quit on Sergeant Nolan. Not unless you want him to put you down himself. The man’s found a case of Mountain Dew on every run, they say, and he’s been drinking it ever since. No water, not even on a twenty-five mile ruck march with soldiers falling out to puke up their own liquid is Nolan drinking anything but the green slime from his camel-back.
“Most of you will die. I’m okay with that. I’d rather see ten of you in boxes, than even one civilian. If any of you try to go AWOL—even one soldier on the lam—I swear to all that’s holy, I’ll label you an enemy of what’s left of this here outfit and hunt—you—down.”
I realize in this group we’ve been washed out—pronounced dead, missing, or killed in action, and if I had family to worry about back home, I’d be crying in my bunk like some of these other sorry sacks.
Sergeant Nolan gestures behind at the barracks. “Armistead is named after Confederate General Lewis Armistead. Someone thought it mighty ironic to name this here Swedish military installation, and their neutral-loving asses, after a man who’d been on the south side of the American civil war.”
He glances over at the scientists waiting on the sidelines, many of them decidedly not American, before he continues, “General Armistead was known for tipping his hat with his sword before riding into battle, and breaking a plate over the head of a fellow cadet.”
We can’t help but laugh, but the Sergeant seems offended that anything he says could possibly be funny.
“Zip it up! He was one to buck the system, and while that may seem heroic, if any of you so much as blink in the wrong direction, you’ll wish you’d died of a fever wound like he had.
“And I’m taking away all of your ranks for you Specials,” Sergeant Nolan yells not two feet from me. “You start fresh. You boys ready to begin?”
We stand taller and lift our chins.
“Sir, yes, sir!”
“Private Ripley, are you paying attention!” Sergeant Nolan barks.
I snap to attention, blinking, fighting a yawn. My sleep patterns have been screwy since my transition. “Sir, yes, sir!”
Sergeant Nolan won’t call me Hatter, even though it’s on my name patch. He says the name sounds like some damned idiot Alice in Wonderland character, and since this ain’t Disneyland, he sure as hell isn’t going to call me it. His words.
That jutting jaw almost brushes my nose when he talks. “Are we interrupting your woolgathering, Fuzzy?”
“Sir, no, sir.”
“Good.”
“Fuzzy” means newbie, and about thirty of us are in formation at parade rest. Some of these soldiers I’d already met in the labs. Santiago’s directly in front of me; Cory’s to my right; and Vero’s down the way, chewing her cheek. She can tell that I’m tired. Vero notices things like that.
Joelle’s asleep back in our new barracks, lucky little brat. Can’t do sunlight; the mere thought of sunrise puts her in a trance.Sometimes I hold up sunny pictures to shut her up when she’s in blab mode. That always gets her hissing.
Sergeant Nolan presses a finger into my chest. “You boys’ll be running the course, then we’ll need to see laps in the pool, push-ups, sit-ups, and pull-ups. As an added bonus, the course has extra obstacles. I want to see you push yourselves.”
He always says “men,” “boys,” “guys,” and even “sissy girls,” but he never once mentions Vero as being a woman. He can’t stand the idea that she’s a Special, and the only female on our squad. Left up to him, we’d all be men. Too bad for Nolan, though, the higher pain tolerance resides with the “weaker” sex, hence the reason scientists are making both genders into Specials.
He also avoids Joelle like the plague. No surprise really, as everyone mostly does. But Vero’s different. She’s like us, an outsider to outsiders.
I bite back a groan, seeing the obstacle course’s hastily made additions. My body won’t hold up for most of it, and
“Most of you will die. I’m okay with that. I’d rather see ten of you in boxes, than even one civilian. If any of you try to go AWOL—even one soldier on the lam—I swear to all that’s holy, I’ll label you an enemy of what’s left of this here outfit and hunt—you—down.”
I realize in this group we’ve been washed out—pronounced dead, missing, or killed in action, and if I had family to worry about back home, I’d be crying in my bunk like some of these other sorry sacks.
Sergeant Nolan gestures behind at the barracks. “Armistead is named after Confederate General Lewis Armistead. Someone thought it mighty ironic to name this here Swedish military installation, and their neutral-loving asses, after a man who’d been on the south side of the American civil war.”
He glances over at the scientists waiting on the sidelines, many of them decidedly not American, before he continues, “General Armistead was known for tipping his hat with his sword before riding into battle, and breaking a plate over the head of a fellow cadet.”
We can’t help but laugh, but the Sergeant seems offended that anything he says could possibly be funny.
“Zip it up! He was one to buck the system, and while that may seem heroic, if any of you so much as blink in the wrong direction, you’ll wish you’d died of a fever wound like he had.
“And I’m taking away all of your ranks for you Specials,” Sergeant Nolan yells not two feet from me. “You start fresh. You boys ready to begin?”
We stand taller and lift our chins.
“Sir, yes, sir!”
“Private Ripley, are you paying attention!” Sergeant Nolan barks.
I snap to attention, blinking, fighting a yawn. My sleep patterns have been screwy since my transition. “Sir, yes, sir!”
Sergeant Nolan won’t call me Hatter, even though it’s on my name patch. He says the name sounds like some damned idiot Alice in Wonderland character, and since this ain’t Disneyland, he sure as hell isn’t going to call me it. His words.
That jutting jaw almost brushes my nose when he talks. “Are we interrupting your woolgathering, Fuzzy?”
“Sir, no, sir.”
“Good.”
“Fuzzy” means newbie, and about thirty of us are in formation at parade rest. Some of these soldiers I’d already met in the labs. Santiago’s directly in front of me; Cory’s to my right; and Vero’s down the way, chewing her cheek. She can tell that I’m tired. Vero notices things like that.
Joelle’s asleep back in our new barracks, lucky little brat. Can’t do sunlight; the mere thought of sunrise puts her in a trance.Sometimes I hold up sunny pictures to shut her up when she’s in blab mode. That always gets her hissing.
Sergeant Nolan presses a finger into my chest. “You boys’ll be running the course, then we’ll need to see laps in the pool, push-ups, sit-ups, and pull-ups. As an added bonus, the course has extra obstacles. I want to see you push yourselves.”
He always says “men,” “boys,” “guys,” and even “sissy girls,” but he never once mentions Vero as being a woman. He can’t stand the idea that she’s a Special, and the only female on our squad. Left up to him, we’d all be men. Too bad for Nolan, though, the higher pain tolerance resides with the “weaker” sex, hence the reason scientists are making both genders into Specials.
He also avoids Joelle like the plague. No surprise really, as everyone mostly does. But Vero’s different. She’s like us, an outsider to outsiders.
I bite back a groan, seeing the obstacle course’s hastily made additions. My body won’t hold up for most of it, and
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