by James Cox
“WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM, WORM?!? MAYBE YOU NEED TO GIVE ME A HUNDRED!!”
Williams waited. And glared. Micah felt like screaming but held himself still. Not so Teague.
“I spoke, sergeant! What the hades am I doing assigned to Hell's Sewer? I have Status, my Father has Status and my family...”
“SHUT! YOUR! MOUTH!!” Impossibly, Williams darkened. “THE COMMONWEALTH DECIDES WHERE YOU GO, WORM AND YOU WILL GO! YOU DON'T LIKE THAT YOU JUST CALL YOUR MOMMY, WORM!”
Williams looked at the unpicked recruits.
“McRiddle! Go fetch me Sergeant Umo and Sergeant Davies. The rest of you worms, DISMISSED!!”
Williams turned to Teague.
“ARRIGHT, SISSY-WORM!! WE'RE GONNA HAVE A TALK NOW!! MOVE! MOVE, MOVE, MOVE...”
***
Micah and the rest hurried to gather their kits. The barracks felt empty but Micah felt emptier. They found a hoverbus waiting. No one spoke.
Despite Williams' words and the Task Orders for the 113th Micah knew Adamson had won. Of all the different Commonwealth service branches the 113th had the highest casualty rate. They took pride in it. Rumor said they didn't count casualties unless the dead soldier took at least one opponent with him on the way out. Micah remembered Carruthers' tale.
“I worked with a squad from the 113th once. Heaven protect me from that again! Those bastards dropped in the middle of a hotzone, right over an enemy position. They shot the hades out of it and started working outward. I doubt half of 'em made it to ground and half the ones that did got hit.” Carruthers shuddered and downed a shot. “One troopie. Couldn't have been more'n thirty meters from our line. Lost his leg to the knee. Sonuvawhore just tied it off, pulled out a smite and took out a bunker. He coulda made it back. He saw us! He saw us and he motioned for cover fire. And he went back in.” Carruthers downed another shot. “The hades of it is they keep gettin' volunteers. No matter how many die...”
A corpsman brought a bruised and bandaged Teague to the hover and tossed his kit in after him. Teague limped heavily to the seat beside Micah. As soon as Micah strapped him in the driver lofted the hover and pulled out.
“It's not right,” muttered Teague, “There has to be a mistake.” He didn't speak loudly but Micah and the rest had no trouble hearing him. “The 113th isn't for us, Micah. It's a dumphole for lowcarders and prollies. There's been a mistake.”
An acid, brittle laugh answered Teague's last statement. Amazingly, it came from Yarwulf.
“What's wrong, highcarder? Soy not cooked right?”
Teague hissed and might have moved toward Yarwulf save for the straps. And bandages.
“Shut up, you slaggie. There's been a flaming mistake. Maybe you don't have anything better to give but I have skills! I placed on their flaming tests! I have Status, dammit!”
Teague looked for support but found none.
“Welcome to life, statusboy,” said Yarwulf, “How's it feel to be on the feces end for once?”
Teague turned to Micah.
“Micah, tell them! They made a mistake! We'll flaming die there. The training's in equatorial. We can't live there!”
Micah suddenly felt like vomiting.
“Tell who what.” asked Micah, “I'm Status 2. My father is Status 2, my mother is Status 2 and my grandfather was one step shy of it when he died.”
Teague gasped as though Micah had punched him.
“I was sentenced to equatorial because three highcarders attacked me and tried to rape a friend,” continued Micah, “It was equatorial or enlist and it cost me my life savings either way. Who am I supposed to tell, Bill?”
“Barred and proscribed,” said Laslo, a laconic miner from the south polar region, “because I refused to work three straight shifts in a pluton mine without antirad treatments.”
“Status 1,” added someone else, “No way out but this.”
One by one most of the others told similar tales. With each one Teague's expression closed a little more.
“No sympathy, statusboy,” said Yarwulf, “You try hard. Real hard. You might just be justice for some of the rest of us.”
The bus fell to silence, with Teague's muttering the only sound.
***
The drivers changed four times. The second and fourth brought stops for rations and a medic for Teague. Micah wondered where they might be, but not enough to ask. Each stop brought a noticeable rise in temperature. By the third stop Micah noticed the air thinning. Caustik bulged tremendously at the equator. That, plus the volcanic nature of it led to very thin air. The volcanoes also tainted the already toxic atmosphere. Hell's Sewer fit the place.
The fourth change of driver also brought a change of vehicle. They left the simple hoverbus for a sealed model. As they left, the driver sealed it tight.
The settling hover roused Micah from a troubled sleep. He didn't remember his dreams, only the gut-wrenching terror of them.
“File out by twos,” said the driver, “and wait for the lock to cycle fully.” Then he smiled.
The lock cycled and Micah and Laslo stepped out.
“TEN-HUT LEFT HACE!”
Micah snapped to attention and turned. A ham of a fist crashed into his chest and he stumbled and fell. Breath became a precious thing.
“ON YOUR FEET, SLUG! YOU BELONG TO THE COMMONWEALTH NOW, MAY LIBERTY REIGN!”
“May liberty reign...” gasped Micah automatically. He struggled to his feet, barely registering the profanity being heaped upon himself and the others.
Micah saw the familiar line and scrambled to it. Then he noticed something worse: all of the recruits stood outside with no respirators. Perhaps his imagination, Micah felt a burning in his lungs. Behind him Micah heard the commands again and a pair of meaty thumps. And again, and again. No doubt now, his eyes burned and his nose started itching. Someone sneezed and rubbed, calling down the wrath of a sergeant upon himself. Finally, thankfully, the lines were complete. The recruits marched past a simple gate and onto a drill field. Micah wanted to cry; the sign above the gate read 'Hell's Sewer.'
Inside the gate the recruits faced a single sergeant flanked by two medics.
“Well, children, welcome to Hell.” The man spoke cheerfully and smiled all the while, slowly walking down the line. “No doubt you have all heard stories of this place.”
At a gesture the medics began drawing and administering hypos.
“Let me hasten to assure you, children, the worst you have heard is nothing close to your best day here. My name is Sergeant Hile and I think we will all be fabulous friends.”
Hile stopped walking, closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“Ahhh... Smell that FINE air, children. And make no mistake, it will KILL you, deader than dirt. It is neither as fast as a blaster nor as painless.”
Micah heard the hiss of the hypos as the medics worked down the line.
“Ironically,” continued Hile, “your lungs will last the longest. Your eyes will probably go first. The chemicals here, you see, react with bodily fluids most unpleasantly. Some will dissolve your flesh. Once in the bloodstream, others will lodge in your liver and kidneys. If you are lucky they will build up as inert deposits. If you are not: caustic compounds.”
From the edge of his vision Micah saw the medic on the front line administer his hypo. The recruit swayed, bent double and began retching loudly and violently. Hile looked kindly toward him.
“Spew it out, son. Get those evil toxins out of your body. You'll feel better for it.”
Micah tensed as the medic pressed the hypo to his neck. It hissed and a cold wave washed through Micah. His stomach quivered once but held its peace. Before long Micah's lungs stopped burning and his copiously-tearing eyes began to feel better.
“The antidote you are receiving,” continued Hile, “will keep your body flushed of toxins. Your daily dose is good for a day, perhaps two. But don't go longer than that, children, or the air will start killing you all over again.
“Your daily schedules
are simple, children. In the morning you will train and you will drill. In the afternoon you will train and you will drill. In the evening you will train and you will drill. At night you may be allowed to sleep, or you may train and drill.”
The medics finished and walked away.
“You will excel, children,” said Hile, “You will come to know the fear and the flame that is the 113th. You will expand yourselves in ways you are sheerly incapable of knowing now. You WILL face and conquer challenges your brains would reject as absurdity, now. Finally, children, you WILL grow into proud soldiers of the 113th! Otherwise... Well, we do not waste antidote on losers.”
Micah felt a chill as Hile's words - and their implication - clashed with the smile on his face. Micah clenched his teeth hard but couldn't stop his rebelling imagination. His stomach twinged once in warning, then bent him over as he vomited. Violently.
***
Micah found morning drill here worse by far. Though the antidote never made him as ill as the first time he still felt it. He never felt his full strength and his stomach always churned. The runs were shorter, at first, but the air was thinner. Breathing too hard tended to outpace the antidote and cause burning throats and excessive thirst. The bellowing sergeants, at least, were something familiar but Hile drilled them as often as not. Then Micah made a discovery. Except for the recruits, all personnel here wore the insigne of the 113th: a stylized spearhead with flames running its length.
The bright spot in Micah's day came with training. All Commonwealth troops received similar basic equipment: uniform, holovisor, hand terminal and skinsuit; but from there the branches diverged. Few Orbital or SDP troopers, 'crunchies' according to Hile, needed training on hovertanks. Ground Assault had little use for astrogation or linkspace theory. Over the course of training the 113th covered all of those and more.
***
Though his days were hellish Micah began to enjoy them. Though rougher by far this training was much like school. Micah marveled at the sheer amount of knowledge he crammed into his brain. He didn't let his amazement stop him from articulating it back, though. The only thing that puzzled him: combat training. While the recruits did train with several varieties of hand weapons, it seemed pale against their non-combat lessons. Micah had learned not to question, though. Teague, friendless now as much by choice as by circumstance, still had trouble with that.
Refreshed from his morning run and calis, Micah lined up with the others outside the mess hall. Medics waited just inside the building. This puzzled Micah. Though he'd had his antidote for the day he held out his arm. The hypo tingled a bit but had no other obvious effects. Talk over the rations concerned the new hypos. Someone near the middle of the table opined, while shoveling in food, that it was a female substitute.
Another surprise awaited them outside the hall. All the drill sergeants lolled about while one of their number issued goggles and rifles. Hile called them to attention.
“Now, children, we begin your real training.”
Ice in Hile's voice? Ridiculous, thought Micah. Imagination! Still... Micah felt a strange quiver of anxiety at the man's words.
“Some of you are, no doubt, wondering what we gave you with breakfast.”
Hile's usual cheer now seemed sinister.
“In brief, children, it is your worst nightmare realized.”
No doubt now! Micah felt a nibble of fear gnawing down his spine.
“It is time for you to enter the fear and the flame. By now you will feel it starting, children. A touch of apprehension, perhaps a bit of dread. Within the next few minutes, though, you will know fear stronger than you have ever known it before. We brew it that way especially for you. Your first assignment is to complete the obstacle course.”
“MOVE!!” shouted one of the others.
Micah jumped, startled totally out of proportion. As they began moving he examined the weapon. It was a paint: a harmless weapon that sent out a pulse of light and a neural jolt meant to tingle and announce a hit.
Then Micah wondered. Some of the weapons looked different. Some looked like real blasters. Then he saw the sergeants under arms. They'd not taken theirs from the racks!
As soon as the obstacle course came into view the sergeants ran ahead. By the time the recruits arrived the others had vanished! Micah looked around nervously. The fear nibbling his spine grew fangs!
“By the numbers, children,” said Hile, “You may return fire.”
The first three recruits had just entered the course when the simulated artillery started.
***
Micah scaled the wall as quickly as he could; totally exposed with no help for it. He hit the other side hard, rolled and came up with his paint aimed. Clouds of dust and smoke hung over the course but the artillery had stopped. For now. Well did Micah know it could start without warning.
Movement!
In one fluid motion Micah crouched, aimed and fired. A grunt and a fusillade of return fire meant he'd hit or closely missed. Micah dove for better cover.
No! Obstacle course! He had to finish the course. Creeping, trying to watch every possible direction, Micah moved forward.
Micah didn't see the shot that hit him but he knew its approximate area. Rolling again, this time through something sharp, he returned fire.
There! A brief flash of light. Micah targeted the area.
PAIN! Micah looked at his shoulder fully expecting to see it seared away. The cloth showed nary a mark. Paint. These were paints.
The course! If Micah didn't finish, what might Hile do to him? He'd had his antidote for today but what of tomorrow. Or had he? Might Hile not have dosed him with colored water?
Summoning will from he knew not where Micah continued forward. He could barely see the end of the course. Plenty of cover.
No! Not this easily! Something was wrong. It must be a trap. No one stood there. None completed and waiting. No recruits, no others. If he could just pass the line...
Micah absorbed himself into every bit of cover he saw. Slowly. So slowly the blessed line crept closer.
BOOM!
The artillery sim actually tossed Micah out into the open. Fear washed through him! Teeth clenched, Micah crawled for the line.
“WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING, SLUG?”
Micah rolled and fired in one motion. Sergeant Starling cursed and struck Micah with his nerve lash. Fire and pain crawled across Micah's back as he rolled away from Starling and the line.
“WRONG WAY, SLUG! YOU MOVE FOR THAT LINE NOW!!”
Micah made a dash but found Starling in his way again. The pain drove him back but the man goaded him forward. No longer rational and no longer truly conscious of himself Micah charged for the line again. When Starling appeared before him Micah swung the butt of his rifle hard into Starling's stomach. Starling grunted and fell and Micah thought about crushing his skull but the line beckoned.
Micah dove across the line with a half-gasp, half-terror-sound.
Still nothing! Micah rolled to cover and began scanning the area. The fear within him built anew.
“THIS AIN'T NO VACATION, SLUG! UN-ASS THAT GROUND! TEN-HUP!!”
Micah tried for a shot or a swing but lost his weapon when the lash struck his arm. Then his legs. Then... The hiss of a hypo.
“Not good enough, slug! GO BACK AND DO IT AGAIN!!”
Micah's mind gibbered as it digested the words. He tried. He tried to make his legs work. He tried to walk around the absolute and total horror welling up inside him. Instead he found himself curled on the ground, retching and shaking. Then the nerve lash struck. And again. And again, and again...
Micah crawled into his bunk wishing with all the passion left in him to die then and there. After the obstacle course and their second dose of Fear they'd done elementary drill and questions. Micah knew he knew the drills. He knew he knew the answers. He dismally failed to bring either forth. None of the others did better. Several talked in muted whispers but most simply crawled into their bunks and sought the
oblivion of sleep. Micah wanted to cry but he had no tears left in him. At least one of the others did and Micah shared them, in spirit.
***
Assembly came the next morning as if nothing had happened. Hile stood before them with his smile unwavering.
“Well, children. You've had your first taste and you all performed most unsatisfactorily. Today you will repeat the drill and you will improve.”
As expected the medics waited with antidote. Hile recited their orders for the day. Again in the mess hall more injections waited. Micah managed to choke down his breakfast but he didn't even register its usual lack of taste. Before long he felt the fear growing.
Micah flitted from cover to cover. The fear, much stronger than before, tried to twist him and paralyze him. He managed most of the course with few stops. The knowledge that more than one of the recruits faced the day without antidote gnawed at him and added to the fear that he'd not receive his. Soon.
Micah fired at some movement but now knew it for one of his fellows, forced backward through the course after failing it. This knowledge warred with the fear-driven kill-reflex with the latter winning more often than not. Micah faced return fire, of course, but managed to keep a small part of his mind focused on finishing the course.
None of this helped when the sergeant at the end of the course began lashing him.
Once again a second injection waited with lunch. Though his plate held far less than its normal ration Micah couldn't finish it. The fear hadn't really ebbed from the first dose and the second only made it worse. Per Hile's repeated orders Micah headed for the gym.
The interior of the gym had changed radically from Micah's last visit. Had he not been terrified Micah would have examined it more closely. The light was dim and some music played, almost inaudibly. Several stands held cubes of incense that filled the air with a sickly sweetness.
“Places, hai!”
Micah didn't register the man until he moved. Previously Master Ko supervised their unarmed training.
“First, you will learn to breathe.” Ko moved to a slightly raised and better-lit area in the center of the room. “In slow. Out slow. Stand perfectly still.”
When Micah's turn came he found Ko's eyes frightening even past the drug. Ko focused the entirety of himself on Micah; his attitude one of finding an insect with one leg trapped beneath a pebble. An insect he might watch but with which he was not concerned enough to release or to squash.