Outward Bound, page 11
"Right. It's good to meet you." Arch thrust out an eager hand and smiled broadly, evidently impressed. He was lean with pinky eyes, like a rabbit's, and was sporting a wisp of a beard.
"So who's this Arvin?" Willie asked again.
"One of that kind who'll push you around if you let him," Mackerel said. "Just don't let him get away with it if he tries." Willie didn't look very happy.
"Don't look so worried. You'll be okay," Gus told him. "We'll look out for you. Right, guys?"
"As a matter of fact, I think you'll find he's mellowed out some since you last saw him," Linc confided, looking at Mackerel. A hint of mischief flickered in his eye, which he didn't try to hide.
"What happened?" Mackerel asked.
"Oh . . . you'll probably hear soon enough."
"Come on, Linc. What's wrong with now?"
At that moment another cadet uniform appeared in the doorway, and Rocky entered. This time it was Arch and Gus's turn to yell out in delight. "Forget about Arvin for now," Linc said to Mackerel. He motioned with his eyes and inclined his head. "Here's another guy that you have to meet . . ."
The rest of the "day"—the regular twenty-four-hour period was observed, although it corresponded to no natural or other kind of cycle on Grayling—was taken up with introductory formalities and instruction on the command system and function of Grayling's military presence. Unlike the brief spell in Yucatan, where life had anticipated the freer pattern of the rest of the station, the routine in the Turret was styled upon military discipline and fastidiousness of detail. In some ways Linc's first impressions were that his existence had regressed from the quality it had attained at Coulie and Seville Trace to something more like the detention conditions he had known previously. A crop-headed sergeant called Schultz, who was in charge of cadet basic training, shouted incessantly and was satisfied by nothing. Every minor infraction became a reason for personal degradation and abuse. Linc gritted his teeth and reminded himself that he had chosen to accept it.
Late that night, in a brief relaxation period before lights-out, he made his way to one of the outer compartments with an observation window and stared silently at the panorama of space surrounding them. The day had been so busy that this was really the first chance he'd had to reflect on where he was, and actually to feel within himself something of what it meant. It was one of the few times in his life—maybe the first, truly—in which he had been conscious of a feeling of genuine awe.
He remembered how, up among the Sierra peaks, he had sat in the night with Patch, marveling that there could be so many stars, and so bright. But that had been nothing compared with this. Here, the night had a quality of infinite depth that no experience on Earth could ever capture, the stars and the voids between them brilliant with hues he had never dreamed existed. The whole, enormous constellation, a huge, half-lit Moon of unfamiliar surface markings in the foreground, wheeled before him on the far side of the rounded bulk of the Axle and the distant, foreshortened lines of the North Tower continuing beyond that. And Earth itself? Not a trace. Everything he had ever known, all the places he had been, as well as the thousands more never glimpsed and as many again never heard of—were eclipsed permanently on the far side of the Moon. All of it could have been swallowed in an instant by a universe that would never even notice.
Yet along with the wonder, there was a sense of loss—all the greater for having been so briefly glimpsed.
All around him were miracles worked in precise shapes of metal. Suddenly the shell enclosing him seemed very thin and fragile. His very life depended on the knowledge and skills of those who had designed and built it. People had once called him a brute, and he had believed them because that was all he had known. It had become his source of pride. Then others who knew powers of creating instead of destroying had shown him a part of himself that was better. That was what he had thought would grow and become a new person in a new life among the stars. Now, it seemed, he was to remain forever a destroyer. He wanted to believe that the callous verdict was wrong. But who was he to be so sure? And even if he convinced himself, why should he expect that it would change the minds of those who understood so much more?
Beyond the gleaming metallic lines of the North Tower, the Moon slid slowly upward, out of sight. Linc turned away and headed back to the billeting deck to bed down for his first night in space.
Chapter Twenty-Two
FOR the next four weeks the cadets underwent what was described as Accelerated Basic Training, during which time they were restricted to the Turret. Those like Willie, who were from regular backgrounds and had known the destination to which they were bound, had been through a preparatory course that sounded like a cut-down version of Coulie, so none of them were in what could be called poor condition; nevertheless, the routine involved a lot of weight pushing, and sweating on exercise machines to get in shape. There was no arguing with regulations. They learned about orders of rank and insignia, the functions of all standard items of kit and how to take care of them. They were introduced to hand-to-hand combat—dirtier than had been shown at Seville Trace. There was interminable parade and small-arms drill of the traditional kind, conducted with small squads in conditions that bordered on comical in the limited space the military gym permitted. The only purpose in confining them to the Turret, since there really weren't that many places to go, seemed to be to impart an awareness that they were now under military orders. As more than one of the veterans they found themselves among told them, they would quickly discover that making sense was one of the last things that mattered.
"You come in here a rabble! By der time you leave Graylink Station, you will be material that soldiers can be made from!" Schultz screamed at them in his European accent. He was somehow apelike, of indeterminate age, with a head that was bald except for a fringe of reddish curls at the sides and back, and a mustache that curled up at the ends. Linc went through the required motions unprotesting, yet inwardly he found the machinations to instill discipline through intimidation pretty transparent and not very compelling as far as inspiring fear and terror went. Obviously, there were built-in limits that made the system a charade. It seemed to have its desired effect on the kids from more normal backgrounds, nevertheless. But they had probably never been screamed at in earnest by anyone in their lives before; and certainly they had never been visited by an arm man delivering a reminder, or had to deal with a blade waver who had boiled over on dope.
There were more classes in basic math and physics—pitched below the abilities of the majority of the cadets, but again regulations allowed no exemptions. A minimum level of knowledge was required that it was essential everyone be brought up to. It formed the prerequisite for understanding at least the basics of such things as static mechanics, kinetics and orbital dynamics, heat, and the behavior of fluids, without which meaningful adaptation to the space environment would be impossible. There was an introduction to computers and communications, because the effectiveness of every modern fighting force from five-man fire team to army division depended on the availability and quality of information. And there was instruction in weapons, ammunition, and explosives, because those were the basic tools of the trade that everyone was now in.
Linc had never dreamed that human ingenuity could conceive and perfect so many ways of killing people. Available to the individual combat soldier was a range of categories and calibers of guns able to inflict every form of abuse imaginable on the human body via projectiles that ranged from "clean" hole drillers and shot, to bullets that spread or shattered, excavating bone and tissue by the shovelful, bullets that exploded, and flying blenders capable of taking off an arm. In addition, there were grenades that splintered or ignited; mines that disabled, disemboweled, or dismembered; antitank, antiair munitions and rockets; flamethrowers, trench cudgels, bayonets, and knives. Places and people, he discovered, were not bombed but instead "took ordnance." Ordnance—explosive, incendiary, fragmentation, chemical, biological, nuclear; delivered by artillery, missile, air, orbiting platform—could single out a vehicle in a column, obliterate an area, incinerate a town. Laser cannons on the Moon tracked Earth-circling satellites. Beams of atomic particles could melt ships out in space.
The other cadets seemed intrigued and excited by it all, airing their new jargon over meals and enthusiastically debating infantry techniques and weapon specifications in their billet at the day's end. Linc found it disillusioning and depressing. For the most part the cadets were products of affluence and security trying to prove themselves—children raised on delusions of manly virtues and movie heroics. Linc had seen the effects of a broken bottle twisted into a human face, and a hand being pulped by a solid-iron bar. He had thought he was getting away from such things; that he had found a breed of people who were smarter and knew enough to be beyond living that way, and who would show him how to become one of them. But if they were that smart, why were they incapable, and on such a total and massive scale, of solving their problems and getting along with one another?
In his few years he hadn't found out too much about the world. He had always figured that people like himself lived violently and ruthlessly because it was the only way they had of getting a chance to carve themselves a share of anything—which was how he'd been conned into working for Kyle. Or, like Clay and Slam, the two punks he had hired, they didn't and never would know any different. Now he was coming to the conclusion that this wasn't the way it was after all, that there was a lot more to it. The smart ones were the worst: throwing kids in the slammer for leaning on a few jerks in order to get a decent car and a suit, while themselves looting nations wholesale and counting the corpses in millions. For the first time a lot of the things he remembered Johnny saying back at Seville Trace started to make sense. Linc wondered if this whole business was just another con, and at the end of it nothing was going to turn out any different from the way things always did. If so, he found himself thinking, he was never going to fit in anywhere.
Chapter Twenty-Three
LINC adjusted the shower to a cooler setting and let water flow over his face and chest, carrying away last of an hour's worth of pressing, pulling, and stretching, followed by three simulated miles on the running mill. The time when he'd felt stiff and achy was long past now. His body had the satisfying feel of well-toned muscles exercised thoroughly but easily within their limits. He pushed his hair back to clear his eyes and stared for a moment at the jets streaming out from the nozzle, trying to convince himself that the water wasn't really felling but moving in a straight line while the floor's rotation carried him in a curve to intercept it. It was no good. He couldn't visualize it that way. He had lived all his life and formed his conceptions in real gravity, and that was the end of it. He thought instead about the prospect of leave finally, after four weeks of continuous grind in the Turret. Only two more days to go. Then, an escape, finally, to whatever the rest of the station had to offer. And after that, life should get more interesting. When they returned to duty, they'd be going on to suits and the actual space environment—getting their first taste of spacewalking and activity outside, learning something of what was involved in building and repairing structures.
Knowing about structures was important in space. Everything that Earth had once been naturally was now replaced by artificial structures that weren't indestructible, didn't self-renew, and into which everything needed had to be deliberately designed. Structures kept you close to the things you needed to stay alive, and separated you from everything else in the universe that was trying to see you dead. And in space there was nowhere for soldiers to dig foxholes and trenches to feel safer in. They built structures.
"Feels good, eh, Linc?" Mackerel's voice came from the next stall.
"You said it."
"How much did you clock on the mill just before we quit?" one of the others who were toweling off outside called.
"Just over three," Linc threw back.
"Pretty good time then," Mackerel said.
"Not bad." Linc cut off the water and ran a hand over his head to squeeze out the excess.
"You know what occurred to me," Gus said as Linc stepped out. "They recycle everything up here . . . . Where do you suppose this water might have been yesterday?"
"Take a break, Gus. I don't want to think about it."
Arch switched at Gus with his towel. "You've got leave coming up in two days, man. Think positive things."
"All the big-city lights of the Axle," someone at the other end said.
"Center of the inhabited regions of the galaxy."
"Big deal."
"Which part of town are you planning on hitting first, Linc?" Arch asked.
"That's a tough one. I'll have to think about it."
"Where do they keep all the girls? It has to be the rec deck. That's where I'll be heading." Arch meant the Recreation Deck, located in the West Tower.
"Girls? . . .What are they?"
"You know—curvy things that look like centerfolds."
"Oh, those. Yeah, I think I remember."
"You will conduct yourselves as soldiers," somebody threw in, imitating Schultz.
"Damn right!"
Linc put on a pair of long fatigue pants and a T-shirt, then collected his gear and left to return to the billet. Willie joined him as he began heading along the corridor outside. Although those like Linc—the ex-delinquents—were no longer required to conceal their backgrounds, the habit had become automatic. As a result, they inclined toward answering questions if asked, but without volunteering much beyond. Perhaps that had been the intention. Willie Camarel seemed drawn toward them as a group, maybe because of the image of solidarity and protection he saw in them. In return, his better schooling made him good to have around for help with the math and physics classes. He was from Oklahoma, Linc had learned, where his family ran a hard-sell Bible TV station. This was the only sure way Willie had been able to think of to escape.
"Do you have any particular plans on what you're going to do? "Willie asked.
"You mean in two days' time—when we get back in touch with the rest of that huge world out there?"
"Right."
Linc shrugged. "Wander around the station and check out what's happening, I guess. Maybe try the Low-g Court in the Axle. I hear it's fun. Got any better suggestions?"
"Not really. Mind if I tag along?"
"Not at all."
Willie glanced at Linc as they came to the lime-painted alloy stairs leading up to the billet deck. "Sometimes I kind of envy the way you guys had it," he said, as if an explanation were called for. "It's as if it equipped you to deal with anything, know what I mean? Maybe the rest of us missed out somehow."
Linc snorted. "You're crazy. You didn't miss anything. Believe me."
When they came to the billet, Rocky, who bunked above Linc, was engaged in his favorite occupation of stretching out and contemplating the ceiling. Flash was farther along the room, talking with Arvin. There were others scattered around, some grabbing a few minutes of reading, one playing solitaire, a couple attending to their kit. A big advantage of being in space was not having to clean up after hours of rolling around in sand and dirt and mud. Schultz was always looking for ways of making up for what must have been, to him, an intolerable deficiency.
Since distancing himself from Arvin, Flash had been taking on the role of a go-between, trying to stay on as good terms with Arvin as his solidarity with Linc permitted—maybe hoping to reconcile things between them. Linc didn't really have a problem with that, but as far as he was concerned he had nothing more to prove, and it was up to Arvin to make the moves. Although Arvin's star had dimmed a magnitude or two since their final run-in at Seville Trace, Linc wasn't entertaining high expectations. Arvin seemed to have retreated inward, keeping to himself far more than he had previously—no doubt due in part to his not having anyone to connive with when nobody stepped in to fill Welsh's place. Whatever the reason, Linc wasn't about to lose any sleep over the matter. It wasn't the biggest thing in his life. New times lay ahead, and the days were too busy.
"I was thinking," Rocky greeted Linc and Willie, looking down as they came in. "And no, it didn't hurt. Not so much that you'd notice, anyway."
"What?" Linc said.
"That Low-g Court they've got in the Axle. The pool in there is supposed to be quite something. I reckon we should go look at it."
"We were just talking about that. Willie says he'll be stringing along with us too."
"Great."
"How much room is there? Does anyone know?" Flash called over. "I mean, if we all hit it at once, is it gonna cram the place out? Maybe we should do it a bunch at a time and organize some kind of schedule."
"I don't think that'll be too much of a problem. By the sound of it, most of the guys'll be heading for the rec deck," Linc answered.
"Why? What's there?"
"What do you think? What planet are you just back from, Rocky?"
"Oh. Right."
Willie had squatted down to stow his gear back in his locker. "I hope you get to meet my uncle when we finally make the Zone, Flash," he said over his shoulder. "Did I ever tell you that he's into computers too? Now there's somebody whose brains you need to pick."
