Mick Farren - Their Master's war

Rance halted. He looked up and down the line of men.

"You have been harvested. You're battle fodder, and you might as well make the best of it."

Rance noticed that two of the intake seemed to be shaking down. Their eyes were starting to harden and focus. It was time to get them under his control before they got ideas of their own. He stood in front of the nearest one, a young man of medium height, in his late teens or early twenties, with the high forehead and the hooked bird of prey nose that seemed to be common to this colony. He looked capable enough, and recent extensive bruising on his left shoulder tended to indicate that he was a fighter.

"You know your name yet?"

The recruit's lips moved awkwardly. "Umm…"

"Come on, boy. You know your name. You can do it."

"Hark…"

"One more time."

"Hark. My… name… is… Hark." "Very good."

Hark knew that they'd somehow changed his name. They'd also changed his language. The new unfamiliar words felt strange, harsh even, in his mouth, but at least the panic had receded a little. He felt more able to control it. He didn't understand where he was or what was happening, but he found that if he concentrated on an object, the new parts of his mind would tell him what it was and what it was for. When the images had first come, immediately after the pain, they had been so vast that he had felt they were going to swallow him. His identity was diminished almost to nothing. The only consolation was that he could ask questions of the new mind and, at least, he was Hark. There was a number, as well.

"I'm Hark 34103-301782."

"Very good, but don't overreach yourself."

Rance seemed to have lost interest in him. He walked down the line, looking closely at each recruit in turn. When he finished, he stood a few paces back.

"I think you're ready for the first stage."

He touched a control on his belt, and a small port opened. A number of gray metal cases, one for each recruit, glided through it, floating just a fraction of a centimeter from the ground on a gain-reverse field. Hark was amazed that he knew these things.

"This is your basic kit. Inside it you will find underclothing, multimed-in fact, everything that you need to keep yourself clean and healthy. You will also find that there are spaces to store field rations and ammunition as and when they're issued. The basic kit is your friend. It will follow you anywhere."

Even though the new mind explained that it was a perfectly normal, even mundane, occurrence arid nothing compared to what he might see in the future, Hark still marveled when the cases divided, each one floating toward a different recruit to settle on the ground in front of him.

Rance seemed to be amused by their reactions. "Open the cases."

Seventeen of the twenty recruits leaned forward and flicked the red toggle on the top of the case. Seventeen cases flipped open. Rance made a mental note of the three who had failed to connect with the instructions in their new minds. Among them was the one who'd had his toes stomped. Rance knew it was too late for that one. He was beyond reexamination. He'd have to go all the way back.

"You will take out a set of underclothes and put them on.

All of the seventeen seemed to know what to do. They picked out a pair of shorts and a singlet each, but a number, including Hark, put them on inside out at first try. Rance simply pointed at the mistake and, straight away, it became clear. Once they were dressed, even if it was only in drab tan shorts and a singlet, they were invested with a certain minimal dignity. Shoulders were squared, and the terror had gone out of their eyes. Rance was making a final inspection when four other men in suits and harness came through a port and into the hold. Their insignia identified them as overmen, the rank below topman. They were longtimers, and they saluted Rance with an easy familiarity. One of them, a short, thickset man, did all the talking.

"These ready for the messdecks yet?"

Rance shrugged. "Ready as they're going to get. You can berth them down for the throughwatch. Nextday, we introduce them to suits, boots, helmets, and weapons."

"Nextday? Soon as that?"

Rance scowled at the overman. "It's going to bloody have to be, Elmo, my son. They'll need to be jumptuned by the day after. I've heard we gotta jump in three."

"The cluster can't make no jump window in three days, can it?"

"It can if it has to. By all accounts, things are not going as well as they might in the sector."

The recruits were split into groups of five and led away by the overmen, one to each group. Exactly as Rance had predicted, the kit cases followed them, floating neatly to heel, each behind its own individual recruit. Even using the new mind as fully as he could, Hark found that he was totally unable to make any sense of the journey from Receiving Hold 3 to the troopers' messdecks. Hark was in the group led by Overman Elmo, the one who had done the talking. They followed him along a series of passages and companionways that curved and twisted in and out of a much larger and even more baffling system of ducts and grids and conduits that were the bowels of the cluster ship. Much of the interior of the ship seemed to exist in semidarkness with only intermittent red safety lights. Other parts were constantly bathed in streaming and dripping condensation, while still more flashed with dancing static. As well as the steam and electricity, there were also an infinite number of strange and, to Hark, very alien sounds. They ranged from a bass shudder that jarred his teeth to a high metallic whistling that rose beyond the limits of human hearing. Overman Elmo was short and stocky, with odd, spiky ginger hair that grew only patchily on one side of his head. Later it would be told how Elmo had been badly irradiated at the legendary assault on the Seven Walls. Overman Elmo didn't waste words and didn't seem particularly interested in the recruits' awestruck reaction to their first encounter with the deep interior of the ship. On the other hand, he did seem to be an individual who wouldn't crack or even waver under pressure. Despite all the strangeness, Hark instinctively trusted him and wondered if they were to be in his permanent charge.

As with so much else in the ship, the messdeck to which they were taken looked not so much like something that had been constructed with men in mind but something that had occurred naturally in the distant past, dark metal caves with ceilings so low that there were places where Hark had to duck his head. The messdeck was sandwiched between two levels of impossible machinery, the function of which, Hark suspected, only the Gods completely knew. It was Spartan in its simplicity. On the other side of the central aisle, there were two lines of what, the new mind informed him, the troopers called coffins. Each coffin was a container for one man. There were twenty on each side of the aisle. Every one had its own transparent cover. When the cover was lowered, it formed a perfect seal around its occupant. Pipes running into the base of the unit could pump in air in the event of an atmosphere failure. The coffin also had the capability of putting its occupant into something called the longsleep. Surprisingly, the new mind had little to tell him about the longsleep. It was uncharacteristically hazy, and he was unable to make it focus. It seemed that the longsleep was something that he would have to find out about for himself. All the coffins except five had their covers raised, and with military precision, they were all at exactly the same angle.

Overman Elmo scowled at the recruits. "Parasites in the belly of the beast, that's what we are. You'll get used to it, though. If you live that long."

He indicated the five coffins with their lids down.

"Pick one each. Their previous owners don't have any use for them."