Dawn of the Mad (40 page)

“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 shock 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.

“Individuality breeds corruption and perversion—at least that’s what they told me during my arrest. Of course, most of the intellectual elite, such as me, were arrested almost immediately, and the youth of appropriate age were immediately drafted into the military.”

Petor was about to continue when Roman interrupted, his voice rose in irritation. “Anybody ever tell you that you talk too damn much?” Just about everyone in the chow hall, including the corporals, turned to look at the seated pair.

Petor sat back in his chair, a defeated look on his face. “Sorry,” he muttered. He looked down at his food and began to eat in silence.

Roman looked at his companion for a moment. He looked around and saw that they already had lost the crowd’s attention. “Look, man. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. It’s been a long month.”

Petor looked up, a small smile on his face. “It’s OK. I do have a tendency to talk too much. I apologize.” He resumed eating.

Roman felt a little better. It wasn’t his goal to upset anybody, but some people just don’t get it. “Well, sometimes the less you talk, the longer you live. It’s a pleasure to meet you, 711.” Roman extended his hand, which Petor readily accepted.

Petor turned his gaze to the ceiling for a moment, thinking hard about Roman’s statement. He looked Roman square in the eye. “Perhaps you’re right, 769. I’d like to live for a good long time, so maybe I should be quiet from time to time.”

Roman nodded. The two resumed their bland meal in silence.

The rest of the evening passed calmly as the recruits settled into their new life. Petor remained next to Roman most of the time, by his choice and by circumstance; they even were assigned spaces next to each other in the rows of cots laid out inside another old hangar. Roman didn’t mind Petor’s company, now that the man talked more quietly, chose his words a little better, and didn’t ramble on about things Roman did not care to hear. Roman actually started taking to the odd man.

After chow the battalion replaced their orange jumpsuits with military fatigues. Roman was surprised to see a rather attractive woman during uniform issue; he had thought all the prisoners were men. He tried to talk to her because everyone else seemed to ignore her for some reason. She had looked back at him with profound sorrow in her eyes and said nothing.

“Lights out in five!” a muscular corporal Roman overheard was named Henri shouted across the hangar bay. “Get your rest; tomorrow will be a lot worse for you!” Corporal Henri exited, leaving the hangar bay devoid of any training staff. Roman scanned the exits, looking for any sign of Henri or anyone else in authority. Petor sensed what he was doing.

“Don’t even think about escape. There is nowhere for you to go.”

Roman looked at Petor for a moment. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. I don’t even know where we are,” Roman said.

Roman changed the subject and asked “What’s the deal with that girl over there?” He rose up from his bunk and subtly indicated with a nod of his head towards the end of the row of bunks the female he had tried to talk to earlier. She lay curled up in the fetal position, on a cot set off by itself.

Petor looked up and sighed as a hint of recognition washed over his face. He answered with a tinge of sadness in his voice. “I don’t know her name. She doesn’t speak. She came from a camp close by mine, for females only. I think she used to be in the military, but she deserted. They cut the tongues out of deserters. I cringe to think what else they may have done to her.” Petor looked away and began to polish his newly issued combat boots.

Roman noticed that he was doing a pretty bad job of it. “Look. Like this,” he said. He grabbed Petor’s boot and placed it between his legs. He wrapped a large strip of his old T-shirt around his index finger. He dipped it in a container of water and in the polish, so that wet polish covered his fingertip. He rubbed that fingertip in circles on the surface of the boot. As he demonstrated, he continued the conversation. “She may be useful to us if she was ex-military. We can use people around us who have fired weapons before.”

Seeing the boot begin to shine, Roman handed it back to Petor, along with the polish and strip of cloth. Petor nodded appreciatively, and tried his best to duplicate what he had just observed. “I think very few here are ex- military. Military men usually were executed on the spot for infractions, except for certain circumstances. You may not be able to rely on too many people here knowing what they’re doing.”

Roman grunted. “You’re probably right.”

“Lights out!” Corporal Henri yelled and hit a switch. The hangar bay lights slowly dimmed until total blackness enveloped the area.

Roman dreamed he was on a beach somewhere, perhaps one of the Philippine islands. While awake, he often fondly remembered the island of Bohol and the time he spent there with a beautiful Filipina while he was on leave during the war in Afghanistan. Now he dreamed he was lying in the sand on an island much like that one, in the sun, drinking an ice cold beer. Ah, ice cold beer …

“Get up, 769,” a voice hissed in his ear.

Roman slowly opened his eyes, his dream quickly fading into memory. He squinted as a bright flashlight shined in his eyes. Two soldiers stood over him, their faces invisible to him.

“Let’s go. Sarge wants to see you,” he heard from one of them. They each grabbed an arm and dragged him forcibly out of his cot. He struggled to keep his footing under the rough handling. It seemed to Roman that they were taking him toward a side door leading out of the hangar bay.

“Can I at least grab my pants?” he asked, still wearing his boxers.

Both soldiers laughed quietly. The one on the left snickered, “You may not need them for very long.”

They exited the hangar bay and walked through a serious of metal walled, brightly lit corridors. The air was humid, some the walls were slick with moisture. It reminded Roman of the time he stayed at the academy barracks when he first arrived on the planet. The soldiers finally released Roman, allowing him to stand up straight. The three of them stood in front of an unmarked door. One of the soldiers hit the call button next to a speaker by the frame of the door. A voice from the intercom responded, “You may go. Your presence is no longer required.”

“As you wish,” one of the soldiers responded. Both of them took a step back, turned, and went back around the corner of the nondescript, poorly lit hallway.

The slightly rusted metallic door slid open silently. Roman instantly recognized the sergeant he had met earlier in the day and winced slightly as he remembered the sting from her shock whip. “It’s OK, 769,” the sergeant said as she grabbed his I.D. tag, which hung on a chain around his neck. “I won’t bite.” Pulling at the tag, she led him by its chain into her quarters. The door closed silently behind them.

Roman tried not to stare, but he couldn’t avert his eyes. She still hadn’t made any attempt to hide any of her bionics. She had her boots off, and he could see that part of her right foot and three its toes were bionic. She wore a skin-tight black sleeveless shirt and shorts with the UCP logo visible. She had a very muscular body, albeit scarred and half machine.

“I can see that my appearance disturbs you,” she said. “Please, sit and have a drink.” She gestured toward a simple table and two chairs. A decanter of clear liquid sat in the middle of the table. She returned with two shot-sized glasses “It’s on the tip of your tongue. You may speak freely.”

Roman looked at her square in her good eye, avoiding the bionic eye. “OK. I want to know—just what the hell happened to you?”

She threw her head back, and her blonde hair, still damp from a recent washing, flew back and settled on the backs of her shoulders. She met his gaze. “I’m a by-product of war, I suppose. I stepped on a land mine and was shot several times during a battle in the early stages of the war. They patched me up and sent me back in. I was
so
lucky to be the beneficiary of modern medicine, don’t you think?” She threw her head back again and laughed. “I wished I was dead. I am an abomination hooked on painkillers and rotgut.” She slowed down, thinking back to that day that destroyed her. “You should have seen me. I was quite a mess.” She watched Roman’s face to see that he caught the sarcasm. Her own face hardened for a moment. “Perhaps that moment of agony was my rebirth.”