(1) Accept candidates with two useable limbs; volunteers with four useable limbs but who are blind; and volunteers with debilitating conditions, even though promising research is under way toward a cure. The latter limitation in particular permits all manner of opinions to block us.
It wasn't the first time Wiktor Kobayashi had proposed that. But previously he'd been rebuffed by government attorneys under political pressures. This time he would add to it. If he became sufficiently extreme-who knew? They might go along with his more moderate suggestions.
(2) Attach recruiters to all hospitals, including emergency rooms, with access to candidates over the objections of hospital personnel.
(3) Accept able-bodied volunteers-if they can pass appropriate mental and psychological tests-and to hell with family approvals.
Number three awed the captain. It seemed to him that reasonable mental and psychological tests would automatically eliminate able-bodied volunteers. And the part about attorneys and family approvals would offend a lot of politicians.
He hoped it wouldn't result in Kobayashi getting transferred. If it did, he'd probably be named to replace him, a dreadful thought.
(4) Before long, we will start shipping divisions to combat sites. There they will suffer casualties, and some will become bot eligible. Therefore I ALSO STRONGLY RECOMMEND (a) that each division carry neuro-electronic conversion teams, and extra BEIUs and servos; (b) that all organic trainees get effective virtuality training on warbot operations and tactics. The training they already receive as organics will go a long way toward getting them ready. Let the motto be, "today's serious casualty, tomorrow's warbot."
As it now stands, the warbot situation makes a charade of our entire defense program. If prompt and effective measures will not be taken to correct it, I recommend throwing in with the Peace Front and rolling out the red carpet for the invaders. It will save a lot of effort and money, and the result will be the same.
(Signed) Colonel Wiktor Kobayashi, Assistant Director for Human Military Resources.
Captain Horvath stared aghast. Kobayashi scanned his monitor, then pressed SEND. Thereby committing professional suicide.
Horvath blew softly through pursed lips. Maybe a suicide was needed. Maybe somewhere up the line, someone would pay attention. Maybe Lefty Sarruf would lay his neck on the block; surely someone would pay attention then. If it comes down to it, Horvath decided-if they can Kobayashi and promote me to the job, I'll send the same goddamn message up lines, verbatim. And fuck the pettifogging, obfuscating, political sons of bitches. It's the survival of the human species they're pissing around with.
Chapter 20
A Day in the Life
B Company was gasping and staggering when it reached the top of the slope. And sweating profusely, although the sun was still low. This was only their third week, but already their morning run had been extended to thirty long Luneburger minutes. And this was the first time it had been routed up what the Terrans had dubbed "Drag Ass Hill."
Despite their cadre, who'd snapped relentlessly at their heels, their ranks had strung out pretty badly on the hill. But once at the top, their pace firmed. Through stinging, sweat-blurred eyes they could see the regimental area some five hundred yards ahead, and their company hutment with its orderly rows of small gray buildings.
Almost there, thought Esau Wesley. Grimly. He'd never liked taking orders, even as a boy from his father. And looking back, his father's orders had mostly made sense. But where was the sense of running uphill? Or running at all, if you weren't in a hurry? For toughness, they'd been told. For physical conditioning. He had no doubt he was tougher than anyone in their cadre.
"Hup, hup, hup two three four!" The voice was Sergeant Fossberg's, and seemingly effortless, though he was sweating as much as any. Esau didn't notice. He was too busy being angry. Then, some three hundred yards from the company area, Fossberg shouted, "You're on your own! The last ones to reach the mess hall and slap the wall get punishment!"
Esau snarled his anger-wanted to shout it. Lowering his head, he ran hard. Too hard. With a hundred yards to go, his legs began to fail. He fought it, eyes slitted with effort, his gait increasingly heavy-legged. 2nd Platoon had been second in the column, yet without being aware of it, Esau had fought nearly to the front of the now badly strung-out company. Anyone in his way, he'd elbowed aside. But he staggered the last twenty yards, barely keeping his feet. When he'd slapped the wall, he stumbled aside and fell gasping to the ground.
After eight or ten seconds he looked back. Most of the company was still coming. Some had slowed to a walk, alternating with a staggering trot to avoid being last.
Jael was not one of the very last. Perhaps fifteen or twenty were farther back, most of them from 3rd and 4th Platoons, who'd started out in the rear. Wobbling, she staggered through the fallen and touched the wall.
A few had given up the struggle entirely, and knelt or lay in the dirt along the way. It was their names the cadre spoke into their belt recorders. Esau could hear someone retching-more than one-their heaving dry; the company hadn't eaten breakfast yet.
Although they didn't know it, B Company's trainees had just been through a test. Less of themselves than of the training pace. Was it too hard? How much could they tolerate?
Fossberg didn't let them stay collapsed for long. "Company!" he bellowed. "On your feet! Fall in and stand at attention!"
Their platoon sergeants and ensigns herded them into ranks, where they stood, still breathing hard, facing the company commander and field sergeant. It was Captain Mulvaney who addressed them. "All right, B Company," he said, "stand at ease." As always his voice was effortless but easily heard. "You're making progress. You've got a long way to go, but you've started out nicely. Some not as well as others, but you'll catch up. We'll see to that. It's our job."
He paused, scanning the ranks in front of him. Esau noticed resentfully that the captain wasn't sweating. He hadn't run, just strolled out of his office to watch them arrive.
"Now," Mulvaney continued, "everyone on the ground." To a man, the trainees dropped to their bellies, knowing what followed but not how many. "Give me-twenty-five!" Up from twenty; that was new. The captain began to count, and the ranks of trainees pumped pushups to match-in strict form; they'd already learned the penalties for cheating. Besides, for most, even in Luneburger's 1.25 gees, twenty-five pushups were readily doable. Farm work or other hard labor in New Jerusalem's gravity had given them abundant strength.
For a few, including Jael, twenty-five were only marginally or not quite doable. But they were young, and with company punishment and New Jerusalem's work ethic, they did their best. And they did at least twenty sets of pushups a day; they were gaining.
"… twenty-four, twenty-five. All right, on your feet!" Mulvaney said, and the trainees stood. "The mess hall opens for breakfast at 0730 hours. You will fall out for muster at 0815 in field uniform. Company dismissed!"
The ranks dispersed, the trainees hurrying to their huts for towels and soap. Captain Martin Mulvaney Singh and Field Sergeant Kirpal Fossberg Singh watched them go. "How is recruit Jael Wesley doing?" Mulvaney asked.
"According to Sergeant Hawkins, sir, she asked if she could go to the dispensary. When he asked her if she was pregnant, she blushed bright red and told him no. And that she didn't intend to be. I'd say she's smart and responsible."
"Or hoping perhaps to be promiscuous?" It occurred to Mulvaney that some of his trainees, removed from their straitlaced culture, might cast off its inhibitions. Though Jael Wesley didn't seem like a rebel.
"Hawkins doesn't think so, sir. He doesn't think she'd find many takers if she was. Her husband is the dominant recruit in their squad. One of the two or three most dominant in their platoon."