Slumrat Rising

Sometimes It's Easy

Sometimes It's Easy

Truth was pleasantly surprised by how much he liked the Army. Everyone else was grousing about this being terrible or that being stupid, but he liked the rigid structure of it. What time did he get up? 5:00 AM. Not a minute before or after. He was to get dressed in the approved manner with the supplied clothes, make his cot in exactly, and only, the specified manner and otherwise attend to all other matters before marching with the unit to breakfast. Which was hot, and at 5:30 every day. Then he was given exercises to do (which weren’t anything too terrible) training (laughably easy combat drills), then classes, and so on. Everything was scripted. Everything happened according to a plan.

He was pretty freaked out at the beginning. A load of big pricks getting in people’s faces and screaming triggered some very unpleasant memories. The first time a training sergeant laid hands on him, Truth nearly decked him. Fortunately, his brain was able to overrule his instincts. His instincts got a hell of a nasty shock when said sergeant yanked his equipment webbing into place, then spent exactly ninety seconds yelling in his ear about all the ways misaligned equipment harnesses would inevitably fuck up. His death was to be expected and good for the service, but he might kill someone competent in the process, which was bad for the service. Truth allowed how that was fair and did better.

There was none of the fear and chaos of living with his parents. You might get yelled at, but only because you actually screwed up. There were rules, but they weren’t capricious. They didn’t change because someone was drunk or pissed off or just crushed by life and taking it out on people who couldn’t defend themselves. The Army wasn’t a nice place, but it beat the hell out of home.

Truth was fairly rusty on how to be social, so he didn’t really make friends. The one time someone tried shoving him around, things ended predictably. Fortunately, the man in question tried his game in the showers. Truth was able to demonstrate that you can put a human in immense pain, physically and psychologically, without specialized tools or leaving any obvious marks. He repeated the demonstration four or five times, until he was quite sure his fellow recruit understood. Sure, he said he did after the first time, but Truth wanted to be absolutely certain. It only took a few minutes to do a good deed.

As the weeks went on, it became increasingly clear to everyone that Truth was a savant in the field of applied violence. To the point where his training sergeants repeatedly called Command to figure out what the hell was going on. Truth could only shrug and say that he had always been good at fighting, and the weapons were designed to be simple, right? This did not go over well.

“A green recruit should not be able to use a weapons system perfectly as soon as he has seen it demonstrated. Recruit Medici can. All the systems. Every time. No exceptions.” The Chief Instructor explained to the base commander.

“Hand to hand? Melee weapons?” The Colonel asked.

“He’s not allowed to spar any more, after KO’ing everyone he was put in the ring with. Ditto submissions. Unless someone is actively using a spell, it’s over in seconds. He one hit KO’ed five other recruits. As for weapons, it’s actually worse.”

“Worse than one hit KO’s?” The Colonel sputtered.

“Yes Sir. People won’t spar him. Everything’s fine, then they square off, throw down their weapon and run.”

“What.” The Colonel was pissed. “Why didn’t I get disciplinary reports! These little pricks should be in the stockade.”

“Morale, Sir. Sargent Cho squared up against him, and we figured it out. He’s a killer, Sir. When he picks up a weapon, you get the absolute conviction that he will kill you. It’s a battle lust on a level that no recruit should have. Certainly can’t expect recruits to stand up to it.”

“Sweet Prager.” The Colonel held his head in his hands. “I swear his record is clean. Not even the too-clean “clean” the intel weenies like to try and slip in.”

“Yessir. Judging by the class work, he’s got the equivalent of a ninth grade education. Apparently, if it’s not on the SAT, it might as well not exist to him. He can’t name more than three countries, including ours. And he couldn’t find us on a map until we taught him. He didn’t know about space travel, Sir. He thinks the Shattervoid Clan are aliens we bribe with industrial products not to carpet bomb us. Recruit Medici claims he was third in his class, which says more about his school than him, I think.”

“Sweet Prager on a pogo stick! Just… stick him in a classroom and try to catch him up as best you can. He asked for maintenance training? Give him lots. PT, indoctrination, classroom, maintenance. Got it?”

“Yessir.”

"Wait." The Colonel started grinning. It wasn't a nice grin. "Do train him on weapons. You said he only needs a few minutes to be proficient with a system?"

"Yessir. It's uncanny."

"Train him on everything then. Borrow weapons from the navy, air, space, everyone. Let's see how many systems he can qualify on before he leaves us."

"Yes sir. Sir, if I may ask..."

"No spell listed on his file, which means he's a Starbrite brat. And I know a little something about their systems. Time to cost them a LOT of money."

Alas, all good things must come to an end. After six mostly enjoyable weeks, he was duly mustered out of his training battalion, promoted to the heady heights of “Private, Second Class,” and given his deployment orders. He was told, with immense gravity, that his achievement as top of his class in training would be added to his permanent record. He said thank you. It seemed to be important, and the Starbrite volunteer did say he should excel whenever possible.

It was therefore with mixed feelings that he reported to Border Crossing Post #207, known to the locals as “Highgate Springs Customs and Immigration,” as a maintenance technician. He got extra training in the form of recorded lectures and hands-on training from a more senior soldier. He did his best. It beat the alternative.

The alternative, which he got stuck with a depressing amount of times, was to do a shift as the security officer in the immigration booth. Put another way, you got to sit in a little box, with everyone staring at you, doing an incredibly boring job for eight hours at a time. Generally, the immigration and customs inspections were handled by dedicated immigration and customs inspection agents. However, BCP #207 was, technically speaking, rural as fuck and also up the asshole of two ass mountains in the ass end of nowhere (per his Sergeant), and therefore he should expect to do any job given to him.

The one great source of entertainment for Truth was watching his fellow Private suffer. Private Ludovic had enjoyed a college deferment. Private Ludovic had a Masters in biomechanical engineering. Private Ludovic was suffering at the hands of an unjust, kleptocratic, geriatric and insane regime that insisted upon the future Starbrite elite serving with dirt eating, fetal alcohol poisoning cases like Truth. Truth being so moronic that he didn’t see the misery and horror of their present condition.

Private Ludovic liked to share his opinions. Sarge loved that about him. Loved it so much, Ludovic got “Dick in the Box” duty stamping passports all the time. There usually was a stool in the booth. Strangely, the stool was always missing when Ludovic got there. No matter which booth he was assigned. Odd. We may never learn the truth behind the mystery.

Another “mystery” that Ludovic loudly complained about was the inconsistent standards of inspection. Some carts, floating baskets, seven legged load carrying lizards or whatever, had spellhounds run around them, their burning eyes sweeping through vehicles and passengers alike. It was not a pleasant experience for anyone. Others got a quick look in the vehicle from the booth agent. Others just got their passports stamped and a wave through.

“They’re locals. We see them all the time. And besides, you know how Customs make their big busts? Tips. Informers. Even if these guys had pockets full of bleem, kalb, wabano or whatever, and they don’t, the amount would be nothing in the grand scheme of things.” The sergeant said knowingly. “Look, keep an eye out for the people I pass through. If you are on Box duty, just stamp ‘em and wave ‘em. Nice easy shift for everyone.

“You seriously expect me to learn who these inbred hillbillies are?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

The two voices spoke at the same time, but it was no struggle to guess who said what.

“Yes, Private, I do. Don’t be an asshole and you won’t get your shit shoved through you. Clear?” This was delivered in a restrained bellow.

“Clear. Sergeant.”

“Oh good.”

“You’re a little suck up, aren’t you?” Ludovic’s voice dripped like acid in the ear.

“I’m just here to do my job. Not sure why you aren’t the same.” Truth shrugged. He couldn’t figure Ludovic out. Older, clearly came from money, apparently graduated from college, and still sounded like a small time prick. Truth didn’t have a mental box to slot him in, and it threw him a bit.

“This is a bullshit waste of my time, and I have every right to resent it. It might be as good as things get for you, trash, but some of us have actual lives.”

“Interesting. We’re both off duty in an hour. Let’s go ‘round back of the warehouse over there and talk about it more.” Truth did his best to sound agreeable.

“Hilarious.” And Ludovic went off to his box to sulk. Strangely, there was a stool in Truth’s box. A mystery.

Life continued in a fairly boring fashion at the border crossing. Truth discovered that there was a functionally unlimited number of devices that needed varying degrees of maintenance. This could be re-tracing talisman etchings, to physical repairs, to just plain cleaning up and patching the paper spell-birds that were used for light transport duty. Mopping floors was also maintenance, apparently.

Truth got to know the locals a little. He waved them through. Generally, he was a low drama, low maintenance soldier. Why his file came with a separate warning note and a few highlighted passages was a complete mystery to the transcendentally bored second lieutenant assigned to the post.

The vehicle was a bit of a classic, and not in a good way. Bluewater Heavy Industries Great Harvest model automated wagon, capable of speeds of almost seventy kilometers an hour unloaded and thirty five loaded. It handled like it looked. Terrible. The chained spirit responsible for steering was always lobotomized by the shoddy spellwork that came standard with the wagon, so it was pretty erratic on the road. They hadn’t been made in forty years. And yet, they were still in use. Because they carried a lot and were incredibly cheap when bought eighth hand.

“Please get out your passport and customs declaration, and stand by for inspection.” Ludovic’s monotone voice carried across the pavement to where Truth was repairing an air conditioning unit. It was a pretty basic bit of spell work, just a wind spell and ice spell set up in sequence, but the power draw burned it out quickly.

“Here’s the Passport and declaration. Hey, you can see the wagon is empty, can we just skip the inspection?”

“No.”

“Look, is Sergeant Ziera around?”

“He is currently unavailable.” Ludovic sneered. “Lucky you, the spellhound handler is free. Here she comes now.”

“I said, we ain’t getting inspected!”

“Believe me, I completely sympathize. And yet, you are.” Ludovic waved the handler over. Truth turned and looked the wagon over. It wasn’t one of their regulars. He couldn’t see the driver. He dropped into a crouch behind a thick cement post and pulled out his longest screwdriver.

The spellhounds got to the wagon, and immediately lost their damn mind.

“Sir, get out of the wagon now! NOW!” The handler yelled. Ludovic just froze in place.

“I FUCKING TOLD YOU, DICKHEAD!”

A circle of flames exploded out from the cart, sending the burning handler and spellhoud flying. The booth caught a good hit too. Enough to make Ludovic hammer the alarm button. Two flaming axes bit into the spell resistant glass. The driver now stood nine meters tall and had a giant crow’s head. “NOW I GOT TO KILL ALL YOU ASSHOLES. HAPPY?”

Truth wished he had a snack, the show was great. He wondered if Ludovic would cry.

“GONNA KILL YOU TOO, FUCKBOY BEHIND THE CORNER.”

Well. Shit.