Read Online Terms of Enlistment 01.2: Measures of Absolution by Marko Kloos - Free Book Online Page A

stay. Nobody was harmed. We had a full company in the atrium, and crew-served weapons. Your platoon commander had the good sense to recognize an unwinnable scenario, unlike you.”
    He clasps his hands in front of his chest and pauses briefly.
    “I do admire your initiative and your fighting skills. After you turned down my offer, you managed to keep an entire platoon busy trying to flush you out. And your squad killed seven of my troops and wounded eight more. But you pissed away the lives of your troopers for nothing at all.”
    “Not for nothing,” she says. “Can’t just surrender to everyone who asks. Sets a bad example.”
    He looks at her with that intense gaze, his face perfectly expressionless.
    “I suppose it would,” he says.
    He takes the chair out of the corner of the room and puts it next to the bed. Then he sits down, just out of her reach, and folds his hands.
    “Where did you serve?” she asks him point-blank. He doesn’t even raise an eyebrow, just smiles faintly.
    “Marines,” he says. “2080 to 2106.”
    If he served four terms, he must be in his early fifties at least. He doesn’t look that old, even if his short hair has a lot of silver in it. He looks at least ten years younger than that, which is unusual for a career space ape. That lifestyle wears a body out fast. Could be he’s bullshitting her, but somehow Jackson knows he doesn’t feel the need to lie to her.
    “Officer?” she asks, and he nods.
    “I was a Lieutenant Colonel when I left. Never did get to pin on those eagles.”
    He leans forward and studies her face, his chin perched on his steepled fingers. Then he gestures to the area under his eyes.
    “Your facial tattoos. What do they mean? I don’t recognize that pattern at all.”
    Jackson shrugs.
    “Saw it in a manga when I was a kid. Thought it looked bad-ass. Thought I needed to look bad-ass back then.”
    He nods at her explanation.
    “You’re going to let me go, or kill me?” Jackson asks.
    “I’m not going to kill you. I will tell you that the sergeant whose squad you mauled was ready to finish you off on the spot in that staircase. We don’t run things like that around here. But I can’t let you go just yet either.”
    “He the one in charge of the people that shot it out with us?”
    “Yes, he was.”
    “Then you should have let him. I get the chance, I’ll finish him off.”
    Her visitor shakes his head, slowly, like he just heard some kid say something outrageously dumb. Then he gets up from his chair and carries it over to the door, out of her reach.
    “You were out for a while. You’ll be hungry soon. I’ll have someone bring you some food. It’s not military chow, but I suspect you’re no stranger to welfare rations. I’ll be back later, when you’re fed.”
    He walks out and closes the door from the outside. The snap of the deadbolts seems loud in her nearly empty room.
     
    A little while later, someone else brings in a meal tray and puts it on the ground without saying a word. Jackson watches him unblinkingly until he is out of the room again. She gets out of bed—slowly and carefully—and retrieves the tray. It’s the standard generic soy-and-shit chicken they put into the welfare meals with various flavorings. After she enlisted, Jackson told herself she’d never eat another welfare meal, but she has been famished since she woke up, so she eats everything on the tray and washes it down with the box of bug juice that came with the meal. If she wants to get out of here in one piece, she needs to give her body something to burn.
    She makes the bed, pulls the ratty sheet over the mattress and tucks it in tightly, then straightens out the wrinkles. Then she lies down on the bed and closes her eyes for a nap. Fed and rested can fight longer and run faster than hungry and tired.
     
    When the door opens again, she is awake instantly. She swings her legs over the side of the bed and sits on the edge, hands clasped in front of her. At least