Welcome to the Marines (Corporate Marines Book 2)

by Tom Germann

  The trial carried on and I was in a constant funk living in my grey world.

  I knew they would find me guilty of the murders. I was guilty.

  I just wanted the circus to be over and to be locked away or sent off to one of the Sol system colonies that were starting up to work off my sentence.

  But the trial carried on, day after day, week after week, and into the months.

  FIRST EVALUATION

  There is a small office in one of the large bureaucratic office structures downtown. The walls are plain with no clutter. There is a small desk with nothing on it to humanize it. It holds a triple flat screen setup with VR keyboard. The backing on the screens is a dull blue. The occupant is sitting on a cheap roller chair behind the desk working when there is a knock at the door. After a three count the door opens and another government drone wearing a two-piece suit that screams “government issue” walks in with a paper file folder in hand. The occupant does not ask the intruder to sit; he simply looks up. The government employee places the file on the desk in the centre. There are two pieces of paper on the front relating to the man that the file relates to. The first is a picture of a young man in a prison jumpsuit. The second is a paper printout of a news article with the headline, “MASS MURDERER TO BE SENTENCED! THROW THE BOOK AT HIM!”

  The occupant stops what he is working on and glances at the file on the desk. His expression never changes.

  When he talks, it is like this room: empty of all emotion. “Why are you bringing this file to my attention?”

  “Mr. Smith, since you came to this office you have been asking for us to drop everything if any files come across for processing that meet the established standard. This one does.” The government employee nods at the file.

  Mr. Smith does not touch the file. He just looks at the other man. “This file is for a criminal that is a murderer and, in fact, if he kills a few more, will fit the description of a mass murderer. Why would he be a suitable candidate? We tend to prefer stable individuals who will not slaughter their teammates when they’re having a bad day and the voices in their head tell them to do so.” He sits back in his chair looking at the government man and asks again, “So why are you bringing this file to me?”

  The government man looks at Mr. Smith. “As per regulations, he was tested thoroughly during his in-processing before the trial started. He is a 97 percent match to established criteria for recruiting. While you think he is guilty like the media wants you to think, the reality is that a great deal of information has been withheld from everyone.”

  Mr. Smith nods. “Of course it has; this is almost standard today. Yet he still killed several people and I question whether someone who can so clearly break the rules is a good match for this program.”

  The government drone continued his argument. “He meets the criteria you and the Corporation set, and here is the file. The reason that he is an even better match as far as I can tell is the reasons he did what he did and how he did that. Everything is in the file. He is likely a perfect candidate for the training. We would take him if there were openings in any of our projects, but there aren’t.”

  Mr. Smith leans forward, flips the folder open and starts scanning the hard copy there. Scan a page and flip, scan and flip. This continues for just a minute, then he leans back again and looks at the government man with a gleam in his eye. “The problem is still that we are short of candidates that can pass training. Any test that can hopefully measure success of a potential candidate cannot guarantee anything. There is no statistical way to tell who will pass and who will wash out toward the end.”

  He pauses and looks blankly off into the distance while he communicates with his implants.

  He comes back in just a second and continues the conversation as if there had been no real break. “I am well aware of that fact. The Corporation would love to fine-tune the process and save some of those hundreds of millions of dollars that are wasted every cycle on training washouts.” He pauses and looks the government man in the eye. “That is the sole reason that I have an office here, as my counterparts do in other centres. Anything we can learn that will cut down on the wastage is something we need to learn, and fast.”

  Again Smith pauses and looks down at the paper file. The man in the prison shot is wearing a blank expressionless look that is so empty, no one could possibly evaluate it. This hopeless look could mask an innocent man, or a cold-blooded socio path.

  “So why is this one so important again?”

  The government man smiled humourlessly. “Every single test puts him in as a pass.”

  Smith looks up. Again, no expression colors his voice. “We have had candidates pass every test before and wash out.” That flat statement is a dismissal of the government evaluation of the potential new recruit.

  The government man takes a different tack. “Mr. Smith, you know my name is Blake, yet you never use it. Why?”

  “You are the only person in the room. Why do I need to use your name?”

  Blake answers. “Yet you don’t use it while social norms would indicate that you should regularly use my name to establish a human contact point. To make the interaction between ourselves and our departments smoother. Despite this, you do not, and the interactions always feel forced, which means that we may not be as efficient as we could be. Do you understand?”

  Mr. Smith considers for a minute and then nods agreement. “What is your point?”

  Blake looks at him and asks, “What I am saying is, you are missing elements that cannot be effectively quantified on a one-to-ten scale or by a basic write-up, which is what these reports are giving.”

  Mr. Smith speaks with a slightly irritated tone. “How is this relevant?”

  Blake takes the hint and speeds up. “In this case, the specific situation gives the potential candidate something the others did not have.”

  Mr. Smith does not even glance at the folder as he talks to Blake. “I am aware of the case, given its coverage, and I see nothing to mark it as special aside from the fact that the accused is likely a psychopath with assorted mental disorders. While that can be a good thing overall for this, I do not see how you think that he would have an increased chance of success.”

  “A good deal of information was withheld from the public and has been ignored as irrelevant to the black-and-white case that everyone is looking at.” Blake pauses. “This candidate has something that our military personnel have pointed out may be something of a factor. He has an overwhelming sense of duty.”

  “I was aware of that information, at least in passing. However, he seems to have less of a sense of honour which should go with that. If he had those things, would he not have contacted the local authorities and brought them in? There was sufficient evidence there for an arrest.”

  Blake looks at Mr. Smith. “He was from the Projects. He’s not going to trust the authorities. He trusted in his small family unit and that worked and he had proof that his father was correct and the school authorities lied regarding food and how the students were treated with ‘special ed’ classes. He rightly felt that they were not going to look out for his or his siblings’ best interests. Why should he trust them to do the right thing regarding the death of his family?”

  Mr. Smith nods in agreement. “Very well; I will consider him and recommend additional testing to see if he does have the potential. A decision can be made after that information is gathered.”

  He turns back to his desk and activates the screens with a thought through his implants, and begins to work quickly on the old-fashioned keyboard.

  Blake pauses as he heads out the door. “Do you mind if I ask you a question, Mr. Smith?”

  Mr. Smith stops the typing and looks up without removing his fingers from the keyboard. “You just did. I take it you want to ask another one. Go ahead; I just love fielding basic questions when I need to be focussed on work. What is it?”

&
nbsp; “You must have a full top-of-the-line implant set.”

  Mr. Smith looks at Blake with no expression at all. “Yes I do, and what is your question?”

  Blake frowns at Mr. Smith. “So why do you use the screens? You could sit in a closet and go full sim and never have to worry about anything. Yet, you sit in this office every day, no windows, and use an old obsolete system. Why?”

  “I like seeing the data at a distance. It allows me to process it differently and I have seen things that otherwise I would have missed. Implants give you all the information up front but you cannot always see what you need. Was there anything else?”

  “No, Mr. Smith; have a good day.”

  Mr. Smith ignores the statement and bends back to work, making arrangements and changing lives with a series of keystrokes.

  Each keystroke sends information across the net and changes other lesser computers’ information, overriding the decision-making tree of the legal department and instead putting in decisions made by others.

  Justice is ignored. The Corporation is all.

  THE INTERVIEW

  I am in the little holding area down from the court and I am waiting with my two keepers. I am chained down to a seat and waiting to be called, which is going to happen shortly. I know what the verdict is going to be and I don’t like it, but I have accepted it. I just don’t know what the sentence will be.

  Time passes so slowly with no clock or way of telling time; the dull grey concrete block walls don’t help either. There are no screens or other media devices in the room. Those are rewards for good behaviour or are in the common areas of the cell blocks. I don’t go there.

  Suddenly both of my guards get up and head to the door and walk out. They leave me alone. Why?

  They walk out what would the public door, then the door to the hallway direct to the courtroom opens and a man walks in looking like some sort of government worker. I can only stare at him.

  He sits down in the chair opposite me and crosses his legs. He is holding one of those legal folders that are all over the place here. Maybe he is my new court-appointed attorney. The last two quit as the case is bad for them.

  He flips open the folder but doesn’t look at it; he just keeps watching me. “So I take it you know what verdict is going to come back from the jury, correct?”

  I nod in the affirmative as that is all that I can really do anyway. He continues. “The judge in this case has a great deal of pressure on him from the media and the public. You killed four popular teenagers in cold blood. You tortured them and killed them in a horrific way that makes people shudder. There are pictures all over the net.”

  I know; I have seen some of them. They are all the after pictures from when the police arrived. Most of them were from the police. I guess there is no more privacy, even in death.

  He continues reminding me of it all. “Even given what happened to start all this, you are in the wrong. Today, wrong is a sliding scale given how people feel. What happened before? Irrelevant.”

  He closes the folder. “You are screwed.”

  I know that. I figured if I was lucky I would get sent to a mining colony or one of the prisons used for manufacturing armour or doing other menial jobs.

  “However, I have an opportunity for you. The Glentol Corporation is always looking for a few competent people. When you were brought in for processing you were run through some standard tests that are used for profiling and evaluation. You are lucky.”

  I remember the testing and the probing. I just answered the questions through the emptiness that was me. How the hell was I lucky after all this?

  He continues talking and I don’t understand everything he is saying. “The Corporation and local government realize how difficult it is to recruit new people while at the same time filling all the many positions that exist in our solar system. Your test results are good enough for the Corporation to offer you a rare opportunity.”

  I blink at him while I try to figure out what is happening. “You’re offering me a job?”

  He smiles. “Ah, you can talk. In a way, yes, you are being offered a job. If you say yes, then the Corporation owns you for the next ten years. You will still be paid a wage, but you cannot leave. If you do well, then allowances may be made for you at the end of your term. If you do poorly, then you may end up in jail serving out a term.”

  I interrupt him again. “So I work at a desk for ten years, and if I slack off, I just go to jail and do my term anyway?”

  The government man leans toward me. “No. If you work hard and are lucky, you could be employed by the Corporation past that point. If you work but are unlucky and not too worried about doing well, then after your time you could go and serve your term in a cell. If you turn down the opportunity you are being offered, you get up and go to court for sentencing. You face execution. The new standard has now been approved. No hanging or easy injection. Now, it’s a lethal injection that will slowly kill you in anywhere between sixteen to twenty-four hours while you are in the most pain possible. Every moment will be broadcast.”

  My mouth is hanging open. That’s insane. They can’t do that! What about rights?

  He continues. “I know what you are thinking, but too many crimes are being committed. By carrying out the new punishment, this should act as a deterrent for others who would break the law.”

  All I can see is the blood and the horror I found when I came home from work. Where was this punishment when I walked in the front door at home?

  I am in shock. I have been in shock since I walked in the front door that day. I have done horrible things while in shock, but I have to get my shit together or I am dead now. “Okay, so what if I go and don’t succeed but am trying as hard as I can? I’m not the best at schoolwork.”

  His eyebrows lift and I notice he is checking out a watch on his wrist. “As long as you work hard, the corporation will fit you in where you fit best. If you work for it, then you should be good to go. Slack off and you are done. So what do you say?”

  I stare at him, still just blinking. I am not this stupid. I can think and talk, but I have been reacting now for months. I need to start moving again like I have a brain.

  I look at the government employee who has no name and give the only answer I can. “I’ll take that offer.”

  A NEW START

  The nameless government man leaves me in the waiting room and the guards come back in. They unchain me and escort me down the hall to another room. I am still in the prison jumpsuit but the things that I had been carrying when I was picked up are brought to me in a plastic evidence bag.

  The guards stay with me but I am not chained up again. I am still wearing the hand and leg cuffs. But I don’t feel like a chained monster now. The guards have been good all the way through and professional. Never once did I have an “accident” nor did I ever get treated like the scum that I am.

  I don’t know why I feel better, and I don’t care. I am not chained up.

  Life still does not mean anything to me and I keep hearing the voices screaming for me, begging for me to help.

  But for now I am not going to join them and see their fear and hatred because I was not there for them.

  Three large men in suits come into the room. They all look the same to me, with short hair and dark glasses. The man in the lead looks at the guards and says, “Please release him.” The guard comes over and un-cuffs my legs and then my hands.

  I stay sitting and watch the men in the suits. They don’t seem threatening either. No one appears to be threatening me at all; this is not what I expected.

  The first man throws me a package with clothes in it and says, “Put these on quickly; we have to go.” Then he ignores me. He has that look of someone communicating with their implants.

  I get changed quickly. These are not my clothes, as those were soaked and ruined with blood. But these clothes are okay an
d they are all my size. The jeans feel good and the fleece hoodie was always my favourite type. There’s a pair of generic running shoes that fit unlike the prison shoes.

  I even have a generic baseball hat and sunglasses. I put the sunglasses in the pocket of my hoodie and stand up, feeling nervous.

  This isn’t the way it’s supposed to go. They aren’t supposed to tease me like this with my freedom. Just sentence me and send me away or execute me.

  The suits take a minute to talk amongst themselves while I stand there fidgeting. Then they turn to me.

  “We are going to walk out now. You will stay in the middle and not talk or make eye contact. The press is all over the building, so we are going right out the front door. Not wearing the sunglasses is likely a better choice when dealing with the media.” He stops and looks me in the eyes. At least I think he is, as I can’t see him behind the glasses.

  “You are NOT to talk to anyone or say anything to anyone. Do you understand this?”

  I nod yes and keep my mouth shut.

  The guards have been quietly standing there the whole time. At a nod from the leader, one of the guards opens the door and the other guard leads us out. The three suited men form a triangle around me and I hear the door closing and then the last guard’s footsteps behind us as we slowly walk down the cinder-block hallway.

  We come to the end of the hallway and I am used to turning right and heading to one of the small courts. We turn left and, after a few paces, take another left. We come to a steel security door and stop.

  The guard at the rear comes to the front and swipes his hand over the scanner. There is a click and the door opens. Again he holds the door while we move through and then he falls in behind us. We are at the front of the building. That security door opens out onto the front lobby. We are off to the side so I get a chance to see the circus going on out front.