by John Murphy
The candidates ran single file between the wingtips of the fighter craft that lined one side of the hangar deck. There was too much to take in as they trotted from one crewman to the next, each one shouting at them and pointing the way.
“Get your asses moving!”
Killian kept his place in line, resisting the urge to pull ahead. Kerrington was right behind him.
“Get your asses moving or get out of the way!”
A crewman directed them to another corridor at the far side of the hangar. Before they entered, Kerrington elbowed his way ahead in a brief sprint, passing Killian, Sowell, and Carmen at the front of the line. Kerrington was first into the tight corridors of pipes, hatches, valves, and narrow passes.
A few crewmen inside pressed into hatchways to make way for the running candidates. Sowell and Killian had to duck so they wouldn’t bang their heads or trip.
Another crewman met them at a juncture and directed them to the left. “Get a fucking move on it! Go! Go! Go!”
Killian had always imagined this sort of verbal harassment as part of the nature of the military, not the coddling, inoffensive words he had experienced in basic training. Hence, the profanities hurled at them weren’t offensive. On the contrary, they were comforting.
Another turn brought the line of running candidates into a large room. The most captivating feature was a glass dome with an immense view that consumed its breadth. Purple oceans covered most of the planet. Currents of swirling golden clouds thinly veiled landmasses of yellows, tans, reds, browns, and dark greens. The colors appeared with such clarity and depth that they created a sense of vertigo in those who were unaccustomed to the view.
More crewmen directed the slowing candidates to yellow footprints near the center of the cavernous room. There were four rows of ten sets of footprints. The crewmen pointed, shouted, and directed them to occupy the first two rows, six in each row.
The crewmen jostled the candidates, arranging them by height, with the taller candidates on the right, shorter on the left. Sowell and Killian were the rightmost on the two rows. Pima and Dohrn were farthest left. Kerrington was nestled in the middle. He scowled and raised his hand.
A crewman approached him. “What the hell do you want, candidate?”
“I think I should be on the lead end of the formation,” he said.
“Oh? And why the hell is that?”
“Because I was Company Honor Private in basic. I was selected as the best over 300 other recruits. I’ve earned the position of leader.”
“Oh, so you think that makes you special here? Shall I bow down to you, Princess?”
“You better watch your mouth!” Kerrington shouted. “Don’t you know who you’re talking to?”
Just as the crewman was about to respond, a marine with a sleeve full of stripes and a flat-brimmed campaign hat pushed the crewman aside and glared at Kerrington, his face throbbing with anger.
“As I was saying,” Kerrington began.
“Shut the fuck up, you little shit!” the master sergeant barked, his spittle hitting Kerrington’s face. “I don’t give a shit who you think you are back on Earth. You are on my ship in the middle of fucking space. You are nothing but a fucking earthworm, and you will show each and every person on this ship the utmost of military respect, or I will crush your wormy little body under my boot. You get me, earthworm?”
“But…but…”
“But nothing! The only thing I want to hear from your ugly fucking mug is ‘Yes, Master Sergeant Houlihan!’”
Kerrington gulped and glanced over at Burdette and Banks.
“Don’t go looking for someone to rescue you!” Houlihan barked.
“You can’t treat me like this,” Kerrington said.
“The fuck I can’t.” Houlihan thumped Kerrington in the chest with two fingers. Kerrington winced. Houlihan pushed in even closer. “Your daddy is not in my chain of command. I better hear a ‘Yes, Master Sergeant’ from you or I’ll send you home in a body bag of shame.”
Kerrington tried to hold Houlihan’s gaze but folded. “Yes, Master Sergeant Houlihan.”
“What’s that? I can’t hear your wormy little voice.”
“Yes, Master Sergeant Houlihan!”
“What the fuck are you smiling at, ginger?” Houlihan pushed past Kerrington to get to Tucker in the second row. “Are you flirting with me, freckle face? Is that it? You want to fuck me, do ya?”
Tucker suppressed a grin but said nothing.
Houlihan got close enough that his stiff hat brim poked Tucker’s forehead. “I said, do you want to fuck me, ginger? Is that it?”
Tucker’s grin disappeared. “No, Master Sergeant Houlihan!”
“No, what?”
“N-n-no, I do not want to fuck you,” Tucker stammered.
“Ewe? I’m an ewe, now? You’re calling me a female sheep? Do you fuck sheep back home?”
“No, Master Sergeant Houlihan.” Tucker shivered involuntarily.
“No, what?”
“No, sir. I do not want to fuck Master Sergeant Houlihan…, sir.”
“Sir? Don’t call me ‘sir.’ I work for a living. Are you saying that I don’t work? Are you saying I’m lazy?”
Vasquez, who had his back to Houlihan, giggled at the exchange, his shoulders shaking.
“What the fuck is that I hear?” Houlihan turned around and pushed through to the front. “It sounds like we’ve got a schoolgirl up here!”
He sucker punched Vasquez in the gut. Vasquez buckled over but remained on his feet. He stood up straight, trying to suck in his breath, reflexive tears dripping from his eyes.
“How’s that for funny, schoolgirl?”
Houlihan circled the formation like a lion. “Anyone else hankering to fuck me?”
He spotted Benson’s beard. “What the fuck is that on your face, girly-boy? Do you intend to tickle my balls with that peach fuzz?” Houlihan backslapped Benson’s face. “You better be clean-shaven the next time I see you, or I’ll shave you myself.”
“What have we got here?” Houlihan planted himself in front of Carmen, who went wide-eyed in fear.
“Let me guess,” Houlihan growled, “a moto-leader.”
Carmen’s eyes darted back and forth as she trembled.
“Well? Are you a moto-leader or not?” Houlihan barked.
“Yes, Master Sergeant Houlihan!”
“You see, the problem I have with moto-leaders is they mistake cheering for balls! Isn’t that right, moto-leader? You can cheer people on all day, but do you have the balls for combat? Tell me, do you think you have the balls for combat, moto-leader?”
Carmen hesitated. “Technically, Master Sergeant, I don’t have…balls.”
“Of course you don’t! But do you think you have what it takes for combat, or are you just louder than everyone else?”
“Yes, Master Sergeant Houlihan. I have what it takes for combat!”
“You, girly-boy.” Houlihan gestured to Benson. “Come here!”
Benson complied hesitantly. Houlihan turned Benson so that he was facing Carmen. “Punch him!”
Carmen’s eyes went wide as she stared at Benson, who stared back in fear. Carmen didn’t move.
“Go ahead, punch him. Give it to him in the gut!”
Still, Carmen didn’t move.
“Yell at him; tell him you’re going to kill him.”
Carmen hesitated, then said, “I’m going to kill you!”
“Louder, like you’re really going to do it!”
“I’m going to kill you!” Anger twisted Carmen’s face.
Benson shrank back. Carmen’s face flushed with embarrassment, her eyes conveying an apology.
“Now punch him!” Houlihan yelled. “Come on, you just said you were going to kill him. Punch him at least, for God’s sake!”
> Shaken, Carmen recoiled and shook her head. Benson looked visibly relieved.
“Get back in line, girly-boy,” Houlihan said. “I knew our moto-leader couldn’t do it. They never can, because they think shouting and cheering shows what good little boys and girls they are. They don’t have the guts to kill the enemy.”
Carmen stared at the deck, tears dripping from her eyes.
“Does anyone else have any questions about whose ship you’re on and where the fuck you are? Any more princesses?”
Houlihan came to the tall end of the back row. He stopped in front of Killian and gave him a quick jab in the stomach. The strike wasn’t as hard as what he’d given to Vasquez, and it only caused Killian to wince and labor to suck in his next breath.
“Don’t think that being tall makes you special.”
Houlihan circled around and stood in front of Sowell, the tallest in the front row. “I know who you are. You’re the teachers’ kid. You probably think you’re smarter than everyone on this whole fucking ship, don’t you?”
“No, Master Sergeant Houlihan,” Sowell shouted.
“Here’s an apple for the teacher!” Houlihan thumped Sowell in the chest with two rigid fingers.
“Does anyone else need some special love?” Houlihan moved to the front and center of the formation.
“No, Master Sergeant Houlihan,” a few of the candidates said hesitantly.
“Holy shit! It sounds like we’ve got a bunch of spineless earthworms on the ship. I said, does anyone else need some special love?”
“No, Master Sergeant Houlihan!” the candidates shouted in unison, as they’d learned in basic training.
“Good! Now, listen up, you bunch of fucking worms. You are on Blue Orchid, and this is my ship! You are out in the middle of fucking nowhere, and I can toss your asses off into space and no one would know, and no one here would miss you. You got me?”
“Yes, Master Sergeant Houlihan!”
“You will obey my every command and every command coming from any one of my minions without fail and without bitchy little backtalk. You got me?”
“Yes, Master Sergeant Houlihan!”
Houlihan glared at them, his eyes moving from the shorter recruits to the tall. “You asswipes are no longer in basic training. There is no ice cream for dessert! You are not here to learn how to weave baskets or hand out treats to disaster victims. Black Saber exists for one reason and one reason only: to kill. If you cannot take a little special love, you cannot be taught to kill. Let me hear you say kill.”
“Kill!” the candidates shouted.
“What was that?”
“Kill!”
“What are we here for?”
“Kill!”
“That’s more like it. Stand by.”
Acid crept up from Killian’s throbbing stomach. It was no worse than the taste of his own blood, and nothing like the blood of his enemies. This was what he had expected from the beginning. It felt like he was coming out of a bad dream of the false motivation in basic training. It felt like home.
If only they would let him in.
“Platoon! Atten-hut!”
The candidates stiffened and clicked their boot heels together.
Houlihan did an abrupt about-face. Commander Burdette walked smartly and stood before Houlihan, who saluted and held the pose.
“Sir, Master Sergeant Houlihan of USS Naval Outpost Blue Orchid is ready to receive Black Saber Candidate Class 29 on board for Mission Veritas.”
Burdette returned the salute. “Thank you, Master Sergeant Houlihan. Commander Burdette of the USS Naval Transport Delaware is ready to release to your charge Black Saber Candidate Class 29. They are all yours, Master Sergeant. Take good care of them.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” Houlihan snapped his salute down and stepped into a position behind Burdette.
“Candidates, I wish you well on Mission Veritas,” Burdette said. “Remember, treat it as you would any combat mission. Godspeed to you all.”
Burdette snapped a crisp salute, then did a right face and walked briskly to the side. Passing him along the way was the commanding officer of the Blue Orchid, Commander Alexandra Connor. Her light brown hair was in a neat bun, and she wore a uniform like Burdette’s. They exchanged glances of mutual respect as they crossed paths.
Master Sergeant Houlihan stepped forward two paces to assume the spot Burdette had occupied.
Commander Connor stopped behind Master Sergeant Houlihan and stood at easy, authoritative attention. Houlihan turned, did an about-face toward Commander Connor, and snapped and held a salute.
“Commander Connor,” Houlihan said, “I have been tasked with receiving Black Saber Candidate Class 29 to your charge to engage in Mission Veritas. Do I have your permission to do so?”
“Permission granted,” Connor said.
Houlihan stepped away, leaving Commander Connor facing the candidates. Connor took the time to look at each one.
Finally, she spoke softly. “Veritas—the Roman goddess of truth. The planet on which you are about to carry out your qualifying mission is earthlike, spectacularly beautiful, rugged—and deadly. The atmosphere is breathable. However, it will make you light-headed and sleepy, and it will lower your inhibitions. You will speak what’s on your mind. You will reveal the truth.”
Connor walked to the shorter side of the formation, then paced slowly in front of them, coming within a foot of their faces. “Despite what you hear on the news, or read on the World Net, or learn in school, Earth is and has been in constant struggle. War has not stopped after the arrival of the Carthenogens; it has merely gone underground, suppressed by the Global Alliance and the news media. Millions have been killed while you have been in school, while you have been sleeping, and while you have immersed yourselves in Fantasia.”
Killian wanted to shout in agreement. His heart pumped madly.
“Black Saber is but a handful of fighters against the morass of the world’s muddled military. We cannot win the fight against rampant abuse of powers by overwhelming those who seek to crush us. Precision is our only hope.”
Hallelujah!
“Basic training is fine for training masses of docile do-gooders in the military’s new mission. It emphasizes uniformity rather than highlighting or capitalizing on individual strengths.”
She looked into the eyes of each candidate she passed, not to stare down or intimidate, but to see their souls and evaluate. “Black Saber requires intelligence, skill, endurance, fortitude, and decisiveness.”
She paced slowly behind the front six, directing her words into their ears, as if she were a devil of doubt whispering on their shoulders.
“Designed by esteemed military psychologist Dr. Patrick Houlihan, Mission Veritas will cut through your group mentality, your enthusiasm, your patriotism, and your beliefs about proper conduct. It will reveal the truth about who you are.
“Not all of you will make it through Mission Veritas—and that is by design. A mistake by Black Saber can and will cost thousands, if not millions, of human lives.”
She stopped in front of Killian and looked up into his eyes. He looked past her forehead as if she wasn’t there, and restrained an emotional gulp.
“Black Saber is the ace up the sleeve in the survival of our country. My job,” she said, speaking directly to Killian, “is to eliminate the mistakes before they infect Black Saber.” Killian thought of his run-and-gun plan.
Connor held her position several moments. Killian never met her eyes.
Finally, she broke the connection, or lack thereof, and resumed her slow saunter, heading back to her point of origin. “Precision is all we have. We must learn the truth about each of you.”
Killian felt a trickle of sweat run down his back. Would the atmosphere really cause him to spill his guts? Would he inadvertently confess? He had managed to guard th
e truth about his time in Bangkok through basic training. If they found out, would Black Saber deem him one of their own, or a criminal? And what of the other candidates? Would any of them turn him over to the Global Alliance?
Commander Connor returned to her starting position. “Master Sergeant, take charge.”
Still on the side, Houlihan said, “Aye-aye, Commander. Platoon…Atten-hut! Present arms!”
The candidates saluted. Commander Connor returned the salute, then stepped off to the right, passing Houlihan as he marched to the head of the formation.
“Candidates, you are about to engage in a voluntary military training exercise,” Houlihan announced. “As in any military training, there is a risk of permanent injury or death. Once you touch down on the surface of Veritas, the exercise begins, and you may not opt out. At this time, those of you wishing to continue with this qualifying mission, please take one step…”
Killian stepped before Houlihan finished his words.
“…forward.”
Killian’s preemptive move threw off the candidates’ normally unison response. The others darted their eyes from side to side, but within a span of seconds, they had all stepped forward off the yellow footprints. They were all in.
Houlihan paused, letting the gravity of their decision sink in. “Very well, break out your virtual tablets!”
The candidates pushed a button on the belts of their flight suits. The same kind of optics the transport crew used aboard the ship was employed to flash a virtual screen in front of each candidate.
Houlihan continued, “You will create a new document in your legal documents folder. Do it!”
The candidates poked their fingers in the air before them.
“In your own words, you are to write a personal note to your next of kin. It will be in a style of phrasing unique to you, that your kin is familiar with. It will immediately be recognized as truly your writing. In your own words and style, it should sound something like this: ‘Dear Mommy and Daddy. If you are reading this, I am dead! My only regret is that I did not give my life in combat in the defense of our nation.’”