Warning: Heavy use of foul language. I’m writing from the perspective of a criminal who grew up in a ghetto, after all. Having said that, I’m moderately proud of this chapter. It’s kind of long, but I think it sets the world up quite nicely.
Episode 1 – You’re In the Army Now
The officer waiting at the desk looked a little nonplussed at seeing the private standing in line with the rest of us, holding onto the tattered limbs of the prisoner that was killed. He was a cultured-looking man, possibly a politically-appointed officer that couldn’t make it as a line officer and so was relegated to desk jobs. He definitely didn’t radiate the same sort of leashed ferocity that was present in all of the soldiers outside.
He raised an oh-so-cultured eyebrow. “And what, pray tell, Private… Lichtnikov,” he said, reading the nametag on the soldier’s breast, “are you doing with an arm and a leg?”
Even his voice sounded like a bureaucrat, a high nasally whine with overtones of pompous grandeur that he probably meant to sound impressive, but just came off as sounding ridiculous. Back in the ghetto, he would have lasted about 5 seconds before someone iced him for his pocket change. Still, he managed to scare the shit out of the soldier in front of me. Must be some big fish, with lots of connections back home.
Lichtnikov gulped. “The General ordered me to carry them in, sir!” he said, in a kind of parade-ground shout, eyes aimed somewhere above the officer’s head. “She shot a prisoner as he was trying to escape, sir! Since he was chained to the rest, I was ordered to carry them in until the prisoners were unchained, sir!” I noticed he made no mention of the fact that he had been involved in the scuffle, nor that it was his kicking and screaming that had caused the incident in the first place.
“I see,” the officer said. He sighed and massaged his forehead. “Well, I don’t think there’s any reason to keep you waiting around any longer, Private. I’m sure there must be other things that you have to do… duty and all that.” He gestured to a sergeant standing behind him. “Unlock the prisoners and escort them to the medical room.”
The processing was fast and efficient. They did a quick medical checkup and issued us some badly-fitting, thin uniforms. You could see where laser holes in the uniforms had been patched over and mended, and in some cases there were some wine-dark stains that couldn’t be removed. I shivered again. Dead men’s clothes.
After we had gotten our clothes, they made all of us prisoners file through an AutoDoc machine, which quickly slapped a white patch on the back of each prisoner’s neck. Some cried out in pain, while others just winced. When it came to my turn, I could feel a sharp pricking sensation, as though a bee had stung me where the patch was, and a sensation of some cold liquid entering my bloodstream.
“What’s this for?” I asked the medtech manning the machine.
“Insurance, jailbird,” he grinned evilly at me. “That patch contains a little cocktail of chemical enzymes linked to an RF receiver. If they’re set off, they metabolise all your body cells into liquid fuel and set off an explosive chain reaction throughout your body. The transmitter’s given to the leader of your squad. You even think about running away, and ka-boom! You’re toast.”
My heart sank. My vague hopes of trying to escape in the night faded. Not that they would amount to much, anyway. I had no place to go, and this entire area was a warzone. Most likely, I would be mistaken for an enemy soldier and killed by some random fire before I could even make my way back to civilization.
“And don’t even try to tamper with it,” the medtech further advised me. “The thing’s set to go off if it detects anyone fiddling with it as well. We had one or two incidents already with the last shipment of prisoners. ‘Course, the only problem was that they managed to destroy the uniforms they were wearing too. ” He sounded a little miffed at the thought. “Those were brand-new, not like the ones you guys are wearing now.”
With that morbid thought, he waved us through. We then had to file into a briefing room, where the same political officer that was at the entrance sat at the desk in front and the rest of us took seats in the hall. We prisoners weren’t alone. There were other soldiers – also fresh recruits, by the looks of them – coming in from another doorway at the far end. They were wearing proper uniforms, decently made, warm and clean. Red Brigade troops, not penal soldiers like us. Most of them looked like they had just stepped out of a recruiting poster. The Kollective wants YOU, Komrade! Join the fight against the evil and rebellious machines.
Farmer’s boys and college kids, most of them. Still believing in all that idealist nationalistic crap. I pitied them and envied them at the same time. Most of them had never seen a day of hunger in their lives, I bet. Not like the ghetto where a rat a day was considered good, and if someone managed to steal a chicken from a street vendor it was considered a feast for their entire gang.
I wondered if there would be any rats in the trenches, and what they would taste like. My mouth started salivating at the thought, and I remembered that I hadn’t eaten for nearly an entire day.
“Welcome to Koleishnov Base,” the officer began after everyone was seated. “In a moment, you will be given your squad assignments. Some of you will be trained to handle heavy equipment and weaponry here at the base, while others will be formed into six-man infantry squads and assigned to the various brigades fighting at the front lines.”
A group of junior officers formed a line along one side of the room. “As I call out your name, stand up and go to your squad leaders,” the officer pointed at them. “They will lead you to your new assignments.”
He opened a large ledger in front of him and began reading out names. A Red Brigade officer lazily raised his hand and strolled unhurriedly to the door. “Broushnakovi, Alicia. Tank Operator, 512th Armored, Zeta squad.” A small woman got up and went over to the squad leader who had raised his hand. “Daniels, Jack. Ground support. Air Force, 17th Air Squadron.” A blond prisoner stood up. “Drakowski, Vladimir. Medical, 1099th Volunteers, Squad A.” A Red Brigade soldier. “Fenzig, Hans…”
I settled in to wait. The list was alphabetical, so it would be a long time before they got to my name.
“Stanislav, Victor.” That was me. “Infantry, 1099th Volunteers, Squad A.” I got up and went over to the rest of the 1099th Volunteers squad. The other five people nodded as I came up. With me, the squad was completed. There were four Red Brigade soldiers – one corporal, two privates, and a medic – and another prisoner alongside me.
“I’m Corporal Janissen,” the corporal, a blond Norweigian giant, nodded at me. He looked like he could tear a person in half with his bare hands, but would have trouble putting a complete sentence together. “Follow me.” Great. A modern-day Viking berserker was leading us in the war against machines. We were doomed.
I followed the rest of the squad as Janissen led us at a brisk pace across the camp towards the trenches in the distance that I had first noticed when I got off the transport. The base was built in the ruins of an old town – jagged outlines of concrete and steel stood against the moonlit night. The Kollective soldiers had selected a wide avenue where a cluster of fairly-sturdy buildings still stood, and placed sandbags to fortify the area. I could see the glint of weaponry among the upper stories of the buildings around the sandbags. There must be soldiers up there too.
“T-t-those must be anti-aircraft missiles,” a thin, reedy voice said on my left. I turned to find my fellow prisoner in the squad looking up at the same buildings I was, his teeth chattering in the cold night air. He turned to look at me. “You think we’ll get to carry those too?”
His eyes were bright, beady like a rat’s. His nose was twitching as well, adding further to the impression. I wasn’t sure whether it was due to a nervous habit, or whether the smell of the place got to him too. The trenches stank, like my old Aunt Marisa’s armpit hair after she finished a hard day’s work in the fertilizer plant.
“I’m Rat,” he said, when he saw me looking at him. “You’re Victor, right?” Okay, so apparently I wasn’t the only one who had noticed his similarity to rodentkind. I nodded, unsure whether I wanted to start up a conversation with this guy. The other members of the squad had drawn ahead, and we two prisoners were at the tail end of the squad after pausing to gawk at the sky defences.
I guess he didn’t see the frown on my face, since he went on talking. “So what’d they get you for?” he asked, huffing a little as we ran a bit faster to catch up with the rest. I debated about keeping silent for a while, but then sighed and answered. Rat looked like one of those annoying pests that would keep on trying to make conversation even if you ignored him, just to hear the sound of his voice.
“Assault and battery.” Well, that was one of the charges, yes. Alongside grand larceny, grand theft auto, breaking and entering, and manslaughter (it wasn’t technically murder, since I had no idea the old guy was using a pacemaker when I set off the EMP device to disable the electronic security bots).
“Cool,” Rat chattered, as we neared the squat bunker which Janissen seemed to be heading for. “They got me in for arson.” He cackled in an insane sort of way. “I set fire to the Komissar’s stables.” I looked sidelong at the twitchy, nervous-sounding wretch. He sounded like he was trying to pretend he was a master criminal in order to psyche himself into believing in his own immortality. “And the best part is, after they make me a soldier for committing arson, they turn my body into a living bomb!” Another maniacal cackle.
Or maybe he was just insane.
Big Tim’s cousin from the ghetto was like that. He got off when he saw blood. Any kind of blood. He would cut himself just to watch himself bleed in ecstasy. Rat sounded a bit like him. Except he liked fire and explosions, I guessed. Yippee for him. I made a mental note to stay as far away from Rat as possible. No telling what he would do on the battlefield.
“No more talking!” Corporal Janissen barked. We had arrived at the bunker. It was a crude steel shell half planted into the earth, surrounded by EMP charges and sandbags. The corporal pulled open the door and marched us all in just as another whine zoomed overhead and gunfire broke out.
“Hell, not again!” another soldier brushed past us, running out towards the mass of soldiers. “Use the goddamn missiles!”
Rat turned his head to follow him, while I examined the bunker’s interior. A dim light bulb provided all the illumination there was. A pile of assorted weaponry stood in one corner, all jumbled together. A couple of lockers and file cabinets stood against the back wall, alongside an emergency power generator. At the center was a battered wooden desk, where a withered-looking man wearing sergeant’s stripes scratched notes into a filthy ledger.
“Squad A, reporting for duty, sir!” Corporal Janissen snapped out, coming to attention. The other Red Brigade troopers also sprang to attention while Rat and I shuffled into an approximation of the position.
“More maggoty meat for the grinder,” the sergeant looked up with a grimace. “Cut out that damned saluting crap they taught you at the academy.” Corporal Janissen flushed red and lowered his hand. The sergeant nodded. “Welcome to the 1099th Volunteers,” he said, his shout nearly drowned out by the sound of the nearby gunfire. “Get your squad some gear and get your asses over the wall. If you survive, you will find me waiting here. My name is Petrovo.”
He waved a hand at the stack of weaponry. “Help yourselves. Find whatever that suits you. It’s not like we’re short of weapons.” He laughed bitterly. The squad trudged over in silence to find weapons for ourselves. Sergeant Petrovo’s words brought the reality of imminent death very close. Even Rat was silent. But that could be because he was too busy twitching his nose and trying to find the largest, most dangerous weapon in the stack.
I picked up a simple shotgun. I knew how to use this. The grip felt comfortable, familiar. Just like the one I had taken from Aunt Marisa’s basement when I first ran away to join the Skins. I gave it a quick, cursory examination. Everything was working fine. I scrounged around for more ammunition. No way I would run out of ammo in a gunfight this time.
The gunfire outside had stopped, and the door to the bunker banged open. General Danova strode in, cloak flapping in the wind.
“Petrovo,” she snapped. “Give me a squad. I’m going to find out what keeps sending those probes across our lines and take it out now before it causes any more trouble.”
Sergeant Petrovo straightened in his chair. “Yes ma’am,” he said. He looked briefly down at his ledger, then glanced over to us. Oh no, I prayed silently. Please don’t send us out on a mission with that homicidal queen of hell.
“Corporal Janissen,” he rasped. “You’re to take Squad A and accompany General Danova in a patrol against the machines.” He ended in a deeply ironic tone. “Count yourself lucky, boys. You get to play heroes with the General.”
Shit.
