McCain was standing in the door, gaping. "Wow," he said softly, looking around.
I lowered my rifle and said, "I thought I told you to wait." Annoyance put an edge on my voice.
"Sorry, sir, but you were gone a long time. I got concerned."
"Uh-huh," I said. I was beginning to understand McCain's relationship with orders. He didn't think they applied to him. Right. That's why he was assigned to me.
Now he was testing me to see if I meant what I'd said. If I let him get away with this breach, he'd test me again; and if I nailed him to a wall for disobeying an order this minor, then I was a cruel martinet and he would be justified in subverting my authority whenever he could. Great game. Either way, I lose.
He stepped past me, his mouth hanging open in awe. "I heard about these," he said. "But I never saw one before." An idea occurred to him and he turned to look at me. "Is it safe?"
I didn't answer. I was too disgusted. With him. With the operation. With myself. When we got back-
"Hi," she said from behind us.
We both whirled at the same time
She couldn't have been more than six or seven. She was a tiny thing, standing in the middle of the doorway. Her dress had been yellow or orange once. Now it was brown. She had the biggest eyes.
I lowered my rifle, but only a bit. "Don't do that. You scared the hell out of me."
She looked uncertainly from me to McCain, then back to me again.
"Hi, honey," McCain said. "What's your name?" He slung his rifle over his shoulder and took a step toward her. She edged backward. "It's all right. We're friendly. That's Unca Jim and I'm Unca Jon."
"Jon what?" she asked. "Do you live here?"
McCain looked over at me. "She's awfully thin, and probably scared to death. Can I give her some of our rations?" He didn't wait for my answer. "Are you hungry, honey?"
She nodded slowly. Her eyes flickered back and forth between us.
"Wait a minute," I said. We were miles from anywhere. How had she gotten here? "What's your name, sweetheart? Who're you with? You're not here by yourself, are you?"
"Is this your house? Do you live here?" she asked again. She took a few steps into the room, looking around.
"No. And you shouldn't either." I looked to the kid. "Get her out of here."
I waited till they were both gone before I lowered my rifle and let myself shake. My nerves were shot. I'd nearly shot him. Then I'd nearly shot her.
Damn.
What a mess that would have been.
No, this wasn't working. None of it. I slung my gun over my shoulder and started after them.
I'd have to . . .
I heard gunshots outside-the spattering sound of an AM-280. And then I heard the kid scream.
I was already pulling my gun off my shoulder as I ran.
4
Mode: Day Two
"Commitment isn't a chore. It's a challenge. "
-SOLOMON SHORT
The second day was about integrity, and the room was set up differently.
The 498 chairs were laid out in five concentric circles around a circular dais. There were eight precise aisles dividing the chairs into neat pie-shaped wedges. The aisles pointed toward the high dais like an altar. I felt like an acolyte at some holy ritual.
The screens over the dais were gone now. Instead there were larger ones mounted high above the center of each blank wall. As I took my seat, I wondered why they had changed the setup. It bothered me, I didn't know why. I felt uneasy.
The seats filled up quickly with the other trainees. Today we were all wearing identical brown jumpsuits. No uniforms, no civilian clothes, no identifying garb of any kind could be worn in the training room. That was part of the rules: no outside identities. All we had to distinguish ourselves were the large-lettered name tags we wore over our hearts; last names only-no first names, no ranks.
Some of the higher-ranking officers had grumbled about that. Foreman hadn't been interested. He merely pointed out that they were demonstrating an investment of identity in their ranks, and that rank was not only irrelevant in here, it would eventually get in the way. Leave it outside, he said. That's not who you really are. I didn't get that either, but Foreman wouldn't explain it.
I wished I had my watch, but we'd had to turn those in too. I was certain that it was already past time for us to start, but not all the seats were filled yet. I wondered what the holdup was.
I craned around to look. People were still filing in. I recognized the two gray-haired colonels who had sat at the end of my row yesterday and who seemed to think they had special permission to chat about the proceedings. Finally, because their chatter was such a nuisance, they had been asked-no, told to sit apart. They came in now, still talking; but instead of moving directly to their seats, they stopped just inside the door and continued their conversation. I decided they were a couple of rude old ladies. Finally, two large male assistants came over to them and took each of them by the arm and guided them to their seats-on opposite sides of the outer circle of chairs.
But there were still empty chairs. Where were the rest of us? I counted twelve empty chairs. What was going on? Where were the missing trainees?
The minutes stretched.
The assistants stood quietly at attention, all around the perimeter of the room, at the logistics tables, at the doors, and at the heads of the aisles. There were at least fifty of them, all blank-faced and emotionless.
Across the circle from me, a large heavyset man got up and strode angrily to the table at the back of the room where the Course Manager sat. "What's the delay?" he demanded. His face was ruddy, and he looked upset.
She looked at him blankly. "Go back to your seat." Her voice could be heard all across the room.
"I want to know what's going on."
"Nothing is going on. Go back to your seat."
"We were told that all our questions would be answered," he snapped.
The Manager stood up and faced him. He was much larger and wider than she was, but she met his glare with an impassive expression. She said, "What you were told was that all of your questions would be handled appropriately. This is not appropriate."
"Why not?" he interrupted her. "Tell me!" He put his large ham-shaped hands down on the table between them and leaned way forward. He looked like he was used to bullying his way to results. He was a hulking mountain of flesh, and the way he leaned, he looked like he was threatening her.
It didn't work. The Course Manager was unbending. She could have been looking at a recalcitrant child. "This isn't the time," she said. "You agreed to follow the instructions, didn't you? Your instructions for this morning were to enter the room and take your seat. Have you done that?"
"But nothing's happening-!" His technique wasn't working. He looked frustrated.
She looked at him blankly. "Are you going to keep your agreement and follow the instructions?"
"I want to know what the delay is!" He was getting loud and belligerent. Every trainee in the room was watching.
I had to admire the Manager's composure. She remained unruffled by the man's anger. She said, "All of this was explained yesterday. The session doesn't begin until everybody is in his seat. There are thirteen seats empty. One of them is yours. You are the delay."
The big man looked angrier. I could see his fists clenching. But he didn't know what to say. It was as if he could already see all of the answers he might be given. There was nothing for him to do but return to his seat.