recruit moved quickly forward to support him from the other side. The two of them helped him from the rec room and along the row of silent coffins. As they lowered him down into the one assigned to him, he looked at them questioningly.
"We're all in this together, and we ought to know each other's names. I'm Hark."
"I'm Waed."
"I'm Morish."
Hark lay back with a groan. "It seems like we're going to have to stick together." Waed and Morish stood in the narrow aisle between the rows of coffins as if they were uncertain whether they should go back to the rec room. Hark dropped the lid of the coffin and pulled the thin thermal-weave blanket around his shoulders. A sense of cold desolation crept over him, a helpless uncertainty as to what was in store for him in this strange, violent, alien place. Despite all his fears, though, within minutes he was fast asleep.
The period of sleep seemed to last no time at all. He felt as if he'd only just closed his eyes when horns started baying and the temperature in the coffin dropped close to freezing point. The lid of the coffin opened of its own accord, and he could hear the hectoring voice of Overman Elmo.
"Up, you scum! Everybody up! You want to die in bed?"
Topman Rance stood back in the entrance to the messdeck. Let Elmo roust them out of their pits—they were his battle unit and his babies. Rance had four units to worry about, and the whole damned combat coordinate. Elmo could scare the hell out of the recruits and take abuse from Renchett and Dacker. Rance noticed that one of the recruits, the one called Hark, was moving stiffly and that there was an ugly bruise running across his left shoulder blade. Dyrkin had been reinforcing the pecking order. Dyrkin had been maingun in this twenty for more than seven standards, and he was possessed of what had, so far, proved to be an unerring instinct. First time around, with a pickup of recruits, he always beat up on the most spirited of the bunch. The one he initially picked on usually rose in the pecking order but never challenged his position. Of course, in the end, there would be a challenger, and the challenger might well topple Dyrkin. Mainguns, if they weren't promoted, always
took the fall in the end. There seemed to be a natural rule that ex-mainguns tended not to survive very long in combat after they'd been deposed.
Rance waited until Overman Elmo had run the twenty through the cleanoff and a fast workout on the hexagons. The longtimers were dispatched to their various work details. Keep the bastards busy and they won't have the spare time and energy to start cooking up nastiness. Finally, Elmo paraded the five recruits along the aisle in front of their respective coffins, standing at whatever approximation of rigid attention they could manage. When everything was to Elmo's satisfaction, he took a step back and deferred to Rance.
"Your recruits, Topman Rance."
"Thank you, Overman Elmo."
Rance walked slowly along the line of recruits. He stopped in front of the last.
"Name?"
"Morish 34103-301779."
Rance regarded him bleakly. "I have a name and a title, boy."
"Morish 34103-301779, Topman Rance." "Just remember that, boy." He moved to the next man.
"Name?"
"Voda 34103-301780, Topmari Rance." "Good."
"Waed 34103-301781, Topman Rance."
"Hark 34103-301782, Topman Rance."
Rance probed the bruise on Hark's shoulder with his index finger. "Trouble, boy?"
"No trouble, Topman Rance."
The kid was smart. He had a swift grasp of the essentials.
"Name?"
"Eslay 34103-301783, Topman Rance."
Rance faced the pickup. He smiled coldly and rubbed his hands slowly together.
"Well, my children, my poor little lost sheep, now that you all know your name, your number, and, I-hope, for your sakes, your place, we come to the most important part of your initiation into the armies of the Therem Alliance." He glanced at Elmo. "Suits, boots, and helmets, Overman Elmo." Elmo snapped his fingers. "Suits, boots, and helmets!"
The process
"We're all in this together, and we ought to know each other's names. I'm Hark."
"I'm Waed."
"I'm Morish."
Hark lay back with a groan. "It seems like we're going to have to stick together." Waed and Morish stood in the narrow aisle between the rows of coffins as if they were uncertain whether they should go back to the rec room. Hark dropped the lid of the coffin and pulled the thin thermal-weave blanket around his shoulders. A sense of cold desolation crept over him, a helpless uncertainty as to what was in store for him in this strange, violent, alien place. Despite all his fears, though, within minutes he was fast asleep.
The period of sleep seemed to last no time at all. He felt as if he'd only just closed his eyes when horns started baying and the temperature in the coffin dropped close to freezing point. The lid of the coffin opened of its own accord, and he could hear the hectoring voice of Overman Elmo.
"Up, you scum! Everybody up! You want to die in bed?"
Topman Rance stood back in the entrance to the messdeck. Let Elmo roust them out of their pits—they were his battle unit and his babies. Rance had four units to worry about, and the whole damned combat coordinate. Elmo could scare the hell out of the recruits and take abuse from Renchett and Dacker. Rance noticed that one of the recruits, the one called Hark, was moving stiffly and that there was an ugly bruise running across his left shoulder blade. Dyrkin had been reinforcing the pecking order. Dyrkin had been maingun in this twenty for more than seven standards, and he was possessed of what had, so far, proved to be an unerring instinct. First time around, with a pickup of recruits, he always beat up on the most spirited of the bunch. The one he initially picked on usually rose in the pecking order but never challenged his position. Of course, in the end, there would be a challenger, and the challenger might well topple Dyrkin. Mainguns, if they weren't promoted, always
took the fall in the end. There seemed to be a natural rule that ex-mainguns tended not to survive very long in combat after they'd been deposed.
Rance waited until Overman Elmo had run the twenty through the cleanoff and a fast workout on the hexagons. The longtimers were dispatched to their various work details. Keep the bastards busy and they won't have the spare time and energy to start cooking up nastiness. Finally, Elmo paraded the five recruits along the aisle in front of their respective coffins, standing at whatever approximation of rigid attention they could manage. When everything was to Elmo's satisfaction, he took a step back and deferred to Rance.
"Your recruits, Topman Rance."
"Thank you, Overman Elmo."
Rance walked slowly along the line of recruits. He stopped in front of the last.
"Name?"
"Morish 34103-301779."
Rance regarded him bleakly. "I have a name and a title, boy."
"Morish 34103-301779, Topman Rance." "Just remember that, boy." He moved to the next man.
"Name?"
"Voda 34103-301780, Topmari Rance." "Good."
"Waed 34103-301781, Topman Rance."
"Hark 34103-301782, Topman Rance."
Rance probed the bruise on Hark's shoulder with his index finger. "Trouble, boy?"
"No trouble, Topman Rance."
The kid was smart. He had a swift grasp of the essentials.
"Name?"
"Eslay 34103-301783, Topman Rance."
Rance faced the pickup. He smiled coldly and rubbed his hands slowly together.
"Well, my children, my poor little lost sheep, now that you all know your name, your number, and, I-hope, for your sakes, your place, we come to the most important part of your initiation into the armies of the Therem Alliance." He glanced at Elmo. "Suits, boots, and helmets, Overman Elmo." Elmo snapped his fingers. "Suits, boots, and helmets!"
The process
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