Freehold

  * * *

  They were walked rather than marched to the training depot and had all their documentation from the recruiters redone for clarity. Some minor points were corrected and one person sent home on medical profile. He was directed to return in three months. Kendra never found out why.

  Next, they were lined up for medical exams—very complete medical exams. Nanoprobes, electronic scans, and physical tests, including samples of blood, skin and hair. They were immunized with both nanos and a few hypodermics and given paper copies of the transaction as well as datachips. There were several briefings on training, procedures and other details. Kendra learned that there were Christian chaplains on base, including a Roman Catholic, although not a Catholic Reformed. Still, it was something. And she had a choice of local clock or Earth clock for worship. She decided that every ten local days was adequate, not being exceptionally devout. Besides, the idea of adapting every seven Earth days at twenty-four hours to the local schedule was bound to create waves and get her noticed.

  * * *

  "Strip," Carpender ordered. "Place your civilian clothes in the bag and line up here for haircuts. No talking, and keep your noses in your study manuals when not otherwise occupied." She was almost used to nudity with strangers, and peeled out of her unitard and slacks. She joined a cluster that was getting sorted into lines, and fell in.

  They were lined up by height, which put Kendra near the front as the tallest woman by far, and the first one in. She could see ahead of her the men having their heads shaved. It was hard for her to believe that barbaric rituals like that were still part of a modern military. She pretended to keep her nose in her book, as ordered, but watched obliquely. Some of them were relaxed and expecting it, others nervous.

  She was quickly at the front of the line and wondered how short they'd clip her. Collar? Neck? She stepped forward as a chair emptied,and a bib was slipped around her neck. "How short?" the . . . well, "barber" was the wrong word, but . . .

  "Collar-length?" she half inquired.

  "Back to the collar," he agreed sadistically, as the shears swept back from the center of her forehead. She gasped. They shaved women, too?? She quickly was despising the medieval thugs who had designed this course of training. What the hell were they thinking?

  She was bald in seconds and urged out of the chair. She remembered her doccase through her daze, walked through the indicated door, and stifled her outrage. She fumed silently, afraid to touch her head and feel the stubble.

  She joined the lines for uniforms and snuck a glance at the man currently on the pad. Light beams scanned him quickly, calculated sizes and reported it to a duty soldier. They still drew uniforms from the racks by hand! Why such a primitive approach? Automation existed for such minor details.

  She stepped forward, ready to be scanned, when a firm grip on her arm pulled her aside. "Over here, recruit," a woman's voice ordered. She turned to see a sergeant and a private. "Legs spread and arms straight out. Eyes front," the sergeant continued. Turning to address the private, she said, "Around the neck—" and Kendra felt a band wrapped around her throat. It dropped away and the private yelled, "Thirty-four!"

  The sergeant continued, "Chest and waist," and the private ordered, "Breathe in and hold, recruit." She complied. In seconds, she'd been measured by hand and sizes scribbled on a sheet. She was urged toward one of the troops drawing uniforms and as she handed her measurements over, heard the sergeant say, "Not bad. Try the next one." Apparently it was a training exercise. Well, it was good to know how to measure if the system was down. It would never happen on Earth, of course. Touching someone without a specific invite was grounds for criminal action. The detailed waivers doctors had their patients sign was proof of that.

  She was handed a stack of uniforms and pointed at a painted square on the floor. "Get dressed and keep all gear inside the lines!" someone ordered. She'd give them this: they were very fast and efficient. And, she found out seconds later, they issued uniforms that fit. It took only segs to be back outside, carrying a duffle full of clothes.

  The remainder of the day was all processing. Typical military, but with little "hurry up and wait." No one wasted any time and the recruits were processed fast. They were fed, escorted back to the barracks and bedded down.

  The next morning, Carpender was an utterly different human being, if that was the term. He entered the bay shouting, kicking and throwing things. If asked, Kendra would have admitted she'd never dreamed such language would be used in a civilized nation's military.

  "Dry those sticky fingers and hit the fucking decks, you worthless worms! Three fucking seconds! I want you outside in three fucking seconds! Did I say grab any clothes? Move your saggy, no-load asses! Don't talk! Don't think! When I want any shit out of you I'll rip off your head and scoop it out!"

  Shocked senseless, Kendra swarmed outside with the others. Few wore more than the shirt and underwear she did, some were naked. It was cold outside. She wrapped her arms around herself and wondered what the hell was going on.

  Suddenly, he was in front of her. "Where the fuck are you from, loser?"

  "Minneapolis . . . on Earth, sir."

  "I can't hear you! one would think with a chest like that there'd be lungs underneath somewhere . . . Well?"

  Unbelievable! Sexual innuendoes? Kendra decided she would not be the first to complain. But Rob's warning seemed shallow in comparison to the reality. Carpender was about to bellow again, so she inhaled and shouted, "Yes, sir!"

  " 'Yes, sir,' what??"

  "I have lungs, sir!"

  "Glad to hear it," he said and began pacing. "Because they are crucial to surviving recruit training and you will exercise them regularly. Do you all understand?"

  There was a ragged chorus of "Yes, sir."

  "Bullshit! I want to hear balls and titties shaking when you answer! The commander is getting a little deaf, and can't hear you over there in his insulated office. If he can't hear you, he thinks I'm not doing my job. So you will sound off loud enough to reassure him and keep me gainfully employed shattering your wills. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, sir!" came the bellowed reply.

  "Work on it," he advised, and strode back to Kendra.

  "Don't they have cold in mini-no-place?" he bellowed, nose almost touching hers.

  "Yes, sir!" she replied, loud enough to hurt her throat.

  "Then suck it up and take it, princess, because it is going to get colder and hotter than you can imagine!"

  "Yes, sir!" she shouted.

  He addressed the whole formation again. "There are footprints painted on the ground. Put your feet on them. Knees relaxed, backs straight. Arms straight down, thumbs along where your pants seams would be if you had any. This is the position of 'attention,' and it draws excess blood away from the brain, enabling miserable, vomitous, slimy little shitballs like yourselves to listen more clearly.

  "I am Senior Sergeant Recruit Instructor Joseph P. Carpender, and you are worthless maggots. You will refer to anyone higher in rank than yourselves, which is anyone, by their rank and rating. Since you are all clearly too stupid to memorize 'Senior Sergeant Recruit Instructor Carpender' and since the war would be lost before you could say it . . . I'm not laughing, why are you, maggot? . . . You will address me as 'sir.' Can anyone spell 'sir?' "

  "S-I-R?" someone replied.

  Without looking, he demanded, "You will state your name when answering and address me properly. Try it again, assmunch!"

  "Asher Denson, Sir! Sir is spelled 's-i-r,' sir!"

  He strode over and looked down at the recruit, who was in the younger-than-average category. "Your first name is 'recruit,' maggot! Maybe someday you Will get a manly pair of balls and be allowed the honor of changing it to 'soldier!' Make your corrections."

  "Recruit Denson, sir! I'm sorry for the error, sir!"

  "You're sorry, all right. Now apologize. Shut up!" he bellowed contradictorily as the kid tried to reply. He turned and paced again. "For your information,
'sir' is spelled 'g-o-d.' I am god, and you will learn from me or be struck down."

  He was clearly reciting from rote as he continued, "This is without a doubt the sorriest bunch of limp-dicked, banana-tittied, ass-breathed, masturbating, runny-nosed, slack-jawed, potbellied, macaroni-muscled, shit-sucking, gutless little trolls I have ever had the misfortune to have assigned to me! I do believe the commander is pissed off at me for being too gentle! Therefore, I will be harder! In the past, I have crushed the souls of some genuine ladies and men with my thespian talents. I feel my skills will be wasted reducing such a sorry bunch of nail-biting, pud-pounding, pussy-stretching, panty-wetting, jabbering yokels to tears and soggy pants!

  "But it is my duty, and I will do it.

  "You do not have to, and will not, enjoy anything that happens here for the next eighty-six days. You will ache, you will cry, you will be humiliated and degraded, you will bleed. All this will do one of two things: either send you back to mama with your eyes bloodshot and teary or qualify you to become a proud member of the freehold military forces—the meanest, baddest, most brutal bunch of professional KILLERS who ever struck the fear of the god and goddess into an enemy ten times their size.

  "Learn now the first lesson," he said as he came to attention and faced them. "anything you do can get you killed. Doing nothing will get you killed. You have all taken those psych tests where there are no wrong answers. This is a test with no right answers.War does not determine who is right. War determines who is left.

  "None of you are dressed as prescribed in the recruit Training Manual. Since you have not yet been read the relevant section, and since your literacy is questionable, I will be lenient. You should each be wearing nine articles of clothing minimum on this and every day of your existences from now on. You will each count how many articles you are wearing, subtract it from nine, multiply the result by twenty. That is how many pushups you will do as a reminder. Don't even think of fucking with me by trying to do less. You are not paid to think, and I can and will multiple track you. Now drop and pump!"

  A hundred and forty pushups?? Kendra thought to herself as she threw herself at the ground. In this gravity?? But Carpender was counting and she tried grimly to keep up with the count. Then she fell behind. She kept her own count as they progressed, until she collapsed at forty-three. She hadn't thought she could do that many.

  "Problem, princess?" Carpender snapped from above, almost gently.

  "My arms won't support me, sir," she grunted.

  "Your arms will do anything your brain and guts want them to. Get with it," he said, then moved through the ranks to haze others. She forced her muscles to respond and shook through twelve more. The ranks were thinning as some finished and headed inside, but Kendra had plenty of miserable companions to keep her company.

  Carpender came back. "That's ninety, isn't it, princess?"

  "I have only finished fifty-five, sir!" she half howled, half whimpered.

  "Well, there's no rest for the honest. You will stay here, with your tits freezing to the ground, until such time as you finish," he advised. "So suck it up and pump 'em out." He hoisted her aloft by her shirt collar, the fabric biting into her neck, and let go. She fell painfully down, banging her chin. "Take that one as a freebie," he said, walking off, "just for being honest."

  Kendra was last to finish and struggled inside. Her arms were blessedly numb and most of her body was, also. She fumbled, shivering, into a uniform and back outside into formation.

  Carpender flicked his eyes at her, but said nothing as she filled in the last slot. "Walk this way," he ordered.

  They straggled along, not quite in step, and were passed by several platoons of more advanced trainees. Insulting cadences and jeers rang out, most of them familiar to Kendra, if blunter and ruder. She smiled inwardly. More roots she could recognize.

  "Recruit, recruit, don't feel blue

  My recruiter fucked me too."

  And

  "Ain't no sense in looking down,

  Ain't no discharge on the ground . . ."

  They walked until they reached the issue depot again. Inside, they were tossed more gear, this time suspension vests and packs, body armor, tools, canteens . . . and rifles. They were issued their rifles once and expected to keep them for life. That shocked Kendra at first, but upon consideration, it made sense. A soldier who was honorably discharged was no different a person the next day, and no less trustworthy. Here, as in the UN, all veterans could be recalled to duty if needed. It did seem reasonable that they have their gear with them, rather than needing a reissue that would take days at best.

  Back outside, Carpender went through excruciating detail on how to wear every item. "If you survive to become a soldier," he said, "you can wear it any way you wish. That is the privilege of the soldier. But as filthy little maggots, you will wear it in the fashion prescribed by the book. This is so the cadre can tell you haven't conveniently lost any items to try to wimp out on us.

  "You will be armed at all times, on and off base, with at least a sidearm. It will be your duty to the Freehold to protect the Freehold and you cannot properly protect it unarmed."

  He led them down several roads and into tall grass that had been beaten down by use.

  "When soldiers walk, it is called marching. Before you can learn to walk, however, you must learn to crawl. We will spend the rest of the day learning to crawl. On your hands and knees."

  They dropped quickly and gratefully. Then they realized that the gear was heavy and crawling hard work, especially when you weren't allowed to contact the ground with your torso.

  Kendra was forced to her elbows, her arms not having enough strength to keep her upright. It had been a miserable morning, a boring lunch of field rations and an excruciating afternoon. The heat hit before noon and continued until well past the break for dinner. Sweat and grime mingled in a greasy film on everything.

  After dinner, they walked back to the barracks and grounded all gear except rifles. They fell in outside again and Carpender took his usual position. "No-load," he said, using the moniker he'd attached to one recruit.

  "Yes, sir!"

  "Front and center. And Icebitch." After a few moments, he added, "That's you, Pacelli. Are you waiting for an engraved fucking invitation? Did you decide this morning you were going to fuck up my schedule and my life?"

  "No, sir, no sir, and here, sir!" she shouted as she hit the line in front of him.

  "Well, that's funny," he said as titters ran through the ranks. "Ever consider comedy?"

  "No, sir!" she replied.

  "Good. You'd starve. If you have energy for jokes, you have energy to give me twenty. So does anyone who laughed. And anyone who groaned can make it thirty! And you, and you, and you, who don't have the integrity to admit to laughing can make it fifty!"

  Several segs later, they resumed. Kendra and No-load were back at attention in front of Carpender. "About, hace!" he ordered. Kendra swiveled on her heel.

  "These two have prior service," he explained. "Not what anyone competent would properly call military service, but at least they learned how to march. At least, I hope you two know how to march, with your records," he said viciously, breathing over Kendra's shoulder, "because if you embarrass me, it will not bode well for the next eighty-six days."

  "Split into three squads, here and here," he waved his hands to indicate. "Icebitch, take the left, No-load, take the right. I'll take the middle. If they can walk and turn corners without tripping before a div has passed, you won't have to give me fifty more."

  Kendra waited a moment to see what Carpender did. He waved his group into a circle, so she followed suit.

  She began the process of showing them attention again, facing movements, forward march, column right and left and left and right wheel. Then was the laborious time of getting a handful of people to learn left from right and remember that forward march commenced on the left foot. In exasperation, she handed several of them rocks to hold in their left hands. It act
ually did work.

  A div later, Carpender came over and snapped orders. "Squad, by my command, Aten shut! Left hace! About, hace! Right, hace! About, hace! Forward, harch! Column left, harch! Column right, harch! Squad, halt! Adequate. At least they don't trip over their feet. You will be squad leader, and march them every night until they are competent. Say, 'Yes, sir.' "

  "Yes, sir!"

  "Shower, Shave, Shit and Sleep. Look for your names on the watch roster. Dismissed." He strode inside.

  Kendra had never been more exhausted in her life. She couldn't lift her arms above mid-chest and could barely stand in the shower. It didn't help that the water was now cold; the heat had been turned off. She dried as best she could manage, drew on a shirt and underwear against the growing cold and straightened her bay area. She was too shocked by the day to lie down, so sat on her chair for a while. Open bay barracks, shaved scalps, screaming profanity and exercise as punishment. It was like something out of the Middle Ages. Rob had warned her that it would be harder than her UN training, but the magnitude of the difference was staggering. She ran a hand over her stubbly bald head again, and breathed deeply to avoid crying. She could hear occasional sobs and restless movement from some of the younger recruits. Some were barely sixteen Earth years. How would they survive this?

  Feeling cold, she finally dragged her aching body into bed. Her head bristled on the pillow and someone was snoring to do justice to a shuttle landing. She began griping in her head and was asleep before she could frame three words.

  As soon as she closed her eyes, it seemed, Carpender was roaring for them to get up. She snatched on her pants, stuffed her feet into her boots and dragged the rest of it with her. The result of her efforts was a mere fifty pushups for not being dressed properly. Those who lacked clothing items did thirty per item and fifty more. She decided to sleep dressed from now on. Quickly finishing, her arms feeling bruised from the abuse of the last two days, she waited for orders. After a run that made her almost vomit, they hit an obstacle course. She hated climbing up and down the two artificial cliffs, even with the provided ropes. She gritted her teeth as she clambered up a cargo net into twenty meters of free space, then back down. She slipped on a swinging rope and was soaked in frigid water, then soaked again crossing a log bridge. They didn't change, but went straight to breakfast.