“Good. Come around and sit on this side of the table. I want you to take notes as I conduct the interviews. Then later, when the process is complete, I’m going to ask for your input. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good,” Santana replied. “I know you’re going to like the fi?rst candidate. He’s an insubordinate son of a bitch who was sent to the pit for punching an offi?cer in the face.”
It was dark when the forty-three heavily shackled prisoners were led up out of the pit to a landing platform, where they and the guards assigned to accompany them were loaded onto a couple of cybernetic fl?y-forms. Then, with a minimum of fuss, both aircraft lifted. According to their fl?ight plans, both cyborgs were taking part in a special ops training exercise. Which, all things considered, they were. Because, after two days of intensive interviews, the fi?rst part of the recruiting process was over. Now all Santana had to do was sort the wheat from the chaff. Assuming there was wheat hidden in the chaff.
The fl?ight lasted for about an hour and ended when the fl?y-forms put down in an abandoned village. The sun was up but wouldn’t be for very long. Like many indigenous habitations, the village had been left to melt back into the countryside as the Naa who lived in it left to seek better lives in the city that was growing up around the fort. It was just one of many changes brought on by the war, the fact that the government had been relocated to Algeron, and Naa independence.
Once the prisoners and their guards were on the ground, repellers screamed and the fl?y-forms lifted off. Santana waited for the sound of the engines to die away before addressing the mob arrayed in front of him. The cyborgs had been slotted into unarmed T-2 bodies that towered above the bio bods.
“Welcome to Camp Bust Ass,” the offi?cer shouted, as the easterly wind tried to steal his words. “Congratulations on making the fi?rst cut. But since we have fi?fty volunteers, and only twenty-six slots, more than half of you will go back to the pit. So if you want to stay—show us what you can do. And I say ‘us,’ because Sergeants Norly Snyder and Pia Fox have joined the leadership team.”
There were about twenty mounds, each signifying the location of an underground dwelling, and the prisoners whirled as two fully armed T-2s burst out into the open. A potent combination indeed, and a not-so-subtle message to any prisoner, or prisoners, who thought they might be able to overpower Santana and Gomez. “Sergeant Snyder served with me during the Claw uprising on LaNor,” the offi?cer continued. “And Sergeant Fox was part of the team that rescued the colonists on Hibo IV. So both of them know a thing or two about combat. You will follow their orders as you would follow mine.”
The wind made a soft whining sound as it searched the village, found nothing of interest, and continued on its way. “Okay,” Santana said, as he eyed the faces arrayed in front of him. “Beautiful though it is—there’s an obvious shortage of amenities here at Camp Bust Ass. Conveniences like latrines, weatherproof huts, and a fi?rst-class obstacle course. Items that you will be privileged to dig, repair, and build, using supplies brought in yesterday. The noncoms will divide you into teams. Each team will have a goal, and each team member will have an opportunity to lead as well as follow. Those individuals who have the highest grades will get the opportunity to die glorious deaths. . . . And, all things considered, what more could any legionnaire want?”
“Beer!” someone shouted, and Santana grinned. “Only winners get to drink beer. So, prove yourselves worthy, and it will be on me!”
There was a loud cheer, followed by a volley of orders, and work got under way.
A long series of extremely short Algeron days passed as the village was gradually transformed from a collection of abandoned hovels into something that resembled a military encampment, complete with its own subterranean chow hall, underground barracks, and an extensive obstacle course.
But the process wasn’t pretty. Santana was forced to bring one belligerent T-2 to her knees with a zapper, three bio bods were shot while trying to escape, and Gomez beat a fourth senseless when he made a grab for her. And there were less-dramatic washouts as welclass="underline" soldiers who refused to work with people they didn’t like, attempted to shirk their duties, or refused to obey orders. Every twelve hours the latest group of drops, plus an appropriate number of guards, were shipped back to Fort Camerone, where they were isolated from the rest of the prisoners so that word of what was taking place wouldn’t reach Jakov. Finally, once the original group had been winnowed down to the fi?nal twenty-four, Santana was ready to begin the next phase of training. But fi?rst, before additional gear was distributed, an evening of celebration was in order. It arrived in the form of two fl?y-forms. One was loaded with weapons, ammo, and other equipment. The other carried a keg of beer, two D-4020 Dream Machines that the borgs could hook up to, and hot meals straight out of Fort Camerone’s kitchens.
And, as Santana watched, two offi?cers jumped down off the second fl?y-form and made their way over. Santana saluted General Bill Booly, who introduced First Lieutenant Alan Farnsworth, a man who was clearly too old for his rank. “The lieutenant just graduated from OCS (Offi?cer Training School),” Booly shouted over the engine noise. “But don’t let that fool you because he put in twelve years as a noncom before that! You need a platoon leader, and here he is. I would trust him with my life.”
The comment implied a previous relationship, and some level of sponsorship as well, which was all right with Santana so long as Farnsworth could deliver the goods. And, as the two men shook hands, the offi?cer liked what he saw. Farnsworth’s face was a road map of sun-etched lines, his nose had clearly been broken more than once, and half of his left ear was missing. But the most important thing was the intelligence resident in the other man’s gray eyes as he waited to see how his new CO would react.
“Welcome to Team Zebra,” Santana said warmly. “I can sure as hell use someone with your experience. . . . And, if I trip over a rock, the team will be in good hands.”
Farnsworth grinned and seemed to relax slightly, as if he’d been unsure of how the academy graduate might react to getting saddled with a prior. “Thank you, sir. . . . I’m looking forward to the opportunity. Sort of.”
All of three of them laughed as the fl?y-forms lifted off, snowfl?akes swirled, and darkness closed around them. PLANET JERICHO, THE RAMANTHIAN EMPIRE
The rain began during the hours of darkness, continued as the dimly seen sun rose somewhere beyond the thick overcast, and turned the entire area around Camp Enterprise into a morass of thick, glutinous mud. The muck was so thick it formed clumps around the prisoners’ boots and forced them to lift a couple of extra pounds each time they took a step. The result was a slow-motion parody of work that was unlikely to produce anything more than sick POWs, which would threaten Tragg’s ability to stay on schedule, make money, and get off Jericho. That was why the overseer felt compelled to make the pilgrimage to the headquarters building, where the mercenary requested an audience with the commandant and was eventually shown into the richly decorated throne room. But only after removing his boots, washing both his hands and feet, and submitting to a pat-down. Then, careful to bow his head submissively, the overseer made his request. “Given the weather conditions, Excellency, and all of the mud, I recommend that we suspend operations until the rain stops.”
The position of Mutuu’s antennae signaled contempt.
“So it’s raining,” the commandant replied scornfully. “Animals need rain! It keeps them clean. We have a schedule to maintain, human. So maintain it. Or, would you like to join the rest of your cowardly kind, as they live out their lives in the jungle?”