After several hours, the smooth van came to a halt. The doors swung open and two towering Highborn in powered battle armor gestured for them to hurry out. They did, forming two long lines around a parade ground as more vans disgorged their occupants. All of the recruits were Sydney slum-dwellers.
They were in the desert, several low-built concrete buildings around them. Barracks, no doubt. In all directions stretched a red sand desert. Here and there, gusts of wind stirred up sand. Marten noticed most of the recruits squinted at the harsh overhead sun just as he did. Most of them had probably never been in sunlight before. It was hot—nothing like being underground in carefully selected temperatures. Sweat prickled Marten’s underarms.
“This is great,” Turbo whispered, who tugged at an already damp collar.
With servos whining, the two Highborn clanked to the center of the parade ground as the convoy of empty vans roared away along the single ribbon of road. Marten figured that maybe six hundred other men stood under the sweltering sun. A squad of beefy Earth soldiers in combat vests and armed with machineguns jogged out of the nearest building onto the edge of the field.
“Regular men,” whispered Turbo. All around the field slum-dwellers whispered likewise.
“Silence!”
Everyone fell silent. One of the Highborn had spoken.
Finally, a huge man strode out of barracks. He had to be at least seven feet tall. He was shorter than the Highborn and not quite as muscled. He wore a black cap, uniform and combat boots, with a knife and pistol on a heavy belt. His face was hawkish, with a long, knife-like nose. He didn’t really walk, Marten decided, but strutted, knowing that he was putting on a show. There was something odd about his features; something twisted, out of kilter. Maybe it was his eyes, too focused, or the little superior grin that kept twitching into place.
He took his place in front of the squad of armed Earthlings. He clasped his hands behind his back and scanned the slum dwellers. There was some of that strange vitality to him that all Highborn seemed to have. Yet….
“Greetings, premen. I’m Captain Sigmir of Training Camp Ninety-three C. I will drill you into competent combat soldiers within six weeks or I’ll see you dead. On the seventh week, you will undoubtedly enter combat of the most ruthless sort. Whether I learn to like you or not is meaningless. You are in an army run by Highborn. I wish therefore to reassure you about nothing. What I will say now is perhaps the most important aspect of Highborn philosophy that you will ever learn,” he said, pausing to look at them all. “Remember this: Excellence brings rewards.”
Captain Sigmir paused as he inspected the recruits.
Marten noticed that twitching smile again, and the almost hungry way Captain Sigmir watched them. There was something strange going on here.
“Let me say again,” said Captain Sigmir: “Excellence brings rewards. In terms of your enlistment, the ability and willingness to kill the enemy is what counts. Little else matters. Neither the….” He seemed to choose his words with care. “Neither the ‘end product’ Highborn nor I care about your opinions. Think what you like, as long as you kill the enemy. As long as you are proficient at arms, as long as you obey orders on the instant, yes, then you may say or think what you like. Oh, but if you are not excellent, if you are not proficient at arms…”
Captain Sigmir shook his head. Then he removed his cap. He was bald, and an ugly, twisted red scar slashed across his upper forehead. He touched it.
“You notice this, I’m sure. I received it in combat. It killed me.” He laughed a little too shrilly as they stared and gaped. “Yes, yes, I assure you I died. Enemy shrapnel tore through my helmet and into my brain. Fortunately, I didn’t die on the instant. A fellow officer shot me full of Suspend. I’m sure you’ve heard how the Highborn are very careful to….” He laughed in that weird way again. “They call it revive, but really it’s resurrection from the dead. They fixed my brain as best as possible, restarted my body and—” He leered at them, his grin transfixed. “Here I am, alive again so I may fight again and possibly die again. My reflexes and thinking aren’t quite what they used to be, but who am I to complain? I assure you I’m not that sort of ingrate. Yes, I can still train. Thus, I am proficient at something. Thus, the superiors still give me rank as well as life. You too can gain rank by excellence. Now, an example is in order.”
Captain Sigmir put the cap back on and began to strut down the line of recruits. Most averted their gaze. A few dared look into his strange eyes, Marten being one of them. One fellow shivered in dreadful fear. The captain stopped in front of him.
“Show me your hand,” the captain said softly.
Trembling, the lad did. He was skinny and shallow-faced, with rounded shoulders.
“A nine,” said the captain. He tugged the lad with him into the center of the parade ground. Every eye was riveted upon them. The two armored Highborn clanked to the opposite end of the field as the squad of normal soldiers.
Captain Sigmir let go of the lad’s hand and took several steps away from him. “What is your name?”
“Logan,” whispered the lad.
“Say it louder!”
“L-Logan.”
Captain Sigmir nodded as he scanned the throng around him. The twitchy smile was now firmly in place. “Logan, do you know how to fight?”
The lad looked up at that. He was red-faced and obviously scared. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Good. I want you to defend yourself.”
“What?”
Captain Sigmir tossed his hat aside and unbuckled his belt, dropping his pistol and knife. “I said defend yourself.” He stepped toward the boy, towering over him.
Logan backed up, confused and more scared than ever, although he lifted his fists. Against the huge captain, it was a pitiful gesture.
“In this army, Logan, if you can’t fight then you’re worth nothing at all.”
Logan shook his head.
The captain shouted and kicked. His booted foot swept through Logan’s two fists to strike the center of his chest. Logan crashed to the ground. Captain Sigmir calmly walked to him and proceeded to kick young Logan to death. The boy tried to knock the iron-toed boots aside, until several of his teeth went flying. Then small Logan curled up into a fetal ball, whimpering and pleading through bloodied lips. Sweat glistened on Captain Sigmir’s face. His scar shone bright red, his strange eyes gleamed and a smile jumped into place every time his boot connected.
During the beating, several men in line grew very tense. One of them finally roared with rage and sprinted at Captain Sigmir, who had his back to the man while he kicked Logan across the side of the head. One of the Earth soldiers smoothly bent to one knee, lifted his carbine and fired a single shot. The enraged man grunted and slammed onto his back, his chest exploding in gore and blood.
Captain Sigmir didn’t bother turning around. Instead, he gave Logan a few more kicks until the frail boy relaxed onto his back, dead.
Two soldiers handed their carbines to another in the armed squad. Then they jogged to Captain Sigmir and saluted crisply. The captain nodded as he dabbed his face with a rag. He lifted an eyebrow as he saw the other dead man, but he made no comment. Each soldier grabbed a dead man by the feet and dragged them away.
The recruits, the majority of whom had grown tense, were clearly terrified of huge Captain Sigmir. They whispered their fear, eyeing the two armored Highborn and the watchful soldiers.
“He’s insane,” Stick hissed to Marten.
“Poor Logan,” whispered Turbo.
Marten noticed that Omi and Kang seemed unconcerned, almost as if they understood what had happened. A few others like them, hard-faced recruits, also watched impassively. Marten wondered if they too had once been gunmen like Omi. He shook his head. Here was the primary lesson. Killers ruled among the Highborn. Become excellent killers and they’d pat you on the back. Suddenly he wanted to be far away from here. But that wasn’t an option. He was trapped again. He felt that turmoil in his gut again. He could sure use a bottle of synthahol.