Theirs Not To Reason Why: A Soldier's Duty (21 page)

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Authors: Jean Johnson

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Ia’s Class had undergone plenty of instruction in what the act of corporal discipline meant: the padded roll was meant to protect the thighs and the kidneys from accidental misstrokes. The cylindrical case, which the man was now opening, contained the
rotan
cane, submerged in a mild disinfectant to reduce the risk of infection.
The person carrying both items was the caner, and it was upon his or her shoulders to get the caning right the first time, else they themselves would be subjected to
twice
the misplaced or judged-excessive strokes. Additionally, men caned men, and women caned women; that was the rule, since it was judged that the strength of each gender’s muscles was calibrated to what their own side could safely take, flesh-wise. Different padding was also used if the caning was to be applied against the offender’s upper back, but that was usually reserved for more severe crimes.
With the caner was the military doctor, who would scan and certify the prisoner as fit for punishment, and count out the strokes, to ensure that no more than the assigned number would be applied.
Strapped in place, Kaimong panted visibly, occasionally testing his bonds, but visibly unable to free himself. In front of him, General Tackett flipped up the screen on his command wrist unit and read aloud the charges.
“After undergoing a military tribunal to investigate the truthfulness and severity of his alleged crimes, Recruit Wong Ta Kaimong was convicted of the following offenses, which were judged severe enough to be sentenced with the following punishments: for the crimes of five counts of theft of Space Force property, which included the theft of two lethal weapons and their ammunition, Recruit Kaimong shall receive two strokes of the cane. For the crime of assaulting thirty-nine of his fellow recruits with a nonlethal weapon, Recruit Kaimong shall receive two strokes of the cane.
“For the crime of assaulting five squad leaders with a nonlethal weapon, Recruit Kaimong shall receive one stroke of the cane. For the crime of assaulting two superior noncommissioned officers with a nonlethal weapon, Recruit Kaimong shall receive one stroke of the cane. For the crime of damaging expensive military surveillance equipment while evading arrest, Recruit Kaimong shall receive one stroke of the cane. For the crime of deliberately attacking and attempting to murder fellow Terran military personnel with a lethal weapon, Fatality Thirteen, Friendly Fire . . . Recruit Kaimong shall receive
four
strokes of the cane.
“For these combined offenses to the Terran United Planets Space Force and its Marine Corps, Recruit Kaimong is sentenced to five years imprisonment in the domeworld military penal colony of Sestus, in orbit around Proxima Gamma, deportation to take place upon recovery from the implementation of his assigned corporal punishment. This verdict was sustained and sealed by military tribunal at fifteen thirty-seven yesterday, local time Terran Standard. The sentence of a combined total of eleven strokes of the cane shall be carried out immediately, and carried out before the assembled Classes of Camp Nallibong, as an instructional reminder to all.
“The Terran United Planets Space Force
will
maintain discipline, and its soldiers, enlisted or officer,
will
abide by its rules, regulations, and laws.”
Snapping the lid of his wrist unit shut, General Tackett turned and strode to the side, moving far enough that everyone would be able to see. The caner had extracted his implement, which the woman at his side scanned. The doctor then stepped up and scanned Kaimong, who started struggling again. She nodded and stepped back, her voice projecting through the presentation screen speakers as the general’s had.
“The prisoner’s health is in a condition suitable to receive punishment,” she stated crisply, firmly.
“No!—No, I’m not!” Kaimong called out, his tone rising with increasing alarm. Compared to her, his voice was weak, but then it wasn’t being projected, either. The twin screens showed a close-up of his body writhing on the frame as he tried to free himself. “I’m not in any condition for this! No!”
 
“. . . All witnesses shall abide in respectful silence for the duration of the caning. Sergeant, are you ready?”
“Sir! I am ready, sir!”
“Is the prisoner ready?”
“Sir! The prisoner is ready, sir!”
“Administer stroke one, Sergeant,” she directed. Her brow furrowed and her mouth tightened, the signs of her distress enlarged and duplicated on the twin viewing screens, but the lieutenant did not rescind her order.
Stepping up, the sergeant raised the cane in both hands, gripping it at an angle across his chest. Muscles tensing, he drew in a deep breath, and swung. Knocking Ia deep into the waters ahead.
. . . Pain cracked across her back. Her buttocks were already a searing fire that made her legs shake with the strain of staying firmly in place. Arms crossed, braced on the padded board, she endured the twenty-seventh blow, one made all the more painful by the way her upper body lacked the natural padding found below. She didn’t dare bite her tongue, for fear of biting through it, but she could and did bite the sleeve of her shirt, hiding the urge to scream with each agonizing, slow-paced blow . . .
A chill up the back of her neck was her only warning—a welcome one, since it yanked her out of that all-too-vivid future possibility. Moving on sheer instinct, Ia stepped forward one pace, then to her side, moving in front of Mendez. A moment later, Casey doubled over onto the grass behind her, breaking his place in the B Squad line with the need to heave up the remnants of his breakfast. Right on the very spot she had just vacated.
He wasn’t the only one rendered physically ill from witnessing Kaimong’s punishment. Ia herself struggled with the fear, adrenaline, and stress churning in her stomach. The thick, muggy heat of the morning added to her distress, for there wasn’t any breeze to clear the accompanying stench from the air.
The doctor finished counting out the strokes and the sergeant finished administering them, ignoring the prisoner’s yelp at each blow. Stepping up to Kaimong, the lieutenant scanned him. Once again, the hovercameras focused in on her face, this time looking paler than before, and rather grim.
“General, the court-ordered eleven strokes have been administered. The prisoner has received several contusions and two minor lacerations. Damage is minimal, sir. Recovery time should be optimal,” she reported.
“Good. Transport Prisoner Kaimong to the Camp stockade medical bay and monitor his recovery, Lieutenant, Sergeants.” Moving back to center stage, General Tackett recaptured the attention of most of the recruits on the parade ground. “As vicious as this display of corporal punishment may have been, the rest of you
must remember
, he attacked some of
you
with the very same potentially lethal, and actually lethal, weapons you are being trained to use on our enemies . . . and to use
only
under the lawful orders of your superiors.
“He attacked one of you with a JL-39 loaded with High Explosive cartridges—not just a lethal weapon, but a
viciously
lethal weapon. Those cartridges are meant to be used in extreme circumstances, and are normally used against terrain and other nonliving obstacles.
Not
against his fellow soldiers. Former Recruit Kaimong blatantly attempted to kill one of his fellow recruits,” the general stressed. “The overall punishments assigned by yesterday’s tribunal were rather lenient in the face of that singular fact, for it is the grave responsibility of the Space Force to assign corporal and penal punishments to those who break the laws, rules, and regulations of this military body.
“It is
also
the solemn responsibility of the Space Force to notice and reward meritorious effort of courage and skill which are enacted within this military body. Recruit Ia, Nallibong Class 7157, front and center.”
Ia strode down the narrow gap between Class rows. She wasn’t the only person who had hastily moved out of the way of their fellow recruits; thankfully, the others cleared a path for her so she could reach the nearest aisle without stepping in anything awkward. Heading for the platform, Ia mounted the steps on the side and crossed it. She carefully kept her gaze on the Camp commander, not on the discipline frame, which was being lowered back into its storage hatch.
Now was not the time to let some future possibility drag her beneath the waters lurking in her mind.
Stopping a meter away, she saluted him. “Sir.”
He saluted back. Lowering his arm, he tucked it into the pocket of his dress uniform. “Recruit Ia, in the face of an unexpected attack by a presumed comrade, you displayed remarkable calm, clarity of thought, and levelheadedness. Furthermore, you assisted in implementing the location and capture of the fugitive Recruit Kaimong. You did so despite the blatant risk to your personal safety, you did so unflinchingly in the face of clearly superior firepower, and you did so with less than sixteen days’ worth of training. You did so by displaying levels of comprehension and skill worthy of someone with five times your current level of training.
“It is therefore my responsibility as the commanding officer of this base to acknowledge your outstanding efforts of courage, ability, and devotion to the principles and duties of a Space Force Marine throughout yesterday’s incident. In witness whereof, and with the concurrence of my fellow officers and instructors here at Camp Nallibong, I award Recruit Ia with the Honor Cross, in recognition of your outstanding acts of honor and service.”
Withdrawing a small box from his pocket, he opened the lid and presented its contents to her. The small bronze medal itself wasn’t much, just an equal-armed cross etched with her name and the Terran Standard date for the incident with Kaimong, wrapped in a circle with the words “Honor Cross” stamped around its rim. It hung on a short ribbon striped in shades of white and green, and came with a matching ribbon-bar, also pinned to the velvet-lined interior.
Her classes so far had glossed over honors and decorations; there were too many other things to learn first. Still, thanks to her foreknowledge, Ia knew the actual medal was meant for special occasions, such as wearing her full Dress Blacks like the general currently wore, while the ribbon-bar was for “casual” use, for those occasions when she was in any uniform requiring a jacket or a dress shirt, such as her Dress Browns. She also knew it would be highly inappropriate to wear either pin throughout most of her Basic Training.
“General, thank you, sir,” Ia told him, accepting the box and its contents. She closed the lid, clasped the hand he offered . . . and tried not to shudder at the glimpses she got of his future. They weren’t horrible images, just unwanted ones. Parting hands, she saluted him.
He saluted back. “Return to your Class, Recruit. Keep up the good work—but let’s hope it won’t be needed again while you’re still in training.”
“Sir, yes, sir.” Turning around, she tucked the box into her pocket and strode off the stage. One unexpected step closer to her goal, but still left with too many more to go.
CHAPTER 7
 
Hell Week. You want to know about Hell Week? My Hell Week?
Hell Week . . . is a foundry. Recruits are the raw ore which the Space Force scraped out of the ground in the first few weeks of Basic Training, washed and sorted out, and dumped into the crucible. Hell Week is all about turning on the heat, turning it up, and up, and up, and burning away all lies and façades. Hell Week is what makes the Department of Innovations, and the Field Commissions, and the promotions based on merit actually work in the Space Force.
Hell Week is giving everything you thought you had and then everything you didn’t even know you had, until you are broken and bleeding and lying in the dust . . . and then seeing if you can give ten times more.
~Ia
 
 
MAY 10, 2490 T.S.
 
Ia woke to the glare of lights and the banging of a baton on the metal rails of the bunk beds lining the barracks. Disoriented, she squinted and rubbed at her eyes, taking a precious moment to dip her senses into the timestreams. What she found made her grimace.
Damn . . . they’re starting Hell Week a day early. I thought there was only a thirty-two percent chance of that . . .

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