other about what was happening. Six smartly unifo
rmed men walked down the massive granite steps that led from the main entrance to the hangar itself. The group of six halted just in front of the group. Five of the men wore purple berets. The sixth, a youthful man wearing a yellow beret, took a step forward from his companions. Roman eyed him closely and spotted the rank of infantry assault captain, also noting numerous medals and badges on the breast of his uniform. What stood out most was that the captain had only one good arm, the other was bionic. There was no synthetic skin covering the metallic appendage. Roman also noticed that he carried two unusual canisters hanging off of his belt.

  The captain strode across the front line of the group, his one hand fingering the top of one of the canisters on his belt. As he got closer to Roman, his heavily scarred face was revealed in clearer light.

  “What a miracle of modern science,” Roman muttered to himself.

  The captain stopped abruptly and spoke in a low, raspy voice that somehow projected across the entire hangar. “For the next four weeks, I will be your senior training officer. You will be divided into two platoons and you will be trained by my veteran staff.” As the captain spoke, several in the group made obscene hand gestures in his direction; others continued to ignore him, still engrossed in their own conversations. The captain continued seemingly unaware of the disrespect being shown toward him. “Your training begins now.” He casually withdrew from his belt the canister he had been fingering and pushed a plunger at its top. It began to hiss and emit a red vapor.

  Roman immediately opened one of his duffel bags and withdrew his canteen. He unzipped his overalls and removed his white T-shirt. He quickly soaked the T-shirt with water from his canteen, and covered his nose and mouth with it. The captain tossed the vapor canister into the center of the group. Within seconds, the group was enveloped in the red vapor. The men began to cough and gag. Roman’s eyes watered, but other than that, his crude air filter protected him. He remembered the same dirty trick pulled on him as an Army recruit at Fort McClellan, way back in the day. Back then, he had had no warning and no experience, and he succumbed to the gas.

  Some of the group tried to break for the exit, but the five men in purple berets guarded it. Whoever got close to them got a vicious shot from a shock baton. The captain and his men seemed unaffected by the red vapor; Roman wondered if they had bionic lungs. Within five minutes, most of the group lay on the ground in a fetal position or were contorted in pain from strikes from a shock baton. They all had tears and snot streaming down their faces. The captain began fingering the second canister on his belt, as if he were going to toss that as well.

  “Now that I have your full attention, I will continue. You experienced a training gas grenade. Judging by the way you acted, you won’t live very long in a hostile environment.” He took off his beret and wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. His hair was close cut and parted to the side. He continued, “You will be assigned numbers, and from here on out, you will not use your names. You will address the staff by their ranks. You have no rank and will receive no pay. You are here because the government has deemed you worthy enough to repay your debt to society by serving in the supreme chancellor’s penal battalion. If you survive your term of service, you will receive a full pardon.” The captain replaced his beret smartly. “It is fortunate that your government wishes to train you at all.” He turned and addressed one of the other men. “Senior Corporal.”

  The large, muscular man stepped forward. His rolled up sleeves barely contained his massive arms. The senior corporal saluted the captain.

  “Assign the platoons,” the captain told him, “and get with Assault

  Sergeant Rimanek. She should be arriving shortly to take command of the

  1st platoon.” The captain turned around and exited the hangar, leaving the other five men behind. The senior corporal gave orders to the other four men, and all five began shouting at the penal battalion recruits. This time, they all listened.

  “Get up! Get off of your asses and recover your gear! Fall in four ranks. Let’s go!”

  With a bit of confusion, the group organized into four ranks, each one a duffel bag in each hand. Those who moved slowly received a shock baton strike to the back of a leg.

  “You have got to be shitting me,” Roman muttered to himself. “Maybe I should have slaved in the mines after all.” Shaking his head, he picked up his duffel bags and fell in with the rest of the men.

  Roman dropped his duffel bags as he found himself in the first rank of the four that formed up. Two corporals walked down the front of the first rank, one carrying a data pad and the other a can of spray paint.

  “Name?”

  Roman faced the corporal, his hands firmly in his pockets.

  “Roman.” He casually removed a synthetic from his overalls and put it between his lips. He refrained from lighting it and thrust his hands back in his pockets. The corporal took no apparent notice and surveyed his data pad intently.

  “Political detainee. Low risk. Assigned 1st Platoon.” The corporal looked up from his data pad. “Your number is 769. Don’t forget it.” The corporal moved on to the next man. The other corporal crudely sprayed the number 769 on each of Roman’s duffel bags.

  “Turn around.”

  “Wha–?”

  The corporal grabbed Roman roughly by the collar and spun around, and sprayed the number 765 on Roman’s back, just above the letter “P.” He spun him around again and did the same across his chest.

  The pair of corporals walked up and down the formed ranks until the last of the men had been identified and numbered. They returned to the front of the assembled group. The one with the data pad addressed the men.

  “All of you assigned to 1st platoon, fall out and reform to the left.”

  About half of the line fell out and reformed. Roman silently wondered if the other group that remained was considered “low risk” as well, or how the men had been divided. He was again near the front of the line of the newly formed 1st platoon, a position he knew from past experience often led to bad results.

  A group of five soldiers made its way into the hangar and stood surrounding Roman’s platoon. Another group of five soldiers marched the other platoon out of the hangar. A tall female (or what was left of her, Roman mused) took the lead. The sleeves on her tight, form-fitting uniform were rolled up, exposing scarred, muscular arms. Her left wrist was bionic, and she made no attempt to hide it. Roman looked up into her eyes and shuddered for a split second. The left side of her face showed heavy burn scars, and she wore an eye patch over her left eye as well. Like the others members of the formal military that she accompanied to the hangar, her uniform displayed numerous medals. She wore a yellow beret, which Roman surmised indicated leadership status among a group, and three inverted chevrons on her shoulder indicating the rank of assault sergeant.

  “Damn, that’s a tough looking bitch.” Roman thought he had used his inner voice, but apparently he had not, as his new sergeant removed a small whip from her belt and hit him squarely across his chest. The whip seemed to have an electric charge, and the blow knocked him off his feet. He lay on the concrete for a few seconds, until his neighbors lifted him up slowly. “Must have a bionic ear as well,” he muttered to himself under his breath.

  The whip left a neat tear in his overalls and an inch-long scratch that cauterized itself on impact. He stared his new sergeant face to face.

  “Insubordination will not be tolerated, 769.” Roman’s olfactory senses detected the faint aroma of something resembling gun oil and rubbing alcohol. The sergeant moved closer, so that their faces were only inches apart. She was about a half an inch taller than he. She looked him up and down, and spoke softly, “Back in line, 769.” Roman shook off his helping neighbors and straightened his collar. He tried his best to match her piercing gaze. As she turned away, he swore he saw a faint smile break across her dry, cracked lips.

  “Fall out for chow,” the sergeant ordered. She left the hangar as the other members of her cadre removed their shoc
k batons from their belts and began herding the group out of the hangar toward the mess hall.

  CHAPTER 38

  “You really need to watch what you say, you know,” Roman heard a high- pitched, whiny voice say from his right side as he stood in the chow line. He turned his head to identify the speaker, a thin, bespectacled man about five feet, six inches in height, sporting a pencil-thin moustache. Roman eyed him curiously.

  “Thanks for the advice, but I think I can handle myself,” Roman said in a clipped tone.

  The thin, balding man offered Roman his hand, unaware that Roman perceived his overtures as annoying rather than friendly. “I’m Petor. I was an engineer at the university before I was arrested.” The thin man retracted his unshaken hand as he and Roman reached the serving counter. Following Roman’s lead, Petor picked up a plastic tray and plate. The greasy cook on the other side of the counter unenthusiastically spooned something resembling Silly Putty onto both of their trays. The men in the chow line, with the exception of Petor, talked amongst themselves in low, guarded whispers, despite the fact that the corporals overseeing them appeared far more concerned with the display on a large video screen mounted on the far wall than with what the prisoners were doing.

  “I was in a camp, you know,” Petor continued. “They called it a re- education facility.” He nodded at the greasy cook, whose gaze remained on the pan of Silly Putty as he spooned it out.

  Petor continued, “You should never use first names, or they will get you with those nasty batons. My number is 711. My guess is they want to dehumanize you or something, take away your individuality.”

  They reached the end of the serving line. Roman took his tray and abruptly walked away, heading to an unoccupied table set against the wall. Petor followed spiritedly and sat down across the table from Roman, who buried his head in his hands upon seeing Petor sit down. Petor continued talking, using a tone a father might use when his telling his teenage son the ins and outs of dating girls for the first time.