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

surgery, and what body art and makeup she did wear was quite restrained for her age, which I put at about my
twelve, or eighteen Earth years. She seemed a bit odd; her clothing didn't match her style and was rather plain. It
was as if she'd studied makeup and snuck some with her, but hadn't been able to afford clothes. Well, some
people do get dressed by their parents until they escape.
We retreated to the only two chairs, in a corner of the room, and tried to talk for quite a few segs. ("Seg" is local
time measure, 100 seconds.) Neither of us mentioned training. We discussed music and camping. It was safer.
It turned out she was another fan of Cabhag, at least a closet one. "My friend has a huge collection," she said. "I
love the way they mix ancient and modern instruments."
"You dance?" I asked. Gymnastics had got me into dancing. I'm pretty good. And women love a man who can
dance.
"No," she said. "Well, I've never really tried.Logan 's a small town and pretty far north for any real clubs."
Miss.Damn. I looked her over again while trying to come up with another topic. Then I noticed one of the strange
things about her: no ear piercings. None. Not even a pair of basic studs. "You don't wear jewelry?" I asked.
"No," she said. "I'm—"
Right then they came by and did a bed check. Some sergeant came through the door, filling it as he did so, and
said, "Everyone to your assigned rooms, it's lights out." They were ensuring, already, that we were where they
could keep us reined in. I guess it made sense, especially after we tried to remove a drunk from the room I was
sharing with a military firefighter-to-be. It took both of us and the local sergeant, and Deni, who held the door
and helped shove him through. She seemed to enjoy it.
I got a brief chewing out over the liquor, apologized, and watched as they dragged off the struggling body. His
career was over already. They threatened to write me up, but at this point, I was still a civilian, a legal adult, and
they couldn't do much except refuse to take me. I knew they wouldn't do that.
The next day, we moved officially on base, into another holding cell, basically. We sat there for hours as they
called names, checked paperwork, etc. It took far longer than it should have, and I'm sure it was done on purpose
to annoy us. What was even more annoying were the idiots who couldn't follow simple directions. We were told,
for example: "We'll call off your name. If we mispronounce it but you recognize it, come on up. Don't try to
correct us, because we don't have time and it doesn't matter."
Naturally, they pronounced mine "ChinRAN," instead of "SHINrahn." I answered "Here, ma'am," and stepped
up. A moron shortly after me heard, "Chuvera" and said, "That's 'Kuvera.'" He received a good reaming.
Let me be honest. I was not the most self-secure person. That evening, we wound up standing in loose formation,
bags by our sides, waiting for our Sergeant Instructors. I was a bit shaky. I was also tall enough to be in the front
rank, and could see four of them gathered just inside the "admin" door to the huge barracks. I knew they were
professionals here to do a job, and I also knew that this was designed to be intimidating. I also knew my legs
were twitching like a rabbit in the sights of a shotgun.
My stress level went through the roof a few moments later. One of them kicked the door open, and they came out
screaming. I didn't get one of them in my face, which was good. I did see the guy next to me—with peripheral
vision, as I was not about to turn my head—get torn apart for having his bags on the right side. The staff who
dropped us off clearly had said "left side" as they departed. I saw how this was going to play out. Despite that,
my legs were still shaking from involuntary reflex. I was glad I'd worn loose pants.
I did as I was told. I didn't stand out. I tolerated the mindless exercise, the blistering days, the nights colder than
the Outer Halo, and bugs, snakes, rocks, and the rest of the drill. It was almost two weeks into it, nineteen days to
be precise, before they even knew my name to go with my face. Unfortunately, it fell apart after that. I felt
perfectly comfortable talking back to an instructor who was being (in my mind) unreasonable.
She was bitching me out for not having "enough" uniforms in my locker. I was protesting that several were dirty,
I was awaiting laundry detail, and that those I had were arranged as prescribed in the recruit training manual. I


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