Legion Of The Damned - 02 - The Final Battle by William C. Dietz Page A
Authors: William C. Dietz
Ads: Link
now you know.”
The general smiled. “I sure do. Now tell me about all the ‘political crap that generals swim in.’ I’d like to know more.”
The colonel checked to make sure the general was joking and they laughed together.
The better part of the afternoon was spent out-processing for Clone World Alpha-001. Parker, sans arm band and weapon, accompanied Booly through the process. The young officer had thanked the NCO, and tried to release him, but the cadaverous corporal refused to go.
The first stop was a normally quiet area three floors above the Green Room. Normally used for routine administrative purposes, the offices were temporarily transformed into processing centers whenever a class graduated from the academy. A sizable number of Boolyʼs classmates were already there, talking, arguing, and trading friendly insults. Booly looked for Kadien and didn’t know whether to be happy or sorry that he wasn’t there. Colonel Axler had been right about the way he’d been manipulated, and the last thing he needed to do was get in a fight with a classmate. But if Kadien said one word, just one word about his race, Booly knew he would wipe the sneer off the other officer’s face.
Habits are hard to break, so the newly minted lieutenants automatically formed six lines and put an arm’s worth of distance between themselves and the person in front of them. Each line terminated in front of a door, and each door had a number stenciled on it. Everyone had heard Riley’s or Kadien’s version of what had taken place the night before and Booly was greeted with hoots and whistles.
“Hey, Booly! Some marines are looking for you!”
“Look! He kept his boards!”
“Bill, good to see you, man, how’s the arm?”
“Hey, shithead, whereʼd they send you?”
A hush fell over the crowd. Everyone knew he’d been to Summary Court and was curious about his punishment. Booly forced a smile and shrugged. “Clone World Alpha-001.”
There were groans, words of commiseration, and a round of the usual clone jokes. But Booly knew most if not all of the men and women around him were secretly pleased. Not because they were bigots but because humans beings like to feel lucky.
Fortunately for Booly, his classmates’ attention spans were notoriously short and conversation soon veered toward the eternal verities of sports, sex, music, and warfare, not necessarily in that order. Booly’s headache had returned, and his arm hurt, but it felt good to be reabsorbed into the wrap and weave of military society. The line moved quickly and Booly found himself standing in front of it fifteen minutes later.
Door number three opened, he stepped through, and found himself in a brightly lit but otherwise unremarkable room. There were no furnishings other than a platform with a frame around it. A vaguely humanoid robot with an olive drab paint job greeted Booly with relentless courtesy. “Welcome to out-processing station three. Please step onto the platform. The platform will rotate. Do not be alarmed. A series of questions will be asked. Please answer in a loud, clear voice.”
Booly obeyed and the platform started to rotate. A gender-neutral voice came from nowhere and everywhere at once. “You have been wounded. With the exception of your wound, are you in pain?”
Booly lied. “No.”
“Do you have bouts of nausea? Blurred vision? Unexplained dizziness?”
Booly had all three but knew why. “No.”
“Do you have regular bowel movements? Have you seen blood in your stool?” And on and on until the questions and the sound of his own replies became a distant drone.
In the meantime a complex tracery of laser beams roamed his body, hundreds of precise measurements were taken, and the resulting information was sent across campus to a series of one-story buildings where an entire set of perfectly tailored class-A, class-B, and utility uniforms were produced, along with body armor, shoes, boots, and a customized side arm.
The general smiled. “I sure do. Now tell me about all the ‘political crap that generals swim in.’ I’d like to know more.”
The colonel checked to make sure the general was joking and they laughed together.
The better part of the afternoon was spent out-processing for Clone World Alpha-001. Parker, sans arm band and weapon, accompanied Booly through the process. The young officer had thanked the NCO, and tried to release him, but the cadaverous corporal refused to go.
The first stop was a normally quiet area three floors above the Green Room. Normally used for routine administrative purposes, the offices were temporarily transformed into processing centers whenever a class graduated from the academy. A sizable number of Boolyʼs classmates were already there, talking, arguing, and trading friendly insults. Booly looked for Kadien and didn’t know whether to be happy or sorry that he wasn’t there. Colonel Axler had been right about the way he’d been manipulated, and the last thing he needed to do was get in a fight with a classmate. But if Kadien said one word, just one word about his race, Booly knew he would wipe the sneer off the other officer’s face.
Habits are hard to break, so the newly minted lieutenants automatically formed six lines and put an arm’s worth of distance between themselves and the person in front of them. Each line terminated in front of a door, and each door had a number stenciled on it. Everyone had heard Riley’s or Kadien’s version of what had taken place the night before and Booly was greeted with hoots and whistles.
“Hey, Booly! Some marines are looking for you!”
“Look! He kept his boards!”
“Bill, good to see you, man, how’s the arm?”
“Hey, shithead, whereʼd they send you?”
A hush fell over the crowd. Everyone knew he’d been to Summary Court and was curious about his punishment. Booly forced a smile and shrugged. “Clone World Alpha-001.”
There were groans, words of commiseration, and a round of the usual clone jokes. But Booly knew most if not all of the men and women around him were secretly pleased. Not because they were bigots but because humans beings like to feel lucky.
Fortunately for Booly, his classmates’ attention spans were notoriously short and conversation soon veered toward the eternal verities of sports, sex, music, and warfare, not necessarily in that order. Booly’s headache had returned, and his arm hurt, but it felt good to be reabsorbed into the wrap and weave of military society. The line moved quickly and Booly found himself standing in front of it fifteen minutes later.
Door number three opened, he stepped through, and found himself in a brightly lit but otherwise unremarkable room. There were no furnishings other than a platform with a frame around it. A vaguely humanoid robot with an olive drab paint job greeted Booly with relentless courtesy. “Welcome to out-processing station three. Please step onto the platform. The platform will rotate. Do not be alarmed. A series of questions will be asked. Please answer in a loud, clear voice.”
Booly obeyed and the platform started to rotate. A gender-neutral voice came from nowhere and everywhere at once. “You have been wounded. With the exception of your wound, are you in pain?”
Booly lied. “No.”
“Do you have bouts of nausea? Blurred vision? Unexplained dizziness?”
Booly had all three but knew why. “No.”
“Do you have regular bowel movements? Have you seen blood in your stool?” And on and on until the questions and the sound of his own replies became a distant drone.
In the meantime a complex tracery of laser beams roamed his body, hundreds of precise measurements were taken, and the resulting information was sent across campus to a series of one-story buildings where an entire set of perfectly tailored class-A, class-B, and utility uniforms were produced, along with body armor, shoes, boots, and a customized side arm.
Similar Books
