"Williamson,.Michael.Z.-.Freehold.02.-.The.Weapon.v1.1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williamson Michael Z)

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 proceeded to quote from memory
about "spaced equidistantly or 10 cm apart, as is feasible, shirts
buttoned and facing the right, pants hung folded at the halfway