Sergeant Formalist Tanner Hughes spoke like he didn’t need to breathe. Which considering his undead disposition, was probably true. Though this didn’t seem like a skill acquired through necromancy, but exceedingly long practice in filling every single second with a platitude, question, or demand.
“I decided you have earned a personal introduction to our armed forces, Miss Vidal,” he quipped. He looked down on me both from height and levitation. It was just enough to make me crane my neck a little.
“I’m assuming I shouldn’t view that as an honor.”
“Are you not enjoying your personal escort to the base?” I didn’t know how to respond to the question or accusation. The statement was said in a pointed aggressive way that made me feel off balanced, Hughes continued without waiting for an answer, “Like most momentous occasions, gift giving is only natural and I have brought you, Miss Vidal, quite the prize. You get a headstart on knowing my expectations. You can prove yourself worthy of such a lofty present by spreading my wisdom to the rest of your squadmates. I know you’ll be unable to avoid adding your own colorful commentary, but don’t dawdle too long on my heroic countenance or perfect diction.”
“I will try my best to resist.”
“Trying is a luxury you are leaving behind. Miss Vidal,” he said, my name detached from the earlier sentence. It felt like a habit like addressing a letter after finishing it, “That is my fourth lesson to you.”
His voice echoed in the halls as if he had one volume and the size of the space never factored into that decision. He also seemed entirely unconcerned with interrupting anything happening through the castle. While he gave a respectful nod to any passing person, he never had to make way for our tiny procession, the force of the march made people step to the side.
“Fourth lesson?” I wanted to roll my eyes, but the sudden shift in my predicament added to my uneasiness.
“First: flexibility is the key to military power. There was a shift in the training schedule hence why we are picking you up a couple days early. Second: am I not currently marching for your benefit to learn from example?” I suddenly noticed that despite his floating, his legs moved with mechanical precision, “And thirdly: the obvious importance of situational awareness.”
I didn’t have a witty retort. I attempted the most inoffensive response I could think of with a hum of affirmation
“That is the most absurd noise I have ever heard. Yes sir and no sir, is going to serve you much better. Hells Bells, I didn’t think I was going to have to teach you how to use your words. Looks like you got another lesson out of me. I don’t know how you got so lucky.”
The trip down the stairs and out of the castle followed the same pattern. Any deviation from the prescribed responses brought another lesson steeped in condescension, but without malice. I felt like an overly willful pet being told the correct way to sit.
In total I received three additional lessons. Firstly, Sergeant Hughes did not care about what brought me into the service. He made it clear he was “aware” of my past, but it was “immaterial to your volunteering.” Secondly, I would be “Miss Vidal” until I was “Trainee Vidal.” According to him, titles were “reserved for those with ranks that did something.” Lastly, that he was resurrected for a job and “turning coal into diamonds was easy”, that his job was “turning shit into steel.” His implications with the last sentence were obvious, but he made sure to stare at me pointedly as he said it.
If Hughes was attempting to earn my ire, he was doing a poor job. After a lifetime of dull instructors, professors, and academics. It was a breath of fresh air to have comedy injected into the education process, even if I had to be the target.
We walked out of the castle and across the courtyard. We continued through a gate, a tunnel, and through some streets. I had a moment of panic that if I was left alone I wouldn’t be able to find my way back, but paused to laugh at myself. I wouldn’t be returning to that house-arrested home.
Our journey finished on a large paved courtyard and a towering marble structure shaped like a diamond. Each corner was made purely of glass. Judding spikes poked out of the top with carved shapes on top. At this distance I couldn’t identify the shapes, but they were all definitely hostile. In various lunging and attacking poses, they may not be identifiable, but their claws, teeth, and weapons were.
Opening a set of double doors to the building I saw stacks and stacks of rooms as soon as the windows ended, but directly in front of me was a large auditorium. The doors opened causing air to rush out and the sound of hushed conversations to stop suddenly. As soon as the three of us were in the building, Hughes and his attendant heel turned and left. I stood there alone. Well, as alone as one can be with hundreds of other people sitting uncomfortably in chairs turning back to look at you. Their eyes were as wide and confused as mine. Some had frowns, some nervous smiles, all of them seemed unguided. Like they were putting on a show, but didn’t even know which side the curtain was going to open on.
A very young woman in a uniform called my attention. She looked barely eighteen, but she held the boredom of a much older woman.
“Have you eaten?” She asked as she offered me a closed box. The desk she sat at was covered with them, surrounding her like palisades.
“Yes?” I answered quizzically. I felt like there was somehow a wrong answer to the question. My definitive answer was at odds with my urge to give myself wiggle room in case she had a lever behind the desk that would cause the floor beneath me to crash open.
She pulled the box back, “Find an unfilled row and take the next available seat. Do not leave any gaps. If the row is filled, start a new row.”
If she turned her head a couple degrees to the left, she would be able to tell me which row was filled or not, but I suspected that outside that sentence and her box kingdom, she did not have any investment in the proceedings.
As soon as I declined the box, I heard the loud sound of many people trying to be quiet. The discussions that the door opening had stopped now had restarted almost in tandem. I moved into what I assumed was the correct seat. The air was a mixture of excitement, fear, and even some false bravado. Among the whispers I could hear people describing their bravery, toughness, top-of-class material, and other ways they were answers to questions none of us knew would be asked.
I had to admit eagerness for my own conversation. A peer, equal footing, a discussion with someone as clueless as I was. It had been a month without a stranger who didn’t outrank my position of prisoner.
I tried to shut out the whine of the room as I offered my hand to my neighbor, “Victoria Vidal.”
An exceedingly tall man, who was probably the correct weight for a man a foot shorter than him, responded, “Lyle, just Lyle.”
Lyle was hard to take seriously. He was young. So young that his voice and height didn’t match. It was a squeak that had both the genetics and hesitation of youth. He sounded like he would be confused in a small town and this massive city was beyond comprehension. Most comically he had a few stray hairs growing on his upper lip. Each one had taken upon itself to go a different direction. I wondered if it was hopefulness or hopelessness that preserved their existence.
“How long have you been waiting, Lyle?”
Lyle looked startled as if a conversation after an introduction was a foreign concept, “Just a couple minutes. They rounded us up from our rooms and marched us down here. I think there were about 20 in our group?” The information was decidedly useless as I looked across the sea of heads. About half the seats were filled, but I had no idea if the entire auditorium would be used.
I was doubtful, but I pressed for more information, “They give any idea of how long or how many more before we start?”
“They really didn’t give us a lot of information, mostly insults and statements on how proud we should be.”
I nodded as that matched my introduction completely.
To my right, a sandy haired man my own age sat down. His blue eyes were still and deep. He wore a smile that looked like it was painted on, but over another almost matching smile. I didn’t see anyone sit down next to him and he must’ve come in alone like me.
He turned to me and opened his mouth when Sergeant Hughes and the same aide I had seen before marched onto the stage in the middle of the room.
“Good afternoon trainees and welcome to the best day of your lives,” Hughes’s voice matched the large room. It sounded pleased with itself on the stage as if the large space was a gift it was greedily accepting, “I am here to make you worthy of your great decision to join the ranks of the Empire. There are over 300 men and women in this room. This will not be the number at the end. Still that is a lot of names to learn once, much less twice. For those without a family name whether through culture or being abandoned by your parents, congratulations you are ahead of the game. For the rest of you, you’re already falling behind.”
He paced the stage for a moment. Everyone was completely still. Unable to imagine the infraction he was looking to pounce on, the collective decision was inaction. Satisfied with our response, or lack thereof, he continued, “I suspect I am the first gheist you all have seen. The good necroists of the Inhumanities have seen fit to bring me back from beyond the grave to give you the wisdom of my 22 years of service. I have been ripped from the solace of the afterlife to watch you all fail and hopefully fix it. You all stand between me and a truly well deserved rest.”
I hadn’t been surprised by the incorporeal sergeant. With the number of monsters and creatures under the Empire’s command, a ghost of any sort seemed relatively mundane. It was interesting to find out he was an oddity in a military dedicated to monsters. It made me look over the recruits. They were almost all human. A set of horns here or furred hide there gave away a mythic or two. But in our gathering, it looked like a largely human endeavor.
“Now, to my right!” Highest gesture to the blue trimmed man, “is Sergeant Functional Talbot, since you all will be getting very close to him, for short you can call him Sergeant Functional Talbot. That goes for every trainer, inspector, sergeant, and person you will meet on base. You will use full titles just as will be used on you. Do you understand, trainees?”
There was confused murmuring of assent, but the sudden request for input directly conflicted with everyone’s survival instinct to stay silent and unnoticed. The meek collections of yah and sure with a sprinkling of yes was an obvious mistake and there was a group wide wince.
To our surprise, Sergeant Hughes did not yell. He crouched down on the raised platform and lowered his face towards the group. He spoke quieter, but with enough volume that he could be heard in the auditorium, “I can tell you all understand you obviously made a mistake. We’re going to solve that together. When I ask a question you will say yes sir or no sir. There is no abstain option.” I felt his eyes find me at the back of the group. I felt a rush of blood to my face. Unbidden embarrassment simply for a moment of attention. I disliked Sergeant Hughes's command of the room. Which itself was untrue, I disliked his power over me.
“There are too many of you,” which was an accusation no one knew what to do with. Was this a yes sir or no sir situation? Sergeant Hughes was back to standing, “You are what is known as a horde. Training Horde 1531 to be specific. You will be broken down into smaller, more manageable groups. Because despite your stunned silence at my presence, you are going to make the mistake of letting thoughts enter your head and some of you may be dumb enough to act on them. You will be assigned into a cluster of 50 soldiers. You will work together and be under the command of two direct superiors. Here is your first mission: to leave this room without pissing me off. We will start with the first seat and the first row. They will stand up, walk to the left and out the door to the left of the stage. The man behind him will follow until the row is empty, then the next row will follow. It sounds simple, I can promise many of you will mess it up.”
There was a silence in the room as everyone started to overthink their next steps. I knew this because I was. Suddenly left and right did not feel as obvious as I once believed. I took a deep breath and took comfort that there was someone on either side of me who could make the mistake first.
“Begin,” I heard the screech of the chair sliding against the ground as the first person over prepared for this moment. He awkwardly put it back into position and walked, or sauntered, or high kneed his way out. “Great start, what are you waiting for?” The person behind him startled by the display hadn’t moved an inch. Now bidden ahead he took a much more normal walk towards the door with the third person following a little too close, but at least making a timely process.
I watched as I remained seated. The mistakes got lower, but never zero. It was a comical failure rate that “leave a room” had. They were going to put weapons in our hands, I briefly panicked. My thoughts tried to wander as 300 became 200 and then 100, but each time I aggressively held them in place. I already had Sergeant Hughes’s attention once and wasn’t excited to repeat the process.
Ten people left in the auditorium, I counted down the remaining few. Nine. I was going to be at the end with Lyle and smiles. Eight. I didn’t know if that was a good thing or not. Seven. Was it better to be first and get it over with or was the benefit from learning from everyone’s mistakes. Six. There was a good flow. Five. Was I thinking those numbers?
“Four!” Sergeant Hughes’s voice broke my distracted state as he counted the final people.
“Three!” I watched in horror as Lyle didn’t move, “Three!” I stared at him with second hand embarrassment freezing me, “Three! Soldier, help your comrade out!”
I figured out he was talking to me as I poked Lyle. His eyes were intent on the Sergeant, but somehow hadn’t figured out he was the one being talked to. Startled, he looked at me and then to his left with alarm. He stood up and scurried out. I tried to follow, but Lyle’s haste and long legs put a huge gap between us and it felt wrong to run to catch up. I looked behind me and the man with sandy hair grinned back.
I got to the door and instantly had someone to my left in uniform yelling at me and pointing. I couldn’t hear him with my heart pounding in my ears, but I figured out the gist as I followed the still scampering Lyle into a group of people lined up in rows and columns. Taking a guess at an open place, I stood peeking around other people trying to peek around the people in front of them.
“Forward march!” The call was sounded from a group far to my left. The most inelegant display of walking drifted past us. I tried to think back to Sergeant Hughes’s gait when he showed me. Was it heel to toe or was I supposed to land exactly flat? There was no way for them to check that, was there? I felt exposed in the back, like a herd where I was the slowest member waiting to get eaten.
Another call and another group lurched off. I looked to my left and Lyle was drenched in sweat. To my right, I saw a smile looking straight ahead. It was a thin line, but its upward motion was at odds with every other face.
“If you are taller than the person ahead of you, tap them on the shoulder and move forward to your right as they step back to their left,” Sergeant Talbot called out. I saw Lyle start tapping right away and rushing up through the ranks. His jubilation at understanding the command ceased instantly as he found himself at the front of one of four lines. Three spaces from him, I was surrounded by unsure bodies. Their insecurity filled me with confidence as their constant mistakes would cover mine. I felt safe and nestled in the middle of my sea of ignorance.
“Forward March!” The command came and we launched off. A comical speed with the front of each row deciding to try and match the fastest gait. Then feeling the awkwardness of Lyle’s gait, three rows suddenly dropped back extra slow. Unflinching Lyle continued as Sergeant Hughes floated in front of him, forcing him to slow to match with the group.
Sergeant Hughes then started to march next to us. His perfect display silent against our thunderous steps, “When you walk, you must be in perfect step with me, respond to my cadence and command,” His voice boomed and then rhythmically chanted, “Chest out, back straight.”
As I watched him, it made sense, but as soon as I turned my head forward. The six styles of marching each with a separate timing had me adding a seventh.
“HALT!” Forty seven people did their best to stop moving and not collide with each other, “Sergeant Talbot, please demonstrate a basic march.” It was slightly stiff walking. There was nothing special to it. It should be incredibly easy. We were called to start again and that notion was instantly dispelled by the mess of bodies.
We came to a complete halt four more times. In between we were shown how to march again by an increasingly exasperated Sergeant Talbot. Sergeant Hughes on the other hand, while loud about our failures, seemed just as perky as he did on the stage.
There was one final halt in front of a blank, windowless concrete building. There was almost a sigh of relief from everyone. By now the sun was low and exhaustion permeated my body. The constant on edge for new orders in a new environment was already cutting into any semblance of mental stability.
“Starting from the left, everyone in the front column, then everyone from the next column. Single file!” Sergeant Hughes gave a shout.
I had a moment of panic replaying the chaos of the auditorium, but it seemed everyone was too tired to be dumb. Without mishap or delay each person walked behind the last. As the third row started I got to cross into what appeared to be my home for my known future. Fifty cots were lined up with minimal space between and a single foot locker at the end. Facing the bed directly was a single chair. If both the bed and chair were filled, the sitter would be staring at the attempted sleeper.
Each small cot had a single pillow. Between the beds it was alternating which side the cushion was on. At the end of the large room was a single massive window that captured the last vestiges of light. It was frosted so we couldn’t see outside and it somehow made the large room feel claustrophobic. Between us and the monstrosity of glass though were ten blue trimmed soldiers.
By the time I walked in, they were already yelling at various people over a myriad of topics no one could be prepared for like “Why are you so tall, trainee?” Lyle was stammering something incoherent as one charged up to me, “Have you brushed your teeth?”
I paused for just a half second, “No, ma’am!” I yelled back, trying to match the volume for some reason.
“Find a trunk, open it, leave it open, that’s yours now, and pull out a toothbrush. Take care of it right now, right now!” she finished and turned off to yell at someone else. I felt horribly self conscious of my breath until the logic part of my brain pointed out she had started yelling at me from across the room with my mouth closed. Unless I truly was horrendous, this was more standard operating procedure rather than a targeted issue.
I rushed as fast I could without running to a closed foot locker and pulled it open. It was filled with various cleaning implements, small towels, some clothes, and had plenty of space left over. I grabbed what I needed and then was instantly lost. Did I do it right here? The sound of running water cut through my cloud of confusion. I rushed off into a large tiled room with lined sinks. I began to brush my teeth and watched people streaming into and out doing and finishing the same.
I felt too thorough to be going quickly, but going too quickly to be thorough at the same time. Returning to the room, I walked back to my bed and trunk. Numerous people were standing stock still in front of the chair. I followed, but was confused if I missed a command.
Lyle came out of the bathroom and returned to an open trunk. He sat down at the chair. He was obviously a bundle of nerves and instantly all us trainee’s knew something was wrong. We just had to be quick enough to tell him.
We tried not to attract attention and tried to charade to him his mistake. We all failed for the second we started moving a blue trimmed uniform charged the seated Lyle, “Do you think you’ve earned the chair?”
Lyle didn’t say anything and shot up. The uniform left as quickly as she came, apparently satisfied with his non-verbal answer. The room was now filled with people standing awkwardly. A man at the end was sweating profusely.
One of the soldiers marched up to him and I overheard him ask in a hushed tone, “Are you alright?”
“Just naturally sweaty, sir”
The soldier nodded in a way that showed he understood the words, but didn’t really know what to do with it.
Sergeant Hughes floated into the room. All fidgeting stopped, “Everyone here looks nervous,” we all glanced at the next person. It was a true statement. I even caught another sight of the person who was grinning on his way here. He still wore a smile, but it was uncomfortable. The Sergeant continued, “That’s good, not all of you are going to make it. You should be nervous.”
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
There was silence. It was a mixed silence. Some were confused, some scared, and others just exhausted. I found myself in the last camp. The tap of my emotions came up dry and I stood startlingly unfocused.
“That is all,” apparently ending his pep talk, “Go to bed.”
I laid down in the clothes of my day, sweat had dried into grit. I only noticed the grime as it attached to a thought that kept repeating in my head. This was going to be more annoying than I had suspected.
The next day came with the sound of a trumpet soft through the window. A subtle chime to the start of the barely visible day. It was accompanied by shrill and incoherent yelling that came bursting through the barrack’s door. Sergeant Hughes and Talbot were halfway venerating and ranting about a great day already being wasted.
They didn’t make it clear what they wanted us to do, but I jumped out of bed. They may not have made the right answer clear, but the wrong answer was obvious. I was able to glean the hour in between their bluster. 5 am, an hour I had only seen the tail end of, never faced from the front. I didn’t particularly care for it.
Sergeant Hughes finally gave a definite command between his rambling about “seizing the day” and “embarrassing ourselves in front of other trainee clusters.” We were told to line up on the wall, which apparently we did too slowly and were wasting the day, so had to return to our beds, then line up again, but we weren’t allowed to run.
It was exasperating. Mostly from the self-defeating logic. You are making us late, so let’s slow down to make sure we’re late? I knew there was more to it, but my groggy brain refused to bring anything into focus.
“When I say ‘What are we?’ you will respond with vigor and zeal ‘the tip of the spear,’” Sergeant Hughes instructed ahead of our antsy line.
Even tired, everyone gave it a good try. I knew it wasn’t enough, not due to its volume, but I was starting to see a pattern. So when the Sergeant reprimanded us and demanded another attempt I was braced for frustration that didn’t come. It would be like getting annoyed at being wet when walking into the rain.
Sergeant Talbot opened the door and the reason my brain went to that metaphor became apparent. I couldn’t tell through the frosted glass, but it was raining heavily. We were told to line up as we did yesterday, but in reverse so we faced the opposite direction.
As I passed the threshold, I was drenched already. That didn’t surprise me, what did startle me though was it was a false dawn. A massive bonfire was what I had seen through the glossy window.
A great billowing canvas tied between some poles stopped a majority of the rain from hitting the flames, but still the smoke of wet wood was obvious. Commanded to march, we blinked through the storm onto the stonework pad. On either side of us was the entire training horde.
“Welcome to physical training!” The voice was loud, but almost intelligible. The sound of the storm made it more guesswork than listening skills. We were running around the bonfire. We would be working out every morning. We were told to “embrace the unavoidable.” Our sergeants and a few others smiled when the speaker next to the fire said this and I did not like that response.
And so we ran. With no fanfare and little coordination, our lines instantly broke apart as we began our run around the fire. I pushed hard and found myself near the “front” of the group. Still a few people were somehow leagues ahead. I heard demands from various sides to go harder. I pushed through the rain, grime, and smoke.
It didn’t stop. Three laps in and my speed was greatly diminished. The complaints of performance seemed to as well. The Sergeants were focusing on those who were already walking to motivate them. At least, I assumed that was the point of the insults.
I was in a light jog now. For the first time I was roughly alone with my thoughts. The mess of bodies around me like jetsam in a river flowed around me. True dawn was beginning, but had a hard time breaking through the dark clouds.
This would be loud and uncomfortable, but that was manageable. I felt a sense of serenity hitting me as the mysteries of military training started to unfold before me. They were going to annoy us, but it would take a minimal amount of effort to keep the criticism general rather than focused on me.
A half hour later we were marched back into the barracks. Waterlogged, but calm I followed the yelled command to shower. As I dried off with an overly small towel, I went pilfering through my trunk. We were instructed there was one size fits all clothes for us. I grabbed a clean nondescript black shorts and a red shirt from the trunk at the foot of my bed.
“Fit all” was a stretch and so were these. It was somehow too loose and too short all at once. Barely coming below my shoulder and ending long before my knees while billowing around my stomach. Even as the sergeants chided us for not tucking in the shirts, it did not do much to improve the situation.
“Skies out, thighs out!” Sergeant Talbot yelled, standing next to a very unhappy looking Lyle. The one size fit none of him. Sergeant Talbot was in matching, but a better fitting version. Still the shorts seemed high on him, but he wore them with a pride I couldn’t imagine attaching to these absurd fabrics. Still, cleaned and in fresh clothes was a welcome state. The forced rush from the shower to dress left me damp though. Between sweat, rain, and shower, it had been almost 24 hours since I knew the feeling of dryness. I never thought I would yearn so hard for the sensation.
As everyone finished up with cleaning, dressing, and more yelling for the stragglers. The call to line up again to leave was made. We were brought to a mess hall, told to line up, and yelled at repeatedly that talking would not be tolerated. Any mouth opening was intended for food and any other activity would waste our time, of which we were already late.
We marched from there to another large, but unremarkable building. We lined up to enter the building with a practiced routine. Wordlessly and under constant stare we walked into a room of boxes and crates. Rows and rows of them stretched and wound around in a maze. There were numbers on each box, but they constantly skipped around, restarted, or picked up in a different place completely. Twenty eight, thirty, thirty two, nine, ten, eleven. Signs directed us between the boxes until we reached a last sign that said wait to be called. A red satin sheet covered the path and masked anything behind it. Despite orders and uniformed men walking up and down the line, I heard murmuring from other trainees.
“First trainee step forward,” shouted a voice behind the sheet.
The front of the line hesitated, but there was already a sergeant next to him ushering him forward. There were quiet and hushed commands. The heavy sheet muffled any true sentence structure.
“Sir, Trainee Deck presenting,” Trainee Deck began his question to Sergeant Hughes who was somewhat in a conversation with Sergeant Talbot, though it seemed more the ghost making comments and his corporeal mirror nodding. The “presenting” start was something taught to us before we had left for the barracks for the day. If we had any response that was not yes or no sir, we had to start with the qualifier. “What are we doing after this?”
The question was galling. I took count of the other trainees who looked annoyed with the question and those that seemed eager to hear the Sergeant answer it. Lyle was in the latter group, the smiling man I had yet to learn the name of seemed eager to hear the response as well, but the curl in lip seemed to imply he knew it would be a more insultive than instructive answer.
“Does knowing that matter? Do you believe your input will be requested and you need advance warning to weigh the options?” Sergeant Hughes raised an eyebrow, “Trainee, are you trying to tell me I need your permission to send you anywhere I want on these grounds?”
I had to give him credit, the insult was the instruction.
“No, sir!” Trainee Deck almost shouted and took a step back. He hadn’t taken a step forward to begin with and now backed into one of the boxes. It groaned at the input, but made no movement.
There was stifled laughter from the group, “Don’t laugh, I’m not being funny.” Sergeant Hughes demanded. His face was serious as he stared us down. He then gave a quick smile and turned back to Sergeant Talbot to continue his one-sided conversation.
I hadn’t seen anyone leave from behind the curtain yet and multiple people had gone through. I suspected that there must be a different exit. I was surprised when I saw the first person to walk through appear behind me and pass me. He stepped up to the Sergeant by the door, mumbled something, and went back through the curtain looking very embarrassed.
“Next trainee!” the voice called and I discovered I was at the front of the line. I quickly stepped through to an overly large room. A rug lay across the floor and on one side a large box with a short man towering over me from on top of it.
He had thick sideburns and thinning black hair. He wore a white collared shirt with its sleeves rolled up and a tape measure in place of an undone tie. Seeing someone not in uniform already felt alien and I wasn’t comfortable with that budding fact.
“I need you to write down what I’m about to tell you and not complain,” he said as he pointed behind me. A small table had a pencil and a stack of papers.
I grabbed one of each and turned back, “Yes, sir”
“I’m serious, I am going to give you measurements for your uniform. You are going to write down the measurements. You will not pretend to write them down because you think you’re smart enough to remember.”
“I… uh…” I stammered, did he think I was an idiot? “Yes, sir?”
“I don’t want to hear that inflection,” his voice was gruff and slightly hoarse, “You are not to leave this room without that piece of paper with the words I say to you.”
“Sir, Trainee Vidal presenting, I’m not confused on the command, just confused on why you think I would do that.”
“I say this to everyone. Every rule has a reason, remember that. Nothing we do here is because we enjoy it, if we have to say don’t do something dumb, it’s because people have done dumb things. Now I am going to start”
I nodded. I had been measured before and already flexed my neck back and forth preparing to hold myself correctly.
“Four sets of 26, One Rs, and Four 30N,” the man rattled off without moving from his place. Then his eyes narrowed and I quickly started writing it down. He nodded, “Your current shoes, fit snug?”
I blinked and opened my mouth, “Yes? Sir” I quickly added at the end.
“Two nines,” He finished with almost a smile. It was for himself and his satisfaction at a job done correctly, “You will go through the door behind me, find the boxes with those numbers and letters and grab out the amount I told you of each. Then follow the sign to the next room and do it again. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
As I was leaving he called for the next person. Two people walked in and he pointed towards the one on the right, “Four 34s!” The trainee turned on his heel and backed out.
The trainee on the left looked perplexed as I finished parting the exiting curtain. On the other side of the sheet was the rest of the cluster opening and grabbing things out of boxes. They were pieces of uniforms. The room was in various states of dress with some putting on pieces of the uniform and others simply collecting and going.
I hunted through for the boxes that had the numbers on my list. I was very glad he forced me to write it down. Everyone in the room was mumbling different numbers and twice I consulted my sheet to confirm I was heading in the right direction.
The 26 box was easy to find. It was already open and I grabbed out four long sleeve uniform blouses. The black and red squared fabric was starched and unyielding in my hands. The R was surrounded by trainee’s comparing the identical tabards inside. Each had a white trim, but from the discussion it seemed there was a prevailing theory that some trims were brighter than others.
I pushed through and grabbed the top one, annoyed at the exchange. As I broke the log jam it caused the others to rush in and grab one before I escaped their crowd. It took as much effort to push my way out as it had in.
Freed, I checked over the tabard I had obtained. There was an obvious spot for decoration. The same spot I had seen different symbols in different colors on every member I had interacted with. I was curious when we were going to be yelled at with the answer to their meaning. That it was rank was obvious, but the current description of them had been “they’re all more important than you.”
For now, it would have to do. I had no doubt I’d be told in time. Shrugging to myself I found the box with 30N on it. Another person was already yanking out sets of black pants. His smile gave him away more than his sandy hair or any other feature. As I got closer he turned back and his smile somehow didn’t grow or shrink, but became more polite. It was like a switch had turned from passive positive presentation to an active affirmation.
I nodded, I couldn’t remember what face I was actively making. It felt like a frown, but I was already folding into a mechanical blankness to get through the laundry list of annoyances.
As I rummaged through the pants, a small voice sounded behind me, “Vidal, I’m confused.”
I tried my best not to sigh. I had heard this sentiment repeatedly in such a short amount of time. The fact that my name was attached to it made it my problem. Lyle stood behind me with eight checkered shirts.
It was obvious the issue, but I was at a loss at how four had doubled in his head. Before I could ask for elaboration I didn’t really want, the sandy haired man spoke up, “Hey Lyle, my bet is the first set of shirts you got is correct, but for the second. You got the number of the box right, but missed the letter he said at the end. Was it N or W?”
Lyle fumbled to his hand free of the tangle of clothes. He checked a much crumpled piece of paper, “36N.”
“Perfect, that box is going to be a bit further down. I’m Rhys by the way.”
“Thank you!” His earnestness aggravated me. “Lyle!” he added as he finished scampering away. He was a fool, but he was trying his best. I couldn’t tell if that made it better or worse. A putrid taste at the back of my throat made me uncomfortably aware of a cynicism I was cultivating.
“Some rarely used back gate is going to really enjoy having him as a guard,” Rhys said. His smile never wavered and he trotted off without waiting for a comment.
I finished collecting my clothes, found the box with nine on it and pulled out a set of boots. I tried to keep everything folded to make it easier to carry, but as I rounded the corner, I felt myself teetering.
The next set of boxes contained much nicer clothes. The checkered shirt was white and red, the pants were red. The boots became a set of black leather shoes. The tabard was white with a gold thread holding the white trim on.
Outfitted and overloaded, I carried the haphazard pile onwards. The initial confusion of the building’s layout was replaced in the comfort of an effective straight line. Everything had been incredibly simple to follow, simply move forward and follow the next task.
Continuing through the warehouse, I found myself at a row of tables with people behind passing things out. Already members of my cluster were lined up and taking what was offered. I got in line behind Rhys. The line moved mechanically forward until I was at the first station. A woman handed me a large duffle bag and told me to place everything in it.
I was eternally grateful, but before I could express it she was ignoring me and giving the same bag and instructions to the next person. Next came sets of socks, black and woolen, into the bag, then more socks, white and dangerously thin, another chuck into the bag. One set black gloves, two belts, and a set of pins. The colored decorations gave no indication to their meaning, but into the bag and out of my thoughts they went.
The rows of tables ended where we started. Only a few people had left to see the master of measurements. Sergeant Talbot was guiding people coming from my direction into a different room.
“Get in there, change into the standard uniform, not your dress uniform, that’s the black and red,” he stated. His eyes darted quickly, the whites bulging against his tan skin. He seemed to be calculating people and losing count.
“Sir, Trainee Vidal presenting. Do we wear this over the clothes we have now or not?” I asked hoping to avoid an insult later without getting one now.
“There is official regulation that you should wear your physical uniform under your standard uniform,” he recited, “but I’ll let you in on a secret, no one is going to check and you should do what feels comfortable.”
He gave a conversational tone which took me off guard. He was the first blue trimmed soldier to talk to me as a person. I was suspicious. Was the stiff, informal, and dismissive tone I had received thus far mandated or adopted by the blue trim troops?
I took the filled sack into the other room to see numerous people in states of dress and undress. People fought with boots, struggled to line up buttons, and seemed to be in utter disarray.
The room was just large enough for everyone with two rows of long benches. The press of people made it warmer and I was uncomfortable in just my shorts and shirt. I found an empty spot and made a decision, stripping off the not completely dry clothes. I started with the uniform pants before moving onto the shirt. Pulling out a set of socks, I learned I had done at least one thing out of order as the long black socks were a pain to pull up with the pants in the way. I managed it, but made a mental note for the next time. I wrapped the belt around me, just tight enough that it didn’t look loose.
All the clothes had strings coming out of the seams. It wasn’t obvious until you looked, but once you saw them, they stood out like a sore thumb. I wanted to investigate them, but decided to finish up as quickly as I could.
Focused entirely on my boots, I tightened the buckle until it was just firm enough. It was an annoyingly good fit. Probably one of the most comfortable sets of footwear I had worn and the person who selected them had spent less than a handful of seconds making the decision.
I stood back up, complete but for one thing. I threw the tabard over my head and shook everything into place. Next to me Rhys was smoothing out his uniform. His tabard’s white trim was in fact brighter than mine. It wasn’t obvious when they were separate, but right next to each other I could see the debate I had broken up had merit. I wondered if Rhys had made the conscious decision or if it was simply luck of the draw.
Everyone finished dressing, we were told we took too long, were late, and we returned to marching. The matching boots were now closer in time than our messy footfalls were before. Being surrounded by the matching uniforms added a gravitas to our movements. Even the permanently awkward Lyle had his head up a little higher. The only part that diminished is all the new fabric made a swishing sound as starched fabric brushed against other starched fabric.
Another march led to another faceless gray building. Inside rows of ascending chairs and tables. A lecture hall, completely bland, the only distinction between this and any standard room in my old academy was yet another sergeant with blue trim standing at the front.
He was all smiles in a way I had only seen from Rhys. He gave a little wave to our Sergeants that dropped us off like we were annoying children. They nodded, but left without saying anything to him.
“You are joining the profession of death,” he said with a grin, “This is a terrible, ugly job and it is required to protect our great empire.” His voice echoed off the hall’s walls.
He then introduced himself as Sergeant Yurdle. The next hour was a lesson of military obedience and the code of honor.
“If you’re captured, what is your objective?” he pressed the class.
“Sir, Trainee Gosli presenting, to escape,” a burly woman in the class said. She looked tailor made for her uniform and her imposing form dwarfed the Sergeant. Even standing in the second row, she looked like she could reach out and squash the blue trimmed man.
“A good secondary objective, but your first goal is to survive. The longer you live, the longer you give the Empire to rescue you. Whether through victory or negotiation, it is the imperial creed to return every member home.”
There was a murmuring of assent and praise. It was interesting to see loyalty rise in real time. I admit a smattering of respect, but it felt like a numbers game to me. The cost of doing or at least saying you’d support the lost troops was probably offset by the value of a happy workforce. It felt like a call Epswitch would have made, a seemingly moral move with a high net profit.
“The next step is torture.”
There was a hush in the room. Being told you were valuable and would be protected was nice and maybe you’d kill for such an organization, but torture felt like a hard pill to swallow. I didn’t relish the idea and tried to fathom what I’d do if forced to wield implements of pain.
“We don’t practice it. Doesn’t work. There is a prevailing belief that cruelty exists because it is efficient, why else have evil if it doesn’t provide anything? But the information is always unreliable and people will say anything to make torture stop. The empire has run extensive studies and the results are conclusive,” There was a sigh of relief, but I could see a few of the more astute trainees caught onto the ‘studies’ he mentioned. The Empire had made sure torture didn’t work. They had probably double checked their work. I smirked, good, be exposed to the fact you’re working for literal monsters.
“If you are caught and tortured, you are free to say anything you want. As I stated, your job is to survive. If you are caught, your commanders will assume any information you have is compromised. We have no way to know how resilient any trooper is and the truth is there is a breaking point where you’ll say something. Whether you’re creative enough to give false information or not is too much of a gamble,” Sergeant Yurdle scanned around the room, “I know there’s a lot of people in here that think they’re tough as the hells themselves, but when they are popping off toes, your tone will change. Do not let it get to that point, you’re a lot more valuable when we rescue you if you have all your limbs attached.”
Somber horror was etched across most of the faces. Mortality was something everyone faced, but imagining a torment for hours, days, or weeks before being allowed to bleed out was a thought not everyone had tackled. I found even my breath was a little unsteady. My worst case was that accepting the conscription was a delayed execution to some nameless battlefield, the idea of dying slowly by having bits of me carved off was not factored in.
Sergeant Yurdle’s smile never wavered as he continued to talk about the type of soldiers we should exemplify to be. His speech on accountability to our fellow warriors and honesty in all we do fell on very preoccupied minds. The shuffle and scrap of new uniforms was now silent as everyone tried to figure out which would be their least favorite parts to have chopped off.
Our grinning and grim instructor released us to Sergeants Hughes and Talbort. They seemed satisfied with our pallors. They marched us off with the same yelling, but a little skip in their step.
For the first time we returned to a building I knew, the mess hall. Inside, another meal in silence other than utensils scraping against plates and then we returned to the barracks.
Sergeant Hughes had us all take a seat. “Buck up, you’re not dead yet,” he said, the irony of the phrase eliciting a few polite laughs.
“Sir, Trainee Deck presenting, but do you have all your toes?”
I could see the Sergeant try not to smile, but failed, “Always something to ask, huh Trainee Deck. Yes I have all my toes and no you don’t get to see my well manicured feet,” his smile faded, but the softness remained, “Every night we’re going to do a debrief and we’ll cover different topics. You’ve gotten to see what a lot of your days are going to be. We’re going to make you stronger, we’re going to indoctrinate you to be better people, and we’re going to make you feel like you’re failing every step of the way. You need to be prepared for the feeling of failure and for pushing past it. Some of you have education in books or fighting or philosophy, but none of you have had training on failure. No matter how skilled or dedicated you are, you are going to make mistakes. You need to be mentally prepared to understand your failure and move on, that’s what will save you and your comrades lives.”
I lay in bed that night thinking of my education. Failure was distasteful. I thought of my father. Failure wasn’t acceptable. I was always told that failure was a failure of effort, but a lifetime of life so far had disproven that. Sometimes you were outmatched, sometimes you lost due to random chance, not a lack of conviction. I thought of the wolf whose charge had impaled himself, sometimes you win due to random chance.
It felt like the most important lesson I had received thus far was that failure could be a natural state. The idea that improvement could be even more valuable than success. That preparation and conviction did automatically equal perfection.
As I lay in the bed of my enemy, preparing to fight, die and possibly be tortured while they completely controlled every aspect of my life, I felt very far from perfection.