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"An
enemy deserves no mercy: Mercy is an illusion.
Care for your
condition: Good care is to be taken with weapons.
Strength is
to be protected: Strength is needed.
Survive: Dead bodies are
useless.
Weaknesses are to be erased: Weaknesses are
deadly.
Win properly: Make it impossible for your enemy to
fight again.
..."
The
rules were repeated again and again during the exercises,
repeated in the rhythm of heavy breaths and running steps, back
and forth. The rules had to be followed as exactly as the
physical training that was to be done five times a day. The
assault rifle slammed against his back – heavier, now that
they'd finally gotten ammunition, and the two magazines and the
supply at his belt were another three kilograms – as Shane
leaped off the cliff and landed smoothly ten meters below on the
gravel field. Fifteen more miles. Then the exams and food and –
best of all – water. He wasn't good at dealing with thirst.
He always needed too much to drink, always grew thirsty too early
on the course. Another one of his differences. Dangerous. He
gritted his teeth and increased his speed...
"Win
properly: Make it imposs..."
The
staccato of an automated gun thundered through the corridors.
Cmdr. Joseph Walsh dropped his lightpen, grabbed his service
weapon, adjusted it to heavy stun, and left his office at a run.
Additional shots and shouts from the guards led him on his way.
He found them outside the examination rooms; the MPs reached the
place with him and secured the labs at his hand
sign.
Another guard lay as a
bloody heap on the floor. Unmoving. Two of the troopers fought
around and above the battered body. The guard's APG
was caught in the grips of the battling boys.
"Apart!
Drop the weapon!"
The
children didn't respond, continued their silent combat, their
faces and bodies covered with blood. It was impossible to
identify them in the clash. The larger one launched a side kick
against the smaller – and likely younger – one's groin.
Without success. The smaller boy turned his hip sideways, slammed
his fingernails in a stop-blow against the bigger one's throat.
Stumbling backwards, the larger strengthened his grip on the
weapon, tried to turn the barrel around, to press the trigger,
to–
Walsh aimed his LG.
"Stop! Now!" he bellowed.
Suddenly,
the legs of the smaller one seemed to falter. The child collapsed
– and hung his entire weight on the APG. The older boy lost
his grip. A shot went off. The bullet hit the older one's
shoulder. As the older ST fell, the younger one grabbed the
released weapon. Slamming his feet up into the wounded trooper's
belly, the smaller combatant came to his feet, the APG in his
hands targeted squarely at the bleeding enemy. In icy calm the
boy pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the other child in the
chest. Blood sprayed out as one of the great cardiac arteries was
ruptured and the corpse hit the ground.
Walsh
fired. Green-yellow stunning energy encompassed the thin body of
the child. He turned round, looked up with wide, surprised
eyes...
...green
eyes...
...and fell.
Walsh
clenched his fist as he checked the wounded guard's condition.
"Medics to the examination labs. One MP severely wounded,"
he ordered sharply, knowing that the shot trooper wouldn't need
any help. The second bullet had been aimed precisely. One of the
MPs repeated the order into his wristcom. "Get him locked
up," the commander snapped roughly, nodding at the shooter,
"before he's awake again."
"Yessir."
Two of the guards grabbed the boy's arms and legs and heaved him
up.
As the child was carried
away the commander murmured bitterly: "Murderer."
...the
world blurred as the weapon energy enclosed him. His body turned
round at the last impulses to which it responded, seeing the one
who'd shot him, seeing the disgust in the man's eyes.
Disappointment and disgust. Disgust at him.
He
hit the ground. Pain rushed through his body as the stun energy
erased the pain-killing adrenaline in his veins. His left leg
slammed hard on the two gunshot wounds at the inner side of his
right thigh, drawing more blood. Commands were shouted, too loud
to be understood any longer. He was picked up. The halogenic
lights burned through his lids into his eyes. A single word
reached the fading mind... an incredibly hurtful one.
The
second medic stood up. "Flewelling's going to make it, sir,"
he informed the commander. "Some weeks in MedoStat but he's
going to make it." He helped his colleague to pick up the
stretcher carrying the now sedated MP.
The
commander nodded at the information, then said to the remaining
guards as he took the ID-band off the fallen child, "The
surveillance files to my office. Immediately. No one's to go on
patrol alone from now on. Clear?"
"Clear,
sir."
"I
always said something like this was going to happen with that
indoctrination," Negata muttered angrily.
"The
Board wants soldiers," Walsh said grimly.
"Quickly."
Negata
snorted. "But soldiers have to be controllable. They
censored Tucholsky's
quotation, and now they're proving it in
reality!"
Walsh didn't
comment on that but activated the surveillance files. Both of
them watched the events closely.
The
guard - Flewelling, 26, married, two children who are living
with his wife in Fairbanks, Walsh recalled – watched the
entrance to the main examination room. His order had been not to
let any of the troopers in before the lab tech sent the signal
that he was finished with the one before. The older trooper
appeared.
"What was his
number?" Negata asked.
Walsh
had a look at the bloody ID band. "0098728."
"Any
name?"
"None that I
know of."
The MP denied the
trooper entry, told him that the exams on the one before him
weren't finished and that he had to wait. The trooper seemed
angry, said something about food. The guard shrugged and said
that wasn't his problem. The boy muttered something and seemed to
make an attempt to leave. Then 0098728 attacked the guard from
behind, slung his arm around the man's neck, squeezed the air out
of him, tore his fingernails across his eyes, and slammed his
knee between the guard's legs. As Flewelling doubled over with
pain, the boy jerked the service weapon from its holster, aimed
it carefully and said that now it would be the guard's problem.
Then he fired into the man's right foot, his knees; more bullets
hit shoulders and pelvis.
The
lab door opened. A tech looked out at the sudden noise. 0098728
whirled round and fired. A small body slammed against the tech,
pushed him out of the line of fire.
"1643453,
right?"
Walsh simply
nodded.
Two bullets hit the
boy's right thigh. 1643453 stumbled... and leaped at the
attacker, reaching for the APG.
Joseph
closed his eyes at the rest, didn't want to see again how Shane
aimed carefully and fired after the other one was already
hit.
"Where is 1643453
now?" Negata asked.
"Under
arrest."
"Hm. The
final shot wasn't self defense," Negata thought aloud. "But
he rescued the tech."
"'Win
properly.'" Walsh quoted cynically. "I bet the senator
will be pleased to hear that his dogmas are working."
The
professor sighed and laid his hands on the deskplate. "Get
the boy's injuries treated and let him go. He did what he is
trained to do."
"...what
he is trained to be," Walsh whispered, disgusted, reaching
for the intercom. He dropped his hand after the professor was
gone. He had already taken care that Shane's injuries were
treated before he went to his meeting with Negata about the
incident.
Shane
had regained consciousness in one of the medostat rooms, which
was – naturally – locked securely. That had been three
days ago. Still, the coverall he was issued every morning carried
the green V below
his identification number. Good. An A
would already have appeared if he was going to be
abandoned for this. Shane took a deep breath and stretched. The
two gunshot wounds in his leg still hurt, but it wasn't
paralyzing any longer. Good.
Two
MPs appeared at the door. The forcefield collapsed. One of them
waved with his laser rifle. "You. Back to the
others!"
He obeyed
immediately and left the room without sudden movements, keeping
his hands in plain sight. They led him to the common room. Most
of the other younger ones were gathered there. Awaiting him. T'is
going to be rough. The heavy, bulletproof door slammed shut
behind him. I'll have to fight to get my place back. He
looked across the room, made out the surroundings, the position
of enemies. Killbane and his asses are in combat training.
Good. Makes it easier.
One
of the others got up. Shane clenched his fists and growled. But
the fight didn't start.
Warily
he headed for the food handout, awaiting a blow in the back at
every step. It didn't happen.
He
took his tray, filled up his ration, and headed for a table in
the corner, never letting anyone out of his sight. They stayed at
their places. No kicks against his legs. Nothing was thrown at
him. Even the sneering wasn't present now. What's going on
here?
One of the females got
up, threw her tray across the room towards the waste container.
He whirled round at the sudden noise as the metal plate hit the
wall and noticed that some of the troopers around him stared at
him with cautious respect. He sat down, his back against the
bulletproof glass, the whole room in his viewfield, and took up
his fork. Then it struck him:
I
killed one of the elders. I'm no longer the toy. I'm one of them
now. I'm a– His thoughts burned in pain through his
soul. The fork clattered on his tray as his memories repeated it
with crystal clarity: Murderer.
That
night he lay awake, locked up in the darkness, staring at the
room's silhouettes in the dim light of the blurring forcefield
that separated this bed from the others. Murderer,
whispered his mind, murderer, murderer, it repeated again
and again in the commander's voice filled with disgust and
disappointment. Murderer. It hurt. It hurt in a way he
didn't understand. Murderer. He drove his nails into his
palms below the blanket till he felt blood dripping over his
skin. "I never want to hear that again," he whispered
into the dark. Murderer, his mind told him icily. "I'm
going to change that!" he answered.
"An
enemy deserves no mercy: Mercy is an illusion.
Care for your
condition: Good care is to be taken with weapons.
Strength is
to be protected: Strength is needed.
Survive: Dead bodies are
useless.
Weaknesses are to be erased: Weaknesses are
deadly.
Win properly: Make it impossible for your enemy to
fight again.
..."
The
rules were repeated again and again during the exercises,
repeated in the rhythm of heavy breaths and running steps, back
and forth. The rules had to be followed as exactly as the
physical training that was to be done five times a day. His lips
formed the words in obedience. Never again! whispered his
mind in rebellion.
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