isolation—air and water recycled, power sources independent of the outside.”
“Plus getting back all the capital we’ve put in, to date?” Jack said, looking at Russ.
“That’s right,” Nesbitt said. Russ nodded almost imperceptibly.
Jack squeezed some more lime into his Bloody Mary. “Iguess we’ll look into your contract. Have our lawyers look into it. Maybe make a counteroffer.”
“Fair enough.” Nesbitt stood. “I’ll go up and fetch it. I think you’ll find it clear and complete.”
What they wouldn’t find was a little detail about the “independent power source”: As a public health measure for the planet, its plutonium load could be command-detonated from Washington, turning the whole island into radioactive slag.
- 15 -
amherst, massachusetts, february 1941
T he changeling could have avoided the draft by simulating any number of maladies or deficiencies; one out of three American men were rejected. Like a lot of men, for various reasons, he avoided it by joining the Marines.
The Corps was not enthusiastic about recruits like Jimmy Berry, no matter how good they would look on a recruiting poster. He was tall, strong, handsome, healthy, and obviously from a rich family. He was probably lying about not having gone to college, to get out of being assigned to Officer Candidate School. He would be hard to break, which would make it that much harder to break the other shitbirds. And they had to be broken before they could be built anew as Marines.
They called him Pretty Boy and Richie Rich. But he was a little more of a problem than they’d anticipated. On their way to their first day in barracks, a big drill sergeant called him out of ranks—“You march like a fuckin’ girl”—and made him do fifty push-ups, which he did without breakinga sweat. Then the sergeant sat on his back and said, “Fifty more.” He did these with no obvious effort.
So the first night, the drill sergeant organized a “blanket party” for the annoying shitbird. He got three more big sergeants and three big corporals to throw a blanket over the sleeping Jimmy and beat some respect into him.
It was two in the morning and the changeling, mentally playing the piano with four hands, heard the seven tiptoeing down the aisle of the barracks, but dismissed the sound as unimportant. Nothing here could hurt it.
But when the blanket suddenly was wrapped tightly around it and someone struck it with a club, it did fight back for less than a second. Then it figured out the situation and was totally passive.
In less than a second, though, it had broken a wrist and two thumbs, and had kicked one man across the room, to get a concussion against the opposite wall.
One of the survivors kept swinging the club at Jimmy’s inert form, until the others hustled him out. Then the recruits, by ones and twos, came over to see what damage had been done.
The changeling manufactured bruises and cuts and released an appropriate amount of blood. It was a ghastly sight in the dim light from the latrine. “We have to get him to the infirmary,” someone said.
“No,” the changeling said.
The overhead lights snapped on. “What the fuck is going on in here?” the drill sergeant roared. He was wearing clean pressed fatigues, but the shirt was only buttoned halfway, and his left hand hung useless at his side, the thumb turning purple and blue. “You shitbirds get back to your bunks.”
Two noncoms sidled by him to the unconscious one lying by the wall. He moaned when they picked him up and hustled him away.
The drill sergeant stood in front of Jimmy, inspectinghis bruises and cuts and two black eyes. “What happened to you, recruit?”
“What do you think happened, Sergeant?”
“Looks to me like you fell out of your bunk.”
“That must be it, Sergeant.”
“Will you need medical help?”
“No, Sergeant.”
“LOUDER!” he screamed.
“NO, SERGEANT!” The changeling matched his tone and accent
“Plus getting back all the capital we’ve put in, to date?” Jack said, looking at Russ.
“That’s right,” Nesbitt said. Russ nodded almost imperceptibly.
Jack squeezed some more lime into his Bloody Mary. “Iguess we’ll look into your contract. Have our lawyers look into it. Maybe make a counteroffer.”
“Fair enough.” Nesbitt stood. “I’ll go up and fetch it. I think you’ll find it clear and complete.”
What they wouldn’t find was a little detail about the “independent power source”: As a public health measure for the planet, its plutonium load could be command-detonated from Washington, turning the whole island into radioactive slag.
- 15 -
amherst, massachusetts, february 1941
T he changeling could have avoided the draft by simulating any number of maladies or deficiencies; one out of three American men were rejected. Like a lot of men, for various reasons, he avoided it by joining the Marines.
The Corps was not enthusiastic about recruits like Jimmy Berry, no matter how good they would look on a recruiting poster. He was tall, strong, handsome, healthy, and obviously from a rich family. He was probably lying about not having gone to college, to get out of being assigned to Officer Candidate School. He would be hard to break, which would make it that much harder to break the other shitbirds. And they had to be broken before they could be built anew as Marines.
They called him Pretty Boy and Richie Rich. But he was a little more of a problem than they’d anticipated. On their way to their first day in barracks, a big drill sergeant called him out of ranks—“You march like a fuckin’ girl”—and made him do fifty push-ups, which he did without breakinga sweat. Then the sergeant sat on his back and said, “Fifty more.” He did these with no obvious effort.
So the first night, the drill sergeant organized a “blanket party” for the annoying shitbird. He got three more big sergeants and three big corporals to throw a blanket over the sleeping Jimmy and beat some respect into him.
It was two in the morning and the changeling, mentally playing the piano with four hands, heard the seven tiptoeing down the aisle of the barracks, but dismissed the sound as unimportant. Nothing here could hurt it.
But when the blanket suddenly was wrapped tightly around it and someone struck it with a club, it did fight back for less than a second. Then it figured out the situation and was totally passive.
In less than a second, though, it had broken a wrist and two thumbs, and had kicked one man across the room, to get a concussion against the opposite wall.
One of the survivors kept swinging the club at Jimmy’s inert form, until the others hustled him out. Then the recruits, by ones and twos, came over to see what damage had been done.
The changeling manufactured bruises and cuts and released an appropriate amount of blood. It was a ghastly sight in the dim light from the latrine. “We have to get him to the infirmary,” someone said.
“No,” the changeling said.
The overhead lights snapped on. “What the fuck is going on in here?” the drill sergeant roared. He was wearing clean pressed fatigues, but the shirt was only buttoned halfway, and his left hand hung useless at his side, the thumb turning purple and blue. “You shitbirds get back to your bunks.”
Two noncoms sidled by him to the unconscious one lying by the wall. He moaned when they picked him up and hustled him away.
The drill sergeant stood in front of Jimmy, inspectinghis bruises and cuts and two black eyes. “What happened to you, recruit?”
“What do you think happened, Sergeant?”
“Looks to me like you fell out of your bunk.”
“That must be it, Sergeant.”
“Will you need medical help?”
“No, Sergeant.”
“LOUDER!” he screamed.
“NO, SERGEANT!” The changeling matched his tone and accent
Similar Books
