Read Online First to Fight by Dan Cragg, David Sherman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dan Cragg, David Sherman
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in Central Data in Saint Louie.
“You can’t muck about with it. There is no way you can read the data it contains, and no way you can alter it. There are only two ways that bracelet will ever come off you. One is if you are released from active duty at the end of an enlistment, through retirement, or as the result of a court-martial that kicks your worthless hindquarters out of this man’s Marine Corps. The other is if some felonious aggressor out there on some godforsaken planet you’d never set foot on if Mother Corps didn’t say you had to blows your hand off.
“If anyone tries to muck about with the data in that bracelet, the bracelet will erase. If you are the one who did it, stand by for a court-martial. More likely, though, anyone mucking about with it will be a scum-sucking aggressor who had the rare good luck to take you prisoner, something that doesn’t happen very often, let me tell you. If that’s the case, well now, that’s why the data is programmed to erase in case of unauthorized entry. We don’t want any rat-snorfing aggressors getting their sklit-licking fingers on that data.
“By the way, if you should ever be taken POW, stand by for rescue. In the entire two and a quarter centuries of the Confederation Marine Corps, only one Marine has remained a live POW for more than ninety-six hours standard. In that instance, the Marine in question was on leave and it was seventy-three standard hours before anyone knew he’d been taken. A rescue mission was planned, mounted, and executed in under twenty-four hours. The only thing that went wrong with the mission was the Marine being rescued was in aggressor hands for nearly ninety-seven hours.
“Enough grab-assing for now. You’ve got more processing-in to undergo. Corporal Singh, move them to the next station.” McNeal wondered if he was the only one who thought it was ominous that Staff Sergeant Neeley had said only one Marine had ever remained a live POW for more than ninety-six hours.
“Let’s sidestep briskly through that line, people,” Staff Sergeant Pretty said to the line of recruits clad only in whatever underwear they’d worn when they left home that morning. “The sooner you get through, the sooner you get to stop for chow. The longer you take to do everything, the longer it will be before you get to stop to sleep. I don’t need much sleep, so it doesn’t matter to me if you don’t get any. And I don’t have anywhere to go for the next month, so it doesn’t matter to me if you want to spend all that time milling around when you could be moving briskly and getting your processing-in done with.”
That looks too much like a coffin, Dean thought as he approached the first position on the line. They didn’t really sidestep; they pulled themselves along a chain of handholds standing out from the bulkhead. The contraption at the first position resembled a coffin only in general dimensions: a box seven feet by two feet by three feet. But it wasn’t laid out flat, it stood up.
“Remember to keep your eyes closed when you’re inside,” Corporal Singh said to each man as he moved into the box.
Dean moved up to the box, glided into it, and flinched as the door closed behind him. He closed his eyes as instructed and didn’t see the sensors as they measured him. Ground to crown. Toe to heel to ankle, height of arch and instep. Ground to crotch, ground to waist. Hip to armpit to shoulder. Neck. Shoulders, delt to delt. Chest width and depth. Waist width and depth. Hips width and depth. Chin to crown to nape. Temple to temple. Occipital bulge. Height and width of brow. Spacing of eyes. Length of nose, breadth of nostrils. Width of mouth. And more.
It was over in less than a second.
The door popped open. Dean pushed himself out of the box, handholded himself to the next station, held out his basket, and accepted the two pair of brilliant red sweat-pants that were dropped onto it by the robot server. Handhold again and be issued
“You can’t muck about with it. There is no way you can read the data it contains, and no way you can alter it. There are only two ways that bracelet will ever come off you. One is if you are released from active duty at the end of an enlistment, through retirement, or as the result of a court-martial that kicks your worthless hindquarters out of this man’s Marine Corps. The other is if some felonious aggressor out there on some godforsaken planet you’d never set foot on if Mother Corps didn’t say you had to blows your hand off.
“If anyone tries to muck about with the data in that bracelet, the bracelet will erase. If you are the one who did it, stand by for a court-martial. More likely, though, anyone mucking about with it will be a scum-sucking aggressor who had the rare good luck to take you prisoner, something that doesn’t happen very often, let me tell you. If that’s the case, well now, that’s why the data is programmed to erase in case of unauthorized entry. We don’t want any rat-snorfing aggressors getting their sklit-licking fingers on that data.
“By the way, if you should ever be taken POW, stand by for rescue. In the entire two and a quarter centuries of the Confederation Marine Corps, only one Marine has remained a live POW for more than ninety-six hours standard. In that instance, the Marine in question was on leave and it was seventy-three standard hours before anyone knew he’d been taken. A rescue mission was planned, mounted, and executed in under twenty-four hours. The only thing that went wrong with the mission was the Marine being rescued was in aggressor hands for nearly ninety-seven hours.
“Enough grab-assing for now. You’ve got more processing-in to undergo. Corporal Singh, move them to the next station.” McNeal wondered if he was the only one who thought it was ominous that Staff Sergeant Neeley had said only one Marine had ever remained a live POW for more than ninety-six hours.
“Let’s sidestep briskly through that line, people,” Staff Sergeant Pretty said to the line of recruits clad only in whatever underwear they’d worn when they left home that morning. “The sooner you get through, the sooner you get to stop for chow. The longer you take to do everything, the longer it will be before you get to stop to sleep. I don’t need much sleep, so it doesn’t matter to me if you don’t get any. And I don’t have anywhere to go for the next month, so it doesn’t matter to me if you want to spend all that time milling around when you could be moving briskly and getting your processing-in done with.”
That looks too much like a coffin, Dean thought as he approached the first position on the line. They didn’t really sidestep; they pulled themselves along a chain of handholds standing out from the bulkhead. The contraption at the first position resembled a coffin only in general dimensions: a box seven feet by two feet by three feet. But it wasn’t laid out flat, it stood up.
“Remember to keep your eyes closed when you’re inside,” Corporal Singh said to each man as he moved into the box.
Dean moved up to the box, glided into it, and flinched as the door closed behind him. He closed his eyes as instructed and didn’t see the sensors as they measured him. Ground to crown. Toe to heel to ankle, height of arch and instep. Ground to crotch, ground to waist. Hip to armpit to shoulder. Neck. Shoulders, delt to delt. Chest width and depth. Waist width and depth. Hips width and depth. Chin to crown to nape. Temple to temple. Occipital bulge. Height and width of brow. Spacing of eyes. Length of nose, breadth of nostrils. Width of mouth. And more.
It was over in less than a second.
The door popped open. Dean pushed himself out of the box, handholded himself to the next station, held out his basket, and accepted the two pair of brilliant red sweat-pants that were dropped onto it by the robot server. Handhold again and be issued
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