"Michael Z. Williamson - Freehold 02 - The Weapon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williamson Michael Z)

He shifted drive ratio fast and said, "Special Warfare. We get to travel too, and sometimes first class and in high
circles. We get a lot more training, some of which has civilian applications, even though people might not realize
it. If you want action, then we're your people."
I started thinking. I knew of Special Warfare, of course. I'd heard lots of stories, and had no idea which were real
and which were rumors. The idea was appealing, but . . .
"I couldn't possibly pass the physical," I said. Not a skinny guy like me.
"Sure you can," he said. "After Basic, we have our own course. You'll be in adequate shape then, and we'll build
you up from there. You'll be hardcore by the time you're done."
Now that sounded good. I had no illusions about huge muscles, but strength and agility appealed. I loved
gymnastics and dancing and I never backed down from a bully. The idea of being able to actually clobber them
instead of being splattered gave me a warm feeling.
"Let's go to your office," I said. It didn't take much convincing to make me agree to switch over. I held out for the
bonuses they offered, though. He scheduled me for another battery of tests, mental, physical and psychological,
that made the standard military placement look like an elementary school assessment test. I was worn out when I
finished.
My parents were convinced I was making a huge mistake. When I got home, my mother started in on me. "I
thought you wanted to work with comms? That was the whole reason you signed up; for the school."
"I can still go to that school. I get to do other stuff, too," I said.
Then my father hit me from the other side, "There's very few real world applications for any of it, unless you plan
to be a rescue tech in the Dragontooth ski resorts, or an evac vertol medic. There's no real money in it."
That was his gig: money. Money only concerns me as a means to put a roof over my head. As to career goals, I
had already jumped in headfirst. I planned on being a military careerist. I wasn't interested in civilian applications
anymore. I was convinced of my own immortality, and wanted to be a badass. I knew they'd never understand
that. Besides, after building a few bombs in the back lot, I loved the idea of working with real explosives, and
that did have civilian applications with all the inland construction going on as we developed the continent.
They tried to talk me out of it, and called the recruiters, but I was a sworn adult and they couldn't do anything to
stop me. They did wish me the best and follow me to the port, where I was almost late from mom's hugs and
kisses. While appreciated, it was a bit embarrassing.
***
There were other recruits on the flight, and we got along variously, from reserved to riotously righteously fun. I
hadn't been on a ballistic flight in a couple of years, but the thrill of a spine-grinding lift was tempered by the fear
of what lay ahead. Or maybe it was the booze. Still, high Gs, microgravity, swooping back to increasing Gs and a
thundering rollout are never dull.
We debarked, were met by a sergeant in uniform, and marched out to a bus, then taken to a hotel.
I had expected to be treated like a number. I also had my own ideas on how to avoid that. I was a jokester, a goof,
and had smuggled along a couple bottles of liquor. It made me popular with some of the recruits, avoided with
headshakes and wary glances from those who thought me "strange." I never worried about people like that.
Shortly, I was the center of a party of about ten recruits. They were younger and older, men and women,
including a few cute ones. I had no illusions about bedding any of them. Not only was I unsophisticated, with no
idea how to approach a stranger, but we were all there for basic training. I admired a couple of them, though.
There was a striking redhead with sapphire blue eyes who was on the slightly elfin side. Nice! I could only
wonder what she was training for. We chatted briefly, but didn't really have much to talk about except our
upcoming ordeal. We didn't want to talk about that. Her name was Denise ("Call me Deni. Everyone does.")
Harlett, and she hit all my buttons for lean women. Her lion's mane of red hair was gently restrained by a static
band behind her ears, her tattoos were temporary nanos, not permanent ink, so she could change styles without


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