Nicola Lombardi - The Tank

The Tank looked huge, a dark grey cylinder that sternly contrasted with the dawn’s pale colors and filled the heart. Giovanni Corte could not help but hold his breath when the huge silo of steel and concrete appeared beyond the mist. He felt a chill run through his body.

The early morning air got into his sleeves and under his collar while he was steadily approaching the structure with two NMO officers at his sides.

While they walked in utter silence tufts of grass and gravel crackled unpleasantly under their boots. Giovanni felt like he was walking on an expanse of brittle bones, trampling them underfoot.

The soldier at his right chocked a sneeze with his gloved fist. He was quite slender, which was pretty clear even under the large black coat, and the vaporous ghost that came out of his mouth quickly vanished in the chill of that newborn January. The other officer, thicker in build, rapidly glared at his comrade as to reprimand him for the sudden, albeit trivial, lack of self-control. The small four-pointed stars they both wore on their shoulders and berets weren’t shining as usual, always polished like golden jewels; the cold, dull light hovering on the whole Camp 9 made them look dull, almost opaque.

Giovanni wanted to answer humorously, or even with just a simple “Bless you!”, to lift that shroud of rigor, but all that came out of his mouth was a faint cough. He himself didn’t understand if he was full of hope, fear, or what else. A new adventure was expecting him, all things considered. A stimulating experience, however demanding and hard, that would leave a permanent mark on him. And a considerable sum in his bank account. He walked with obvious confidence, but he was aware of the sharp blade in his side, which however couldn’t completely dissipate the euphoria, the excitement that upset with levity the flow of his thoughts.

Clinging to one side of the cylindrical structure, a thick architectural body broke its circularity for a short segment. It was the slim, pointy elevator shaft that led all the way to the top, where the Keeper’s billet was easily recognizable: a light grey bulky block of bricks and concrete which extended a few meters over the edge, detached from the protruding belt that crowned the Tank’s summit. Basing on the maps he studied, Giovanni recognized the Ring that outlined the whole perimeter. Moreover, he knew about an external ladder on the opposite side, perfectly vertical, which led to an alternative entry – or exit, in case of elevator issues.

While walking he lowered his gaze to examine the wicket gate set on the Tank, at a short distance from the pavement. It was a circular cover about half a meter in diameter, shut by a handle similar to those once used to seal submarines. The Gate of Cleansing, undoubtedly.

When they were about five or six steps away from the Tank’s entrance the soldiers stopped, and Giovanni – who kept on walking lost in thought – had to move backwards to go back between them.

Without speaking they all looked up.

Elven meters in diameter. Nineteen in hight. Six of foundations. Concrete on the outside, embracing a steel upholstery for total thickness of fifty-four centimeters.

It would be impossible to hear the screams from the outside.

When the door of the big, half-empty office closed, leaving him alone with General Aurelio Stevanich, Giovanni felt his heart sink.

The high officer stood with his back towards him, motionless and rigid in front of the room’s only window. He kept his hands joined behind his back and looked like he was devising who knows what strategy to deploy and move his troops on the plain to defeat imaginary enemies. Giovanni had greeted him while going in and the general had greeted him back politely, but hadn’t turned around. Now, the seconds that passed before they established any sort of civil relationship seemed to multiply, piling on, until Stevanich finally turned and pointed at the small black chair in front of his desk.

“Sit down, Corte. Or would you rather stand?”

Giovanni quickly examined him, trying not to show his nervousness too plainly. The role for which he applied and for which he was chosen required a resolve he felt abandoning him through his pores, but that he needed to fake.

Stevanich was one of the higher-ups of the New Moral Order, maybe the most important one; a man around which many rumors had spread, consequence of the fear the regime had so accurately stoked. Giovanni had read a biography of Vlad Tepes, the legendary Dracula, and in that moment the goriest episodes and anecdotes about unlucky protagonists who were called before the bloodthirsty prince and then invariably suffered bitter ends crept out of his mind. That wasn’t the case, of course; but he could see the similarities.

He never met the general before, but he knew his fame and thought extremely highly of him because of his well-known inflexibility and the utter intolerance towards anyone who disregarded directives, orders and regulations. The expression iron fist in a velvet glove was only partially fitting to Stevanich’s character, for whom the variant iron fist in an iron glove was coined. Apparently he had a subordinate put under arrest for six months just because he didn’t greet him with due respect and some recruits seriously risked ending up in a Tank for being caught telling dirty jokes during a drill. Now, Giovanni didn’t technically belong to the military; he was a civilian that, like many others, applied for the annual Tank Keeper position in Camp 9 and had been lucky enough to get the job. A job that, however, made him subject to martial law to a certain degree, so the feeling of being on the gridiron wasn’t completely unjustified.

Filled with pride and apprehension, he thanked and sat. With slow steps the general reached his seat and did the same. He was a tall, lean man. The short, white hair made him look around sixty, but the almost complete absence of wrinkles on his forehead and the black mustache starkly contradicted that impression. His looks were impeccable, the grey uniform full of coloured degrees and tabs, while the golden four-pointed start just above the heart seemed to release a warmth that helped temper the chill of his leaden eyes.

Now sitting, Stevanich was perfectly in front of the large tetragram, the NMO symbol hung on the wall at his back, so that three of the big black star’s slender points – a symbol referring to the four cardinal points – seemed to sprawl from the top of his head and the sides of his neck. All in all, it was quite the evocative sight.

Opening the folder that was specifically placed on his desk, the general spoke without raising his gaze on his interlocutor: “I see you brilliantly passed every test, distinguishing yourself among eighty-seven candidates.”

Giovanni coughed while settling on the chair. To that moment he had uncomfortably sat on the edge, so he slid backwards a bit until he felt the backrest.

“So, let’s see… Giovanni Corte. Twenty-five. Orphan of both parents. Currently not in a relationship. Degree in political history. Hobbies: movies and literature. Many awards in athletics. No legal precedent, no smoke, no alcohol, no drugs…” The general closed the folder e tapped it with the palm of his hand. “Impressive, Corte. Very impressive.”

Giovanni felt a clump of pride in his throat. “Thanks, general.”

Stevanich fixed his eyes on him, eyes that looked like they had been carved in dirty ice. “Let it be clear that I’m completely satisfied with how you passed our selection process. However…” A three second pause that seemed like three minutes to Giovanni. “The regulations say that the Keeper position for the upcoming year is yours. I read your psychometric profile. Our commissars are experts of extreme and proven competence and I blindly trust their judgement. Nevertheless, I would like to make sure you are one hundred per cent motivated, without reserve. And I think you are.”