Marko Kloos - Terms of Enlistment

I want to send a message to the rest of the squad, and another one to Halley, but I’m cut off from the rest of the world, which is a rare experience. The Net terminals in the PRC apartments crap out every time a gnat farts in front of the government communications relay, but the MilNet link has been so reliable that the lack of connectivity feels a bit surreal.

There’s a remote on the table for the screen in the corner of the room, but I’m not interested in boring myself to tears with some insipid Network show, or the stuff they sell as news reports.

Since I can’t get in touch with anyone, I decide to use the opportunity to catch up on some sleep. I toss the PDP back into the drawer, and roll over to settle into a more comfortable position. The mattress is better than the one on my bunk at the base, the room is quiet, and whatever drugs I have in my system are making me sleepy.

When the door opens again, I wake up once more. The window in the room shows a starry night sky outside, which makes it a projection—there are few spots left on the continent where you can see stars at night, and I’m pretty sure the Great Lakes isn’t one of them, not with Chicago and Detroit nearby.

“How are we doing?” Corporal Miller asks. She’s carrying a meal tray in her hands.

“I don’t know about you, but I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus,” I reply. “What’s for dinner?”

“For you, Liquid Nutritional Package Seventeen. Your choices are vanilla or applesauce flavor. I have to warn you, though. The flavor designations do not accurately reflect the taste experience.”

“I’m used to that,” I say, eyeing the nondescript white containers on the tray. “Ever tried BNA rations?”

“Yes,” she says. “My hometown is PRC Houston-23. Trust me, this stuff here is gourmet food compared to welfare chow. Just pretend it’s a milkshake. You’re on liquid diet for the next few days, by the way. Doctor’s orders.”

“I’ll try the vanilla. Any idea why my PDP can’t get onto the network in here?”

Corporal Miller shrugs.

“Not a clue. I’m not a network tech. The Information Support group at your home battalion is in charge of your access. You may want to check with them when you get out of here. Maybe your toy is broken after all.”

I know that it’s not the PDP, but I just shrug in return. If Corporal Miller knows why they killed my link, she’s not willing to tell me, but I have my own theories.

“Have your dinner, and call me if you need help.”

“I’m going to have to hit the head before too long,” I say. “I’m guessing you don’t want me up and running around.”

“No, I don’t,” she smiles. “There’s a relief tube on the right side of your bed. Use it at your convenience. Your bowels are empty, by the way, so don’t worry about the other thing. That won’t be an issue for a while.”

“Good to know. Thank you, ma’am.”

She leaves the room, and I take a sip from the container in front of me. Liquid Nutritional Supplement Seventeen tastes as bland as unadorned rice cakes, but there is a vague vanilla aftertaste to it, so I take Corporal Miller’s advice and pretend I’m sipping on a milkshake.

Piss tubes, liquid food, solitary room, and no MilNet access , I think. This will be a long week.

The next two days are filled with meals, physical evaluations, and long stretches of boredom. As the medication levels in my system are reduced, I’m no longer in a constant state of pleasant sleepiness, and the lack of entertainment even has me turn on the screen in the corner and watch some Network news.

On the morning of my third day of rehab, I have a visitor. Just as I am finished with my breakfast—I’ve graduated to mushy corn cereal—the door opens, and a TA major in full Class A uniform walks in.

“As you were,” he says jovially, as if I was going to toss my blanket aside and jump out of bed on the spot at the sight of the golden leaves on his shoulder boards.

“Good morning, Major,” I say. At first, I guess he’s with the Medical Corps, but then I see the branch insignia on his uniform. They’re the crossed muskets of the Infantry. I scan the fruit salad of ribbons above his left breast pocket automatically, and see that he has very few combat-related awards. There’s the Combat Drop Badge, Master rank, but that’s something every TA trooper in a line battalion earns within two years of service. He has a marksmanship badge with a Rifle and Pistol tab, both the lowest rank. Most TA troopers in our company elect to not wear the marksmanship badge unless they have scored Expert, the highest rank, which most of us do. The ribbons and badges on a Class A uniform are a soldier’s business card, and this Major’s card says “pencil pusher”.

“Good morning, Private,” he replies. He looks around for a chair. Failing to spot one, he walks up to the side of my bed and adopts an awkward position that looks like he’s not sure whether to stay formal or relaxed.

“My name is Major Unwerth. I’m the battalion S2.”

“Yes, sir.” The S2 is the officer in charge of intelligence and security. I’ve not had dealings with any of the brass that inhabit the Pantheon, which is what the troopers informally call the battalion headquarters building.

“I have a few questions for you, if you don’t mind, Private.”

“Of course not, sir.”

“Do you recall what happened last Saturday?”

“Of course I do. We were sent into a PRC up in Detroit, and they shot the hell out my squad. Sir,” I add.

The Major isn’t exactly out of shape, but he doesn’t have any hard edges, either. He looks soft, and I feel a sudden dislike for him. Maybe it’s the way he looks down on me, like I’m a different, inferior species, or maybe a defective piece of machinery.

“Well, that covers the basics of it,” the Major says. “Let me ask you something specific. Do you remember firing a thermobaric warhead from a MARS launcher in the course of that mission?”

“Yes, sir, I do.” I suddenly understand why the Major is here, and why my PDP doesn’t have access to the MilNet all of a sudden.

“And can you tell me who authorized or ordered you to fire that particular warhead?”

“I did not receive a direct order to fire that launcher,” I say. “We were told by the platoon leader on the way to the objective that lethal force was authorized in self-defense. They were shooting at my squad, we had several people down, and I defended myself, sir.”

“I guess you did, rather vigorously.” Major Unwerth purses his lips briefly.

“The problem is one of proportion, Private Grayson. You used a highly destructive hard shelter demolition warhead on a civilian target—government property, at that. There were significant civilian casualties in that building due to your self-defense measure.” He pronounces the last two words with just a hint of mocking emphasis in his voice. I conclude that I definitely don’t like him.

“We’re supposed to protect and defend the citizens of the NAC, Private. Blowing the hell out of a civilian high rise isn’t exactly the kind of thing that makes us look like we’re doing a good job at that.”

I feel the heat rising in my face.

“What the hell do you suggest I should have done, Major? You have the telemetry from our computers, don’t you? Should I maybe have asked them politely to stop shooting at us from that particular spot?”

“You could have responded in a more proportionate fashion, I think,” the Major says. “There were other weapons than thermobaric rockets available to you.”

“Well, I was sort of in a hurry, and I didn’t have time to read labels, sir.”

“That’s a pity,” Major Unwerth says. “I’m the one who has to mop up the mess with the media and the division brass, and believe me when I tell you that I’m not pleased about that.”