"SCUM—crash—YOU DONT HAVE ANY HOME—crash—THE GUARD IS YOUR ONLY HOME—crash—WHERE ARE YOU FROM—crash."
"Nowhere, corporal," came the muffled voice from inside the can.
Halstead moaned, and tried to tear his cropped hair.
"It's hopeless," he said quietly. "Absolutely hopeless."
Screaming again:
"RECRUIT, YOU WILL GET OUT OF THAT TRASHCAN."
He helpfully kicked the container over. The trainee crawled out, his uniform stained and smeared.
"YOU LOOK LIKE YOU JUST FOUND A HOME, RECRUIT. NOW YOU TAKE THAT CAN OUT OF HERE TO THE MESSHALL. AND I WANT YOU TO STAND IN IT AND TELL EVERYONE WHO COMES BY THAT THAT'S YOUR HOME."
"Yes, corporal."
The recruit shouldered the container and stumbled toward the door.
"In your bunks," Lanzotta snapped.
The naked recruits dove for their beds. Lanzotta walked toward the door.
"I want you to know something, children," he said. "I can truthfully say that I have never spent a worse first training day with a sorrier group of scum. I'm not even going to enjoy killing you. Don't you agree?"
"YES, SERGEANT," came the shout from a hundred bunks.
"I really can't stand it. Good night, children."
Lanzotta flipped off the light switch.
"Are you all exhausted?" came the question in the blackness.
"YES, SERGEANT."
"What?"
"NO, SERGEANT."
The light came back on.
"That's nice," Lanzotta said. "Five minutes. Fall outside dressed for physical training."
He smiled and walked out of the barracks as the recruits stared at each other, stunned.
Sten ran the depil stick over his face again, just to make sure, reslotted it, and picked up his shower gear. He hurried out of the refresher to his bunk. Flipped open the cabinet and, checking the layout chart pinned to the inside wall, put everything away.
He checked the clock. He had a whole minute and a half until he had to dress. He sat down on the floor with a happy moan. His bunk was already S-rolled for the day, blanket folded in the prescribed manner on top of it.
"Sten. Gimme a hand." Sten pulled himself back up, and grabbed the other end of Gregor's mattress.
The two men looked at each other, and both of them suddenly snickered. "Definitely material for a recruiting livee," Gregor grinned. "By the way. You notice something interesting?"
"There's nothin' interesting on this clottin' world. Except that bed if I could crawl back in it."
"Look around. Somethin' interestin'. There's women in this unit, right?"
"Good thinkin', Gregor. Guess they'll have to make you an officer."
"Shaddup. But you know somethin' more interestin'? Everybody sleeps alone."
"Probably some rule against anything else."
"Rules ever stop anybody who's in the mood?"
Sten shook his head.
"They put something in the food. That's what it is. Chemicals. 'Cause they don't want anybody getting attached to somebody who probably's gonna wash out."
Sten thought about it. Not likely. If everybody was like he was, they were just too tired to raise even a smile. He decided to change the subject. "Gregor. You said something about you're gonna be an officer?"
"Sure."
"How?"
"I have three things on my side. First, my dad. Don't say anything, 'cause I don't want to sound like I'm bragging, but he's a wheel. Our family owns most of Lasker XII. He's got touch. We've even been presented at court."
Sten looked at Gregor thoughtfully. He guessed that was pretty significant.
"Second. I went to military schools. So I know what they're talking about. And I'll tell you, that's a lot better than the conditioning they pour in us while we're trying to sleep."
"Military schools. Doesn't the Guard have some kind of academy? Just for officers?"
Gregor looked a little uncomfortable. "Yeah, but my dad. . .I decided it'd be better to start at the bottom. You know, so you understand the troops that you're gonna command. Be one of them, and all that."
"Uh-huh."
"Third. Every now and then, they make an outstanding recruit award and commission the lucky choice. Right out of basic."
"Which you think is gonna be you?"
"Pick somebody else. Look around. Go ahead. Pick somebody."
Sten eyed the recruits, milling into their uniforms.
"Like Lanzotta said. They're just cannon fodder. I'm not saying I'm great, but I don't see competition. Unless. . .maybe you."
Sten laughed. "Not me, Gregor. Not me. I learned a long time ago, you keep your head down you don't get caught by the big pieces."
The door crashed open. "AWRIGHT, LISTEN UP. WE GOT A CHANGE IN THE TRAINING SCHEDULE SINCE IT'S GETTIN' COLD OUTSIDE. ITS ALMOST TWENTY DEGREES CENTIGRADE, AND SO WE'RE GONNA PRACTICE. UNIFORM OF THE DAY WILL BE COLD-WEATHER GEAR."
Gregor's mouth hung open. "Cold-weather gear? It's the middle of summer!"
Sten jerked his cabinet door open and started pawing an arctic uniform out.
"Thought you'd already learned what Lanzotta said about us thinking."
Gregor wearily nodded, and started changing.
"Report!"
"Sten. Recruit in training!"
Lanzotta leaned back in his chair.
"Relax, boy. This is just routine. As you know, the Empire takes a great deal of interest in seeing that its soldiers are well treated."
"Yessir!"
"Therefore, I've got some questions to ask you. These will be filed with the rights commission. First question: Have you, since your arrival on Klisura, seen any instances of physical maltreatment?"
"I don't understand, sir."
"Have you seen any of the cadre abuse any trainee? It's a severely punishable offense."
"Nossir!"
"Have you witnessed any cadre member addressing any trainee in derogatory tones?"
"Nossir!"
"Do you consider yourself happy, trainee?"
"Yessir!"
"Dismissed."
Sten saluted, whirled, and ran out. Lanzotta scratched his chin thoughtfully and looked at Halstead. "Him?"
"Not sure yet. But probably."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE ASSASSIN WAS methodical.
Mental notes: Sten; Thoresen; Time. . .time a question; Thoresen more so. Motive: personal. Possible—no, probable danger to me. Assignment questionable unless. . .
"There's a matter of payment," the assassin said finally.
"We've already settled that. You'll be well paid."
"I'm always well paid. It's a question of delivery. Uh. . .my back door?"
"You don't trust us?"
"No."
The Baron eased back in his chair, closed his eyes. There were no worries. He was just relaxing and taking in a bit more UV.
"It seems, at this point, your problems aren't a back door—a way out—as much as they are your knowledge."
"Knowledge?"
"Yes. If you choose to not accept the assignment. . .well, you're privy to a great deal, you must realize. Need I go further?"
The assassin casually reached over the desk and picked up an antique pen. "If you even look at one of the alarms," the killer whispered, "I'll bury this pen in your brain."
The Baron was still, then pushed a smile across his face. "Do you have your own way out?"
"Always," the assassin said. "Now, when I complete the task, I have a bank in—"
Thoresen waved languidly. "Done. Whatever the arrangements. Done."
"It's not enough money."
"Why not?"
"To begin. I must get inside the Imperial Guard. That may mean other deaths than your target."
"You're thinking of joining the Guard?"
"Possibly. There is also the matter of the man who recruited Sten, this Imperial intelligence operative."