Cyberpunk Part 8

Make that twenty jarheads, some psychotics, and one total airhead McPunk.

I slopped more water down, splashed some on Scott's boots.

"Move," I said. He looked at me for a mo, the expression on his face either total teflon cool or plain utter stupidity, I couldn't tell (and didn't care) which. Then he turned, casual, and looked out the door.

"Hey, check it out, dude! Piggy's back!"

"Piggy?"

A half dozen guys came running over. Jankowicz sort of staggered in the door. "Piggy, my man!" Scott called out, and he gave him a big friendly slap on the back.

Jankowicz barfed chocolate brownies all over my floor.87 Great.88

Chapter 0/B.

Evening: After inspection- (Some gray-haired old grizzle that even Payne seemed to be afraid of came in, ran his fingers over some dusty boards, poked his nose in a few footlockers, and made some general b.i.t.c.hy comments, which the Grade Four who was following him scribbled down dutiful on a clipboard. The old grizzle growled, "Floor looks good," and I puffed up.

He added, "Needs wax, though," and I remembered I was p.i.s.sed at the whole world.) After cleaning the bunkhouse again- (Mop the floor, wax the floor; mop again, wax again; buff it shiny, wax the shine; buff the second coat 'til you can skate on it. Hey Dad, this is working out just like you planned! Cash in my college bonds; I won't need 'em. Twelve weeks of this and I'll be the best d.a.m.n deck wiper Nakamura ever hired!) After the official orientation- (Payne formed us up, marched us out and around the track, up to the reviewing stand, where the same gray-haired old grizzle who inspected us before was waiting with a few of his friends.

"At ease!" he said. Lawrence Borec sat down on the gra.s.s. Payne hauled him to his feet again. "Good evening, gentlemen!" the old guy said, ignoring our little sideshow. "I am Colonel Ernst Von Schlager, founder and commandant of the Von Schlager Military Academy!

"You? You are the New Spartans! Young! Strong! The leaders of tomorrow. Blessed with the good fortune to have parents who recognize the value of a sound military education!

"Just as the Spartans of old were looked down upon for blah blah blah and blah blah," he paused, smiled conspiratorial, "and yes, for their89 southern accents-"

Scott made with a yawn so big you could see his molars.

"You must be the blah blah honored history blah blah proud traditions blah my country 'tis of centuries come and go blah blah they did not stop to blah a nation never values its soldiers until blah blah heirs to a three-thousand-year-old warrior caste blah." He spoke. And drank rapidly a gla.s.s of water.) After all of that, we got the real orientation.

Colonel Von Schlager and his homeboys marched off. Payne stepped around to the front and started reading names off a clipboard some Grade Four handed him. "Borec! Nordstrom! Jankowicz! Schmidt- Boule! Harris!"

Bingo.

There were another ten or so names on his list, and not a jarhead in the bunch. When Payne got to the end he barked out, "Front and center!"

Taking our cue from Borec, we all sort of sauntered over slow. "Move it move it move it, lardb.u.t.ts!"

He turned to the Grade Four. "Mister Jefferson, lead the rest of the unit to the mess hall." Bright and eager, the jarheads formed up and jogged off. When they'd cleared out, Payne turned back to us.

"You boys," he said soft, "are Involuntaries. This is the last time I will use that word. But I want you to know that, while the Von Schlager Academy is an accredited military school, it is also a fully licensed psychiatric treatment facility." He detached a sheaf of papers from the clipboard, started handing them out.

"These are copies of the in loco parentis forms your parents signed.

You will note that they also double as medical treatment release authorizations.

"Operating as the Von Schlager Inst.i.tute, we are qualified to use aversion therapy, behavioral modification, and any and all means including electroshock to treat: chemical dependency," he handed a sheet to Jankowicz, "family violence," he handed a sheet to Borec, "clinical depression," somebody I didn't know, "juvenile delinquency."90 He handed a sheet to me.

He said more. I know he did; I saw his lips moving. But somehow I missed the rest of what he was saying, 'cause right then, for a couple black, dizzy minutes, the whole universe folded in on itself and got compressed down to two square inches of paper. Dad's signature down at the bottom of the sheet.

No question about it, I'd spent enough time trying to copy it to be absolute certain that was the real thing. Dad's signature: clear, and bold, and signed with a G.o.ddam flourish.

And right below it, mom's.

Supper was-aw h.e.l.l, I don't even want to guess what it was. A brief interrupt in all the shouting and running around, mostly. By the time Payne finally let us. .h.i.t our bunks around dark my feet were burning, my legs were two solid cramps, and my head- Well, let's just say I still didn't have a real firm lock on step one of my escape plan. Okay, Mikey; tomorrow. We'll bag a few Z's tonight.

There'll be time to work on the plan tomorrow. I pulled off my boots, peeled off my socks, loosened my shirt and climbed up on my bunk. The pillow felt like a burlap bag stuffed with pine cones.

I didn't care.

Someone somewhere threw a master power switch; all the lights went out; I didn't care. Bats came flapping by the windows. A cricket the size of a house started chirping. I didn't care. I felt the beginnings of a little itch on my wrists and vague remembered something about poison ivy.

I didn't care, I just wanted to sleep.

Someone giggled, in the dark. Someone whispered a dirty joke. And then the farting contest started.

Piggy Jankowicz tried to run away that first night. That's how we found out that the nearest town is Fort MacKenzie, across three hundred miles of roadless forest. Air really is the only way in or out of the Von91 Schlager Military Academy.

We also learned that the Academy has a fleet of helicopters and a top cla.s.s of cadets called Grade Fives, who live in the woods, can see in the dark, and can smell a runaway half a kilometer off. A bunch of them ran Piggy down, did a Deliverance-style roughup on him, and had him back in camp by breakfast.

I decided to put off doing the escape until my plan was perfect.92

Chapter 0/C.

By the time my poison ivy cleared up, I was starting to get the hang of the daily routine. Every morning around dawn two Grade Fours came storming in, braying like football coaches, and gave us five minutes to fall out of bed, get dressed, and fall in on the quad. Five exact minutes later, when most of us were out there, one of the Grade Fours would give the order to snap to, and we'd all just stand there like we had broomsticks up our buns while Payne came marching down from the DI's quarters, crisp, precise, and dressed perfect. When he got down to us he'd slow, walk up and down the line a few times inspecting us close and personal, all the while telling each one of us in excruciating loud detail just exactly how sloppy, stupid, and unfit we were.

It was worse than being stuck in the house while Mom was on the rag. Someday I'd like to take Payne's brain apart, just to get a look at the algorithm that let him do it every morning without falling into loop mode.

Of course, someday I'd like to take Payne's brain apart, just for the fun of it.

By the time Payne had worked down to our boots, inspection was just about over. d.a.m.n, I hated those boots! I spent half an hour polishing those suckers every night before lights out. I had those d.a.m.ned things shining like a pair of black mirrors and they still never pa.s.sed inspection!

But eventual Payne would finish criticizing our boots and admit, grudging, that he'd have to work with us the way we were--I think the whole point of inspection was to condition us to shout "Sir! Yes, sir!"

every time Payne opened his mouth-and order us to face the flags and say the Pledge of Allegiance.

Real early on, I learned about this thing called LPRM: Least Painful93 Response Mode. You didn't want to do anything slow and casual, because that was good for twenty pushups. You didn't want to crack any jokes on the inspection line, because that was good for twenty more.

And above all, no matter what they let you do in school back in The World, you did not want to putz around with the Pledge of Allegiance.

Our b.u.t.thole Skinheads tried that one day. They ended the pledge with heel clicks, German salutes, and a loud, "Sig heil!" Then they turned around, grinning like they'd mooned both Popes, and Payne didn't say a thing.

Before he hit them. He just stepped smart up to them, gave one a backhanded left across the face, the other a hard right in the stomach.

Knocked 'em both flat.

The two Grade Fours closed up to flank Payne, and you could almost see his brain fighting to regain control over his reflexes. The b.u.t.thole Skinhead who'd caught it in the gut lay on the ground, moaning, but the other one sat up, rubbing his jaw, and looked mad enough to mix it good. Payne took a step closer and dropped into a fighting crouch. Then he sort of seized up with his face screwed into a dark red fury and his fists clenching and unclenching like spasmodic hearts.

The b.u.t.thole Skinhead took a good long look at him and decided to think about it some more. Payne's brain eventually won out, and he managed to stop hyperventilating and start speaking. "You proud of yourself, boy?" he rasped soft and low.

"Nossir."

"What was that?"

The b.u.t.thole Skinhead licked his lips and spit some blood. "Sir. No, sir," he said louder.

"Fine. Get up." Payne relaxed a notch, and nudged the other b.u.t.thole Skinhead with his foot. "You too. On your feet." The guy with the cut lip helped the other one stand. Payne took a step back, and looked them both over.

Geez, you coulda powered a radio station with the tension in that94 air! Payne just stood there, looking at them. And we all stood there, looking at him, wondering what he was gonna do! A zillion pushups didn't seem like it's be enough to satisfy Payne; maybe he'd make them do laps for the rest of their lives. We couldn't even start to imagine what he'd do.

Payne took a little sniff, then let out a disgusted snort. "What's that smell?" he asked, quiet. We all went into the 'Who farted?' drill, but then Payne learned close to the b.u.t.thole Skinheads and sniffed again.

"Why, it's you!" said, acting surprised. "You boys make this unit stink."

He turned, and pointed to the bunkhouse. "You'd better go stand over there," he said, gentle. "I wouldn't want one of the men stepping in you and getting his boots dirty."

They looked like they would have preferred getting punched out again. Payne's soft chew was just too humiliating; the guy with the bellyache started crying.

Payne turned to one of the Grade Fours. "Mr. Jefferson? Will you take over the men?"

The Grade Four saluted. "Sir! Yes, sir!" Then he turned to us. "Left face! Double time!" It was actual relief to follow orders and not think about what was gonna happen to those two kids. The other Grade Four took the lead, Jefferson fell in behind us, and we started off to jog a few laps around the parade field.

In a minute or two, Scott managed to drop back and get next to me.

"D'ja see that, dude? They got out of drill! Just one teensy love tap, and they're excused from drill! I think I'll try that myself, tomorrow."

At mess call that evening, we found out that Payne had detailed the two b.u.t.thole Skinheads to clean a latrine pit. With garden trowels.

n.o.body ever messed with the Pledge of Allegiance again.

Most days we followed inspection with laps, then half an hour or so of calisthenics. You didn't want to be the last one done with laps, 'cause that meant two extra. You didn't want to look lazy during calisthenics, 'cause that meant ten minutes extra. And you didn't want to do the ten95 minutes, because by the time you got done the mess hall'd be down to oatmeal and stewed prunes. That was one lesson I learned real fast.

After a breakfast two notches below the Buddy's All-Nite Burgers $1.99 Special (now I know why they call it a mess hall), we'd trot back outside for an hour or so of close-order drill, followed by a run through the obstacle course. Drill was the only time we mixed with the other serials: There were three groups that'd started in the weeks before us and one that started the week after us, but we never saw them much 'cept for the hour each morning we spent marching around the quad and yelling at each other. Deathless stuff, like, "Lift your heads and hold them high!

Two-Oh-Three is pa.s.sing by!" Some of the jarheads got real into it, anyway.

Then we'd hit the obstacle course, and if everybody in the unit finished up quick enough we'd get a special treat: Free time on the firing range.

It took me three days to decide that I hated the firing range. For starters, the guns all were these stubby little single shot bolt-action Stevens .22s about accurate enough to hit the long side of a bus-if the bus wasn't moving, and if you were real close. There were only ten guns, meaning it was always a race to see who got to them first, and they kept the guns locked up in this muzzle-ring-and-chain harness thing. So you couldn't help but point them downrange, but this also meant you had to lie on your belly in the dirt to use them.

Then, to make things more nuisant, they gave you just ten rounds at a time, and you had to give up your gun, get back in line, and return your fired bra.s.s before you could get any more. Scott came up with the idea that they were being awful penny-ante about recycling, until the day our unit finished practice and came up two rounds short.

d.a.m.n, you'd have thought somebody'd copped the Queen Nancy jewels! Suddenly the place was swarming with Grade Fours and we had to form up and snap to for instant inspection. The detex crew came in and started working us over one by one, until Lawrence Borec stepped forward, did the admit, and handed over the two rounds. That's when I96 realized, sudden, that all the ha.s.sle was 'cause they were afraid we'd smuggle live ammunition off the range.

Borec was lucky. Since he'd confessed, voluntary, he only had to dig a new latrine.

Anyway, the true/true reason I got to hate the firing range was that that was where I got my first solid confirm on how the cliques were forming up. One of the junior jarheads got hung up on the obstacle course climbing wall one day, and two others helped him over, and that's how we found out that Payne didn't mind if we helped each other through the course. After that, the jarheads started helping everybody, because of course the faster we got through the obstacle course, the more time they got to spend on the firing range fondling guns.

But once we got to the firing range, they were all ice and brick walls again. A couple times in the ammo line I wound up next to Deke Luger, and I'd smile, nod, give him a little half-wave, anything to try and get an acknowledge out of him. No matter what I did, though, he'd just act like I was invisible. So one morning I pushed myself right in his face and demanded to know the secret handshake.

All he said was, "There's this thing called status, y'know? You are an Involuntary."

Fine. I never did get step one of my escape plan figured out, but I did grow my own clique: Scott the McPunk, Piggy Jankowicz, and Lindsey Alistair Schmidt-Boule, who preferred to be called Mister Style (understandable, I think). Granted, Scott was no Rayno, and Jankowicz and Mr. Style weren't exactly cyberpunk material. And taken together we weren't so proud as the Jarheads, tough as the Slammers, or devious as the Little Hitlers.

But between the four of us we had more brains than the whole rest of the camp put together, and if his highness Mister Douglas Kemuel Luger wanted to be stone cold, he could go putz himself. Far as I was concerned, they could all get together in a big circle and putz each other, sequential.

In ten weeks, four days, and seven hours I was gonna be out of there.97 #.

After lunch we'd spend a few hours pretending The Academy was a school-but a school for Cla.s.s D morons. No DynaBooks, no reports, no quizzes: They'd just herd us into a big room and let some Instructor drone at us for two hours. (Yeah, Instructor with a capital I. They didn't have names, just initials. The SI, the DI, the EIEIO ... Got so that if they introduced somebody new and his t.i.tle ended in I, we instant hated him.) Eventually the nI would bore himself to sleep and the Grade Fours'd splinter us into small groups to spend another hour or two talking about it, whatever it was. Hard to talk intelligent when you don't have a chance to prep for the subject. One day we might be talking about agriculture, the next day it might be economics, the day after we might hit on some kind of -ology. But way too much of the time it was moldy old history, and we burned an awful lot of hours talking about Greeks, Persians, Hitt.i.tes, Hoplites, Sodomites, Bakelites, Lavalites, Budlites- And basically, about a lot of naked guys who ran around with bronze swords trying to give each other vasectomies to the max. One day I got into a truly stupid argument with Lawrence Borec 'cause he thought it was real cool the way the Spartans fought to the last man at Thermopylae, and I thought it just proved that they were too stupid to notice that the Athenians had bugged out and left them holding the bag.

Just when it looked like Borec was going to punch my lights out (typical Cla.s.s D Moron response to taking the dumb side in an argument), the proctors interrupted and sent me off to a different group, where I stood around for a few minutes waiting for someone to notice me and update me on the discussing.

n.o.body did. That's when the neat idea popped off the stack. I took a few more days to test it, discreet, and then took it to heart as a basic given of this weird pseudoschool: They didn't keep records.

They didn't call roll, not that there was anyplace else to be. They didn't track which discussion group you went with, or what you said.

They didn't notice if you never said anything at all! Even when I had Roid Rogers for proctor, all my tensing up was wasted 'cause he acted98 like I was near invisible. One bald 13-year-old looks the same as the next, I guess, and in the Von Schlager scheme of things short-timers were hardly worth the work of hara.s.sing.

Once I flagged this, I settled in for a nice, comfty coast. When I could, I did group with Scott, Piggy, and Mr. Style, and we cranked out some great discussion. Sometimes it even had something to do with the lecture.

When I couldn't link with my clique, I just kept my mouth shut, nodded and smiled a lot, and chanted my mantra: Nine more weeks to go. Only nine more weeks.

Nine weeks, and counting.

We started the war games the last week in June. One hot Monday Payne came marching into discussion, announced that the games had started, and read off the names of six generals: Four jarheads (one being Deke Luger), Lawrence Borec, and my man Scott. By peculiar coincidence, these were the same six guys who did most of the talking in discussion. Sudden, I got this terrible nasty feeling that maybe the proctors did notice who said what. Maybe they noticed everything.

I cut off that line of think. They'd pa.s.sed out little blue rule books to everybody, and on his way out the door Payne had casual mentioned that we had two days to memorize the rule book and prep for the first battle.

That meant I'd better read the rule book thorough.