Jay Allan - Marines

After a few minutes of that the door made a soft hissing sound and opened. A tall man dressed in a spotless gray and black uniform stepped through and stood quietly for a few seconds, looking at me intently, as if he was trying to read my mind.

Finally he said, "Hello, Erik. I'd ask how you were doing, but I think I have a pretty good idea. My name is Captain John Irving. You can call me Jack. I was wondering if you had any interest in discussing an alternative to staying here and choking to death on poison gas."

After five years on the street and in the gang, after sitting in that cell of horrors, after that mockery of a trial…I had just about had it with police and anything with a resemblance to police.

"Go get fucked, scumbag. Just gas me so I don't need to look at any more pus-sucking cops."

He looked at me with an amused grin for a moment, and then let out a short but hearty laugh. "I'm not a cop, Erik. I'm a marine. And I'd like to make you a marine too."

Training was nothing like I expected. Actually it started pretty much exactly as I anticipated, but it wasn't long before things veered sharply from the familiar.

I decided I'd call my new friend Captain Jack, which seemed sufficiently disrespectful without being outright provocative. I'd given Captain Jack a few more minutes of nasty expletives, but I couldn't get a rise out of him. And going with him seemed like a better option than snorting toxic gas, so of course I accepted his mysterious invitation. I'd be damned if I would fight for this miserable excuse for a country, but my options were somewhat limited, so I played along.

He called in the guard and told him to un-strap me. The cop looked like he tasted something bad, but when he paused slightly Captain Jack gave him a quick look, and he scrambled over and unhooked the straps and backed away. I watched the whole thing with surprised amusement. These cops were used to being bullies, but this guy was scared shitless of Captain Jack. I enjoyed watching that more than anything I'd seen in a long time.

I'd been shackled and locked up and generally treated like a grave threat to anyone around me for the last four days, so it surprised me when Captain Jack turned around and just said, "Follow me."

"How do you know I won't just jump you and take off the minute we're out of here?"

He didn't turn, but I could hear the amusement in his voice when he said, "I'll just have to take that chance."

I didn't realize it then, of course, but Captain Jack could have killed me in an instant. I thought I was pretty tough, but after years of marine training I have a good idea of how many different ways he could have dropped me without working up a sweat.

We walked through the building, took the elevator down to the lobby, and stepped out onto the street. Captain Jack had an anti-grav waiting right outside. It was a sleek gray vehicle with the U.S. Marine Corps logo on the side. We stepped through the open door and sat down in the spartan, but comfortable, seats. Captain Jack barked out a quick command to the driver and with a whoosh the door closed and we took off.

I'd never been in an anti-grav copter, and I was plastered to the small window, watching as we climbed high over the Manhattan streets. We banked right and headed downtown, and in just a minute or two we were passing over the South Wall.

To the right I could see the rubble-strewn edge of the Crater. It had been almost 150 years since half a million New Yorkers were killed by history's worst terrorist attack, but you could still get a bad dose of radiation just standing next to the edge.

The semi-abandoned areas south of the Protected Zone were similar to those in the north, except for the old financial district, where the buildings were much taller. A few of them had collapsed, but the rest still stood defiantly, abandoned relics of a past time. The whole area still had an unhealthy level of radioactivity, but there were still a few people who eked out an existence among the crumbling cityscape. There were jagged, water-filled trenches everywhere - apparently there had been more underground train lines down here than in the north.

We banked left and I suddenly got a view of the Protected Zone, its kilometer-high towers gleaming in the sun. It was beautiful, and it seemed the very image of prosperity and vigor rather than the dying relic it truly was. It was the last time I would see it for a long time, and when I finally did visit again I would be utterly and irrevocably changed, and New York wouldn't be my home anymore.

The copter streaked across the sky, passing swiftly over the streets of Brooklyn. I looked down on row after row of old, poorly maintained buildings. Brooklyn appeared to be a moderately nicer version of the Bronx, with things not in quite the same desperate condition. There were more people milling around in the streets, and I could make out a few trolleys running down the main thoroughfares, so it looked like Brooklyn still had some level of city services. Nothing like the MPZ of course.

We were heading for a huge structure built in the middle of a large cleared area. The outer perimeter was surrounded by a large plas-crete wall with several guarded entrances. The building itself was trapezoidal, kind of like a pyramid with the top third sheared off.

We landed on the roof and took an elevator down several levels. Finally, Captain Jack broke the silence and said, "You've got to be tired. Orientation starts tomorrow at 0500, so let's get you someplace you can get some rest."

He took me to a small windowless room with drab gray walls and a bunk. The door closed behind him as he left, and I couldn't see any kind of controls to open it from inside. Another cell, but far more comfortable than the last one I'd been in.

I was exhausted, but also wired. My body was a jumbled combination of adrenaline, fatigue, and wild emotions. Anger, fear, confusion. I'd been minutes from death, only to be whisked away at the last instant. It was surreal and hard to get my head around. I had no idea what to expect, and while I was well aware I'd be dead by now if it hadn't been for Captain Jack, I certainly didn't plan to whip myself up into a patriotic frenzy for the old Western Alliance. Fatigue won out in the end, and I fell asleep pretty quickly and didn't stir until they woke me up to start whatever it was I was starting.

Basic training was everything you'd expect it to be, and then some. But before I even got to camp, I experienced some of the busiest and most hectic days of my life.

It started with a comprehensive medical exam, and I do mean an extensive one. I was poked, probed, and prodded in every spot and orifice on my body. They took samples and then more samples. Blood, DNA, spinal fluid, urine, stool, skin, saliva, semen, blood marrow, and just about every variety of tissue in my body. They put me through every manner of imaging and scanning device, and when they were through they plugged a bunch of monitors into me and put me through the most vigorous exercise I had ever experienced.

But they were after more than my body, and the physical tests were followed up by a series of mental and emotional exams. I sat at a terminal for hours taking one test after another. Some seemed to evaluate my logical responses, others just my store of knowledge. Still others were completely baffling in purpose, asking odd questions like, "If mankind could possess only one, what is more valuable, an inexhaustible energy source or a drug that cures all disease?"

Then came the batteries of psych testing, and some of this was really bizarre. It started with normal interviews, questions about my childhood, my beliefs, my thoughts on all sorts of things. I got a little uncomfortable talking about my years with the gang, as I had done some really bad things. But they didn't seem to care about that. I guess being a teenage killer was good prep for a marine career.