Chapter 2 — BASIC TRAINING

It would be tedious to describe in detail the whole of basic training, surely already familiar to the twenty-seventh-century citizen. The initial stage was a jumble of hurry-up-and-waits, of stripping and being reclothed completely, of taking batteries of tests for intelligence and aptitudes and skills, after a night with four hours sleep in a recalcitrant hammock. Hammocks are handy in space, because they adapt automatically to changes of thrust, but sleeping in them is an art that is not mastered instantly. I managed to make up the loss by sleeping through parts of several tests, by punching computer terminal buttons randomly in rapid order so as to finish early. I was a survivor. I was assigned to a barracks ship similar in certain respects to the migrant-labor ships I had been in before. That housing made it easy to ferry our company to any part of the base or nearby space for the various training exercises; in fact, sometimes we were moved while we slept. We never knew what new hazard we would emerge to, and perhaps that was best.

I was part of the 666th Training Battalion, nicknamed "Hell's Rejects," for reasons relating to occidental mythology or numerology and the supposed savagery of the exercises. It had three companies, A, B, and C—I was in A for Awful—each of which had three platoons, each of which had three sections. The Jupiter Navy was trilaterally organized. One platoon in Awful was female. There were thirty trainees and five supervisory personnel in each platoonship, and additional cadre in each company, so Awful had a total manpower of one hundred fifty. But I was in regular contact only with the people of my own platoon; the other two platoons were of largely peripheral awareness, and the other companies might as well not have existed. My whole attention, like that of my fellow recruits, was occupied just getting through training.

We marched, we did grueling calisthenics, we attended dull lectures, we ate, we slept, we polished boots and brass. And of course we did KP—Kitchen Police, a euphemism for scrubbing floors and pots in the mess hall, sometimes with the same brushes. Theoretically the past five or six centuries were enough time for the military machines of our species to find ways to automate the kitchen facilities, but it had never happened. Similarly, permashine leather and brass were on the civilian market but were not available to us. We theorized that these were simply ways to keep us busy and miserable—and in subsequent years I have never found a better explanation. Likewise, inspections, a colossal expenditure of nervous energy without reward, and the necessity of maintaining entire display units of equipment that were used only for inspections. Some feculent personality once knotted my display towel over my hammock-cord while I slept, in the signal for early waking for special duty; not only was it not my turn for duty, it ruined my display. Some joke! I would have put his head out into the vacuum of space, had I known who it was.

We got haircuts every week, or else. For the first occasion, my full platoon was marched in step to the barbershop to be shorn, like it or not. We had been issued partial pay toward our first month's pay of eighty-six dollars—twenty per week—so we had the necessary cash. The Navy always made sure we had the cash for its requirements, and woe betide the recruit who spent it otherwise. Two dollars for a scalping; no hair on my head was left longer than half an inch. Later we would be allowed to grow some hair back; here in Basic the bald look was in.

The Navy was equally efficient about sex. Prescribed normal heterosexual relations were mandatory, and the Navy was the agency that defined "normal." There was, it was aptly said, the right way, the wrong way, and the Navy way. "You will indulge once a week," the platoon sergeant brayed, only he happened to employ a more explicit Saxon vernacular term in lieu of "indulge." Whereupon, for the first occasion, we were marched to the brothel ship for the maiden performance. The sanitary facilities were termed the Head; this department was, of course, the Tail. Each of us had to pay the two-dollar fee at the entrance, just as we had for the haircuts. Or, as the sergeant put it, else.

Talking was not permitted in the ranks, but I heard muttered exclamations of amazement, delight, and shock. Awful Company was largely Hispanic, made up of refugees like myself, ranging up to twenty-five years of age; many did not yet speak English, so had not comprehended the nature of this assignment until they saw the red Tail light by the door. I do not think Hispanics are any more sensitive about sex than are those of other origins, but we were ill prepared for the suddenness and dispatch of this particular requirement. We should have known; the haircutting had been as forceful and insensitive, and the physical examinations had nearly provoked riot when the medics started checking prostates. I do not know how the average recruit of Saxon stock feels about this, but to us the prostate check seemed very much like buggery. We also had suffered painful inoculations against obscure diseases to which we never expected to be exposed. Why hadn't they used the painless mists instead of the huge blunt needles? To humiliate and cow us, of course; that was common knowledge. So we should have been prepared for something akin to rape as the Navy introduction to sex; the Navy prided itself on making any natural occupation a horror. Yet, in our naïveté, we were dismayed.

One man broke ranks and fled. The Saxon sergeant turned and aimed his stunner almost casually, but caught the man in the back, a perfect shot, and the fugitive fell facedown to the floor. No one went to pick him up; he was left there unconscious as an object lesson for us all. We knew he wasn't seriously hurt—the stunner only stuns—but still, this had a sobering effect. No one else broke ranks. Numbly we waited as the lines moved forward.

In one sense it was an eternity before my turn came; in another it was an instant. The act of sex was not foreign to my experience, but I had no interest in this manner of indulging it. A uniformed matron, a female sergeant, met me just inside the door and guided me to Room Number Eighteen. Eighteen—my older sister, Faith, had been eighteen when she was brutally raped. "You have fifteen minutes, soldier," she said, and more or less shoved me through the entrance. Fifteen—my age when I watched my sister raped. I heard the door click behind me, and knew I was locked in. Both physically and symbolically.

A young woman in a pink negligee sat on a bunk. She was attractive enough in face and form for a Saxon, but her bored expression and my knowledge of her profession put me further off. I really had no sexual desire for her. Some people assume that any young man will eagerly indulge in any sex that offers; this is fantasy. For most of us, there has to be some emotional commitment, some indication that the woman is not merely willing but interested, that some sort of continuing relationship is possible. Our drives are strong but with many counterindications, so that the net effect is often doubt rather than passion.

"Well, get your clothes off, soldier," she snapped. The way she pronounced "soldier" reminded me that a soldier was the lowest form of life in the Jupiter Navy, and a recruit somewhat beneath that.

"I—do not feel inclined," I said, aware that I was blushing about as well as my swarthy skin permitted.

"Would you like me to undress you?" she inquired, as if this too were dull routine. Surely it was, for her.

"Uh—please, no, thank you. I—"

"Listen, kid, you only have fifteen minutes, and it takes five to undress and redress. I've got a schedule to keep. If you don't strip, I'll do it for you. I don't indulge with clothed men." Again, the term used was not "indulge."

"It—I think that would do no good," I said. "I—"

"You asked for it," she said impatiently. She bounced off the bed and strode to me. Without formality she unbuttoned my fatigue shirt and tugged it free of one arm and then the other. Then she went for the trousers.

I am, as it is put in English, ornery in some ways. I did not resist her; I let her undress me completely, moving when and in the manner she directed me, to complete the operation. In moments I stood naked before her, un-aroused. This is, if you choose to call it that, another kind of talent I possess.

She looked at me and made a wry face. Then she shrugged out of her negligee and stood as naked as I was. She bounced a little on her feet so that her breasts lifted and fell impressively. She had the requisite physical attributes. But to me this was like a laboratory exhibit, and I did not react.

"May I touch you?" she asked. In the Navy no person is permitted to touch another without that person's permission; it is supposedly a safeguard against abuse. An inspecting sergeant asks the recruit's permission before he takes hold of the belt buckle to see whether the back side of it has been properly shined. Of course the sensible recruit does not refuse such permission, ever—but the forms are scrupulously honored, and I believe it is right that they are. Only an ignorant person would believe that the military service is a profession of physical violence; it is, in fact, a profession of social violence, at least in the training stage. The recruit's soul, not his body, is abused, generally. So this woman requested my permission before she touched me, but I was not wearing a belt or buckle for inspection at the moment.

"Yes," I said somewhat harshly, for my throat was tight.

She knelt before me and took hold of my member. She kneaded it delicately. She knew what she was doing; obviously she had had much experience. But there was no response, for my mental control, buttressed by my genuine aversion to the proceedings, remained in effect. I was impotent—and therein lay my true potency.

She got up, her lip curling with disgust. "Okay, soldier, I give up," she said. She walked to the wall and touched a button. "I'm buzzing the supe; she knows how to handle your kind."

"My kind?" I asked.

"The slobs who can't get it up."

This creature was not becoming more endearing with familiarity. "As I explained, I am not inclined at the moment."

She stared at my member. "Exactly." The door opened behind me. I half-turned, abruptly embarrassed about my nakedness, but there was no refuge.

The one who entered was a woman in her twenties, garbed in a kind of off-the-shoulder, half-off-the-breast robe. She was beautiful, with flowing orange hair and a voluptuous body. She took in the situation in an instant. "Leave him to me, June. Take five."

"Yes, sir," the girl said, and quickly donned her negligee and departed.

Sir? This was an officer! That dismayed me further.

The woman sat on the bed. "Sit beside me, Private," she said, patting the bed. "Do not be alarmed."

I sat beside her, still conscious of my nakedness. Somehow it was worse to be naked before an officer than before an enlisted girl.

"You are young, I see," she said. "Probably admitted underage on a waiver, or by error. Fifteen?"

"Sixteen, sir," I said. Growth rates vary, and I am not a large person; still, this too was embarrassing. "They wouldn't—"

"It is all right; I inquired merely as a point of information, not as criticism. I presume you do not want to be discharged on that ground?"

"No, sir!" I said quickly. "I want to be in the Navy."

"Excellent," she murmured, and I saw how skillfully she was managing me. She had gotten me to agree with her on a matter of substance, and she had couched what could have been a threat in a positive manner. I had good reason to cooperate now. She understood motivation. "Have you copulated before?"

She had a higher-class vocabulary than did the girl, June! "Yes, sir." I said.

"With a woman?"

I felt the flush starting again. "Yes, sir."

"You object to doing it with a stranger?"

"I—not exactly, sir. I realize the Navy has its requirements. But—"

"Please speak freely, Private. I'm here to help you."

"Sir, it is better if there is love, or at least respect."

She smiled, and she was very likeable when she did that. She was the sort of poised woman who could make a man feel at ease, even in a situation like this. "Of course. But that will come in its proper time. For recruits there is only sex."

"I would prefer to wait for the proper time, sir."

"You are not homosexual?"

"No, sir!"

"Or routinely impotent?"

"No, sir."

"You are, then, normally disposed? It is merely the crudity of this introduction that has put you off?"

"Yes, pretty much, sir." I was beginning to feel guilty for my obstructionism.

"Do you understand why we do it this way?"

"No, not really, sir. It seems to me that—"

"Several excellent reasons, private. Jupiter does not permit homosexuals of either sex to serve in the armed forces, for historical and practical reasons that I personally may question but must honor. Other cultures have shown that homosexuals can make fine officers and personnel, if things are done openly so that blackmailing is impossible. But I do not make policy, any more than you do. We are all to that extent victims of the system, and must do what is required of us. This introduction to the services of the Tail represents a specific test for homosexuality; a man who is truly impotent with women cannot pass this point without discovery. The certainty is less with a woman, but whatever her underlying preference, she will function heterosexually, so the Navy is satisfied.

"It is also the opinion of the Jupiter Navy that the best soldier is a satisfied one. We do not care to have stifled sexual urges generating mischief in the ranks, so we see that sex is not stifled. Sexual expression is normal and healthy, and the Navy wants normal and healthy personnel. But this cannot be verified by a computerized test, and psychiatric charting is cumbersome and, in my opinion, unreliable; a person like yourself could readily distort the results. It is necessary to see sexual expression in practice.

"It is also true that some recruits are young, shy, inexperienced, or have some foolish notion of saving it for marriage or for a loved one. In reality, it is better to bring experience and competence to love or marriage, so that the relationship can be most positive where it counts most, without fumbling or accident or misunderstanding. So it is necessary to take care of this training at the outset. You are not in civilian life now, soldier; you are in the Navy, and your body is ours. Once you perform by the book in this house, you will comprehend the power the Navy has over you. Your sexual expression is no more private than your haircut or your pay. You will conform—or be compelled."

"Compelled?" I asked, alarmed at the increasingly firm tone.

She smiled again, putting her hand on mine, softening the impact. "Was I lecturing? I apologize. Don't be concerned, Private. It is true that we have drugs that will convert a mild-mannered man into a rutting billy goat, but that is pointless. It is the normal sexual bias and application we desire, not a drug-sponsored orgy. The Navy frowns on drug abuse. You will merely be prevented from undergoing further training until you meet our sexual requirement. You will remain on this ship until we are satisfied and issue you a certificate of completion. Most men meet it in a few days and have no further difficulty; some women take longer."

"Women really do have to—?"

"Indeed they do, soldier! The Jupiter Navy is an Equal Opportunity Employer; no discrimination is tolerated. Males and females have identical requirements, allowing for anatomical distinctions. Obviously a woman cannot be overtly impotent, but she can be frigid, and rape is not the Navy way, either, despite scuttlebutt to the contrary. The woman must understand and acquiesce, voluntarily, and show some reasonable response. She must, in other words, be normal, and demonstrate that normalcy exactly as the men do. We believe this is fair; don't you agree?"

"Yes, sir," I agreed, bemused.

"Now, you said you believe there should be love or respect. Love is not permitted recruits, but respect is encouraged. I gather you had a relationship with a woman you loved?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you lost her when you enlisted?"

"No, sir. She's dead."

"I understand. You feel you would sully her memory."

"Yes, sir."

She had scored directly, surprising me. "I do understand, Private. But what you wish is not an authorized luxury. Your heart may be your own, but as we say in the service, your ass is ours. You may feel what you feel for your loved one, but you must perform for the Navy. I believe your loved one would understand."

"Yes, sir, she would." That was a gross understatement. Helse would have urged me to go along. She had understood sex as well as any woman living.

"Are you ready to perform now, Private?"

"Not with you, sir!"

She laughed. "Of course not, though it is permissible in this special instance. Sometimes recruit girls feel easier about being initiated by male officers rather than enlisted men; it is a matter of breeding—no pun!—and perception. But for you, I mean, with June, whose office this is. You understand, she is required to make out a report; they all are. Attitude, technique, ejaculation—"

A report! Was nothing sacred? That turned me off again. "I—" I hesitated. "She remains a—"

"A prostitute?"

"Yes, sir. She cares nothing for me. She just wants to get it over with, like an item on an assembly line. There is neither love nor respect in that. That is not the type of woman I—"

"I understand, and I respect you for that attitude, Private. I really do! The Jupiter Navy does not require that you degrade yourself with a woman who is socially beneath you."

"Oh, I didn't mean that, sir! I—" But as I spoke, I realized I did mean it, at least in part. I had no status in the Jupiter society, but June was little more than a mannequin.

"You are intelligent and well educated," she said. "I'm sure your tests show high facility in more than one language, broad information, extraordinary social perception, and an intelligence quotient in the upper percentiles. You are elite."

"No, I'm not, sir! I'm just a refugee."

"Well, refugee, we intend to do right by you, for you have a future in the Jupiter Navy. Would it help you to know that not all our women are sexually professional? Many are recruits, like yourself, who are assigned to this duty by roster."

"But if it's not voluntary—"

"That depends on how you interpret it, private. They do volunteer for the roster and are excused from KP or guard duty."

"Oh," I said. "Sir." I saw how it was. I knew that many of the male recruits I knew would be glad to exchange their places on the KP roster for one like this. Evidently it was true for some women, too. But that sort of woman did not excite me, either.

"I can see you are sincere, and I do want to help you," she said earnestly. I found I believed her. "I can offer you one other option, though a more difficult one."

"Sir?"

"As I mentioned, more female recruits have initial problems than do the males. They have been raised more restrictively, especially in your culture, and never expected to become refugees or to be obliged to join the Navy. Many understand intellectually but are unable to accept it emotionally. We have the drugs and experienced male operators, but—" She shrugged.

I caught on. "Me—and one of those?"

She looked me in my eye. Her iris was purple, and I realized she wore tinted contact lenses. "Hope, she is intelligent and bilingual, like you, no woman of the streets. You would be doing her a favor, believe me."

Her use of my name startled me; I had not realized that she knew it. But, of course, she had done her homework before coming here, at least to that extent. She was a competent officer. "Uh—" I began doubtfully.

"A refugee does not really have the option of dismissal from the service, as you know. I hesitate to conjecture what would become of her, if..."

How well I understood! Perhaps some women considered sex to be a fate worse than death, but most refugees who returned to their home planets would find literal death, and the females would find sex, too, in the form of rape. They had to make good in the Navy. This officer had really maneuvered me; I could not refuse what she asked, as well she knew.

"I'll try, sir," I said.

She smiled warmly. "You will have an hour. I regret that we cannot grant you more time, but our facilities are already overworked. You will be under observation, you understand; we must be assured of performance. But that will not be intrusive. We do have some slight discretion. Here, I will convey you to Juana's chamber." She rose gracefully.

"Uh, sir, my clothes—"

"Yes, take them with you, by all means." She waited a moment, gracious even in this detail, while I gathered up fatigues and boots in an armful that I carried as low as possible before me. Then I followed her out the door and down the hall. We passed into another section of the ship and entered a new chamber.

"Good luck," the officer said, and closed the door behind me as she left.

I stood there, my bundle of clothes held protectively before me. There on the bunk was a naked girl. She was hunched over, her black hair covering her face and part of her bosom. At least they didn't shave the women's heads; that would have been a horror! As the officer had said, certain allowances were made.

"Juana?" I asked. I could see she was Hispanic; it was not just her skin, as dark as mine, but the shape of her head and the way she held herself, even in this cruel situation.

She did not answer. I did not know her personally, but I knew her culture and her horror. I also knew that she knew what had to be. To her, it was much the same as rape.

And I was to be the rapist.

I turned to go, unable to continue with this. At least the regular prostitutes could not be hurt.

But then I remembered the alternative—for both of us—and turned again. I set down my clothing and sat beside her on the bed.

I saw her stiffen and hunch away from me, but she did not actually move on the bed. I began to use my power, to fathom her individual nature. I can judge a person quickly and accurately when I try. I would not call my talent telepathy—I have very little belief in the supernatural—but rather a semiconscious perception of human reaction, of body language, of tension in the voice; I suppose I am a living lie detector, though it is more than that. I relate to people more perceptively than others do. Now I related to Juana. She was frightened but not completely; it was not the blind terror of the unknown but rather an unwillingness to yield gracefully to degradation, and a horror of the inevitable. It is said that the familiar loses its horror; that is not necessarily the case.

"My name is Hope," I said. "Hope Hubris, from Awful. This is my first time here. I—I was impotent, so they put me with you."

She lifted her head, losing her horror of me. She brushed back her hair. Her face was pretty—or would have been, had she not been crying, making her eyes puffy and her chin mushy. Her irises were dark brown and glazed with moisture. "You're not—one of them?"

"Not a prostitute, or gigolo, or whatever it is called," I said. "I—sex with a stranger, just like that, like polishing boots or brass—I can't do that. So they put the difficult cases together, figuring maybe we'll understand each other and work it out."

"I'm sixteen," she said.

Helse had been sixteen! It struck me suddenly unexpectedly. I forgot where I was and what I was supposed to be doing. Helse, sixteen, and I, fifteen. She had shown me sex and love, in that order, and changed my life, and I never wanted any woman but her, ever, and she was dead. Because of me.

"What's the matter with you?" Juana asked.

I wiped my face, suddenly wet with tears. "I'm sorry," I said. "I can't do this."

"You know you have to," she said.

"Maybe with a—"

"All I said was that I was sixteen. I didn't mean it was statutory rape! I just meant I'm young, and it's hard for me. So you would understand."

"I'm sixteen, too," I said in Spanish, under my breath. Juana's eyes widened. "You lied to get in?" she asked in the same language.

"No. I don't believe in lying. But someone did—and the magistrate didn't believe me. But that's not why... why what you said bothered me. She was sixteen."

"You have loved?"

"Forever."

"But she is gone?"

"Dead. And I want no other, ever."

"You made the trip to Jupiter?"

"Yes."

"Me, too." She was more comfortable in Spanish, speaking with greater confidence.

"Your folks?" I asked.

She nodded heavily. "Yours?"

"Yes. All dead, except my sisters."

"Raped?"

"Yes. One."

"Me, too."

"The Navy—doesn't understand about rape," I said.

"They practice it!" she said savagely. Then she smiled, and her beauty began to manifest. "Figuratively."

"True."

"I'm glad it's you, Hope. I'm Juana Moreno, from the Second Platoon. We had better get it over with."

"But if you were raped—"

"I think it will not hurt so much, with you."

I realized that she had accepted it, but I had not. "It should not hurt at all! And I—Helse—"

"Helse? That is not a Hispanic name."

"Neither is mine. But she was Hispanic, like me. Like you. But more experienced. She showed me—"

"Show me how she showed you. For it not to hurt."

"No. That memory is sacred."

"Look, Hope. I was raped by Saxon pirates. I'm afraid. I know it will hurt terribly, and I'll scream, but if I can't make it in the Navy, I have no life left. So I'll bite my tongue. You understand. I want it to be you."

I sighed. She was correct—for both of us. We had to do it, and I could be potent with her. "She... I was afraid. I had seen my sister raped—I didn't move. Helse did it all, the first time."

Juana shook her head. "I couldn't do that. You must do it."

"I don't want to hurt anybody that way!"

"It will hurt less with you. And it's so important. They are watching, and time is passing."

"They are watching," I agreed.

"Yes."

I glanced down. "You can see I'm not ready."

"Yes. You really don't want to. That makes it easier for me."

I shrugged. "I'll try." I raised my right hand. "May I touch you?"

She shrank back. "No!" Then she laughed falteringly. "Sorry, Hope. Ask me again."

I got up and paced the floor, no longer bothered by my nakedness. "This—like a surgical operation—I can't do it."

"Yes."

My eye caught something on the wall. "A light switch!" I exclaimed.

Juana looked up, smiling with gratification.

I touched the switch, and there was blessed darkness. First, the language gave us some illusion of privacy of speech, and now the cessation of light gave us privacy of appearance. I felt much better, and knew that Juana did, too.

I returned carefully to the bed, finding it with my foot, and sat down. I heard her breathing beside me.

"Juana, take my hand," I said.

There was a brushing of arms, and then her hand found mine and squeezed it nervously. She was shivering and not with cold. It was warm here, and she was well fleshed. I knew she would cooperate, but would not initiate anything; it wasn't her way, and she had not been jesting about being afraid.

"May I kiss you?" I asked.

"Yes," she whispered, almost imperceptibly faint.

I drew her in toward me by the hand and quested for her face with my own. I found it and met her lips, and kissed her briefly.

Then she tore her hand away from mine but not to retreat. It was not passion, either, but the desperate need for comfort. She flung her arms about my shoulders and pulled me in close, so that we both almost fell over. "Hold me! Hold me!"

I held her. She was excruciatingly female against me, and now I reacted. Her hair caressed my shoulder, and her body was warm though her hands were cold. I felt guilty on two counts: for having to take advantage of a frightened woman; and for being aroused by someone other than Helse.

"May I pretend you are someone else?" I asked.

"No!"

Surprised, I chuckled ruefully. "That was unkind of me. I did not mean to insult you."

"You did not insult me, Hope. I know you loved her. But I wish you would try to love me, just for this hour. I have no one, and I need someone."

Helse was dead I reminded myself yet again. I was not really being unfaithful to her. She would have urged me to do this. She would never have permitted the dead to hurt the living. "I'll try."

We lay on the bed and kissed again. I was on my right side, she on her left, and it was somewhat awkward. I proceeded very slowly and paused when she stiffened, trying not to hurt her, but somehow it had to be forced. In retrospect I realize that the position was wrong, but then I thought it was my inadequacy.

"It does hurt," she whispered. "But I don't mind. You are a nice man, Hope."

"You're a nice woman, Juana." And when I said that, she sighed and relaxed a little, and it was easier.

"I think we're going to make it," she whispered.

We were already making it. "I think so," I agreed.

"I could love you, Hope."

"It's not authorized."

She laughed, then caught her breath, for that had hurt. But it helped me complete the position. We finished it, not with any sharp climax, and separated with a certain relief. There had been some discomfort for me, too, physical and emotional, for she had not been ready, and perhaps would never be ready. Sex is not always wildly exhilarating, contrary to myth, for either man or woman. Sometimes, with the best intentions, it is a chore. But we had accomplished it, and that pleased us both. Had it not been for the fertility suppressant in the base water supply that halted the female cycle, she could have become pregnant. It could have been much worse.

"Can we be friends?" she asked wistfully.

"Yes." My limited passion had abated, but my emotion was stronger than ever.

"Would you kiss me again?"

I rolled over and kissed her. This time, free of the onus for performance, it was a deep and wonderful experience. We held it for some time, not wanting to let it go. The sexual act had been a somewhat artificial thing, done by Navy command, but this was genuine.

Then I had an idea. "Juana, you know we have to come here to the Tail once a week, and it will be with different partners each time. We have no choice; we're recruits."

"Yes. But I think I can tolerate it now. I will pretend it's you."

I smiled in the dark. "And I will pretend it's you. But after Basic, when we're E2's, a person doesn't have to come here, if he has a hetero-roommate."

"I know."

"When that time comes, if we're still here in this company or this base, will you be my roommate?"

She made a little shudder of gladness. "Yes, Hope." We lay there in the darkness, holding hands, and there was a certain affinity to love. We had worked it out.

 

Training continued unabated. I learned to fire a laser rifle with accuracy and to do hand-to-hand combat and to make a "jump" in a space suit, with a miniature rocket jet to propel me. And I marched. The Navy in its infinite wisdom believed that marching with full gear built good soldiers. There was an all-purpose dome with a sand path around it, and we traversed that path interminably, until I thought I had memorized every obnoxious grain of sand.

But it wasn't all bad. The Navy also believed in culture, in the form of art, music, and dance. The art was in the form of repainting the buildings. They didn't need it, in this controlled climate; that was not the point. We needed the experience. The music was in the form of a marching band. Those of us who could play musical instruments of the brass or percussion variety played them while we marched to the booming beat of the big drum. It was, I admit, fun to march to the drum; the beat made our feet respond, and the pace was always slow. The dance was in the form of trick marching: intricate maneuvers in unison. These were exacting but all right. Anything was better than the dreary marching in sand with gear.

We did get fleeting moments of free time. The Navy encouraged us to use it in constructive entertainments. Our ship had an excellent day room, complete with pool table, table tennis, decks of cards, chess, checkers, backgammon (Acey-Deucy), dice, dominoes, and marbles. Naturally the troops generally ignored these and concentrated on the unauthorized entertainment: the feelies.

The feelies were special programs played through headsets. Electrical currents were fed through the head in the form of trace magnetic fluxes, stimulating programmed visions. Some were benign, such as a tour of an Earthly zoo or a swim through ice water in a fissure on Europa. Most were sexual, ranging from normal Tail-type through sadomasochistic, which last extreme the Navy frowned on. This sort of thing did not appeal to me, either, but I was surprised by how many others professed to enjoy it. There were several brands that circulated, and it seemed some were better than others. Periodically there were crackdowns on the feelie-chips, but there were always more of them, and it was evident that the Navy did not take the matter seriously.

"Hey, Hope, you should try this one!" a platoon-mate called to me. "It's got your name on it!"

"Hubris?" I asked, suspecting this was a joke. "No, Hope," he said. "Here, try it! You'll see!" Still wary, I borrowed his headset and set it over my own head. The front of it came down to cover my eyes, and the sides covered my ears. Sight and sound came, three-dimensional and binaural, seeming to put me in a different world. The touch and smell sensations took longer to manifest, as the currents did not immediately align with those of the brain; the participant had to cooperate, to get himself into the mood, and I was not doing so. I was just looking.

I seemed to stand on the hull of a bubble in space, with the pale illumination of the sun highlighting the curve of it. Before me was a bag or package. From it poked a human arm, and the hand reached toward me. "Here is what you need," a voice said in my ears. But the hand was empty.

Then my vision panned around, and I saw the name printed on the surface of the bubble: HOPE.

I removed the helmet, controlling my reaction. "So it is," I said as I returned the headset to the other recruit. "What's it all about?"

"You okay?" he asked. "I thought you were going to fall over for a moment there!"

"I thought you were joking," I said quickly. "It was a shock to see my name on that spacecraft."

"I guess it was. I'm only a little way into this one. It's a reverse-role experience—pretty hot stuff, I'd say."

"Reverse-role?" I asked blankly. "You mean where the man's passive and the woman dominant?"

He laughed. "Naw, that's tame! Hell, you can get that in the Tail, if you ask for it. This is where it's keyed to a man, but he's in a girl's body. I played through one the other day. It's really something, getting felt up when you're a girl. Feeling things happen to anatomy a man doesn't even have. Drove me crazy, till I caught on. Penetration—" He shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Some freaks really go for this stuff, though." He set the helmet firmly on his head and settled back in the chair.

A man's awareness in a woman's body. While that woman underwent the experience of sexual stimulation and culmination. That was surely not on the authorized list!

I read the label on the chip container projecting from the top of the helmet. Each chip was protectively encased, but the cases plugged into the helmet socket. It was easy to use. This one said EMPTY HAND—HOPE.

I went to my hammock and closed my eyes, feigning sleep. We had already passed morning inspection, and it was a weekend, so my gear no longer needed to be reserved for display and could be used for its theoretical purposes. I wanted a chance to think without being disturbed.

When my family had fled Callisto and traveled toward Jupiter in a bootleg bubble, using gravity shields somewhat the way the ancients had used sails on ships of the seas, our toilet tanks had filled up and had had to be evacuated. My fiancée, Helse, and my sister, Spirit, had gone out with me onto the hull without the benefit of magnetic boots—bubble equipment had been minimal—and guyed ourselves with ropes and done the job. But I had passed close to one of the bodies frozen and bagged and tied to the hull—the bodies of our menfolk, slain by the pirates—and suffered a vision of a dialogue with my father, Major Hubris, who had told me there was food and shown me his empty hand. That vision had horrified me, but the revelation had been valid, and we had found food.

All the people of the bubble had known of my vision, but all were dead now. All except me—and my little sister, Spirit. She alone knew the significance of the empty hand. This particular thing I had not spoken of when I told my tale to the migrant crew; it was a very private matter.

The feelie-chip was labeled EMPTY HAND, and the particular show was titled HOPE. Could that be coincidence? Perhaps, but the view it presented of the bubble hull and the packaged corpse could not. No one could have guessed about that, and I had told no one. Well, I had written it in my biography of my experience as a refugee, but that was safely out of the way; I knew no one here had seen it.

And the reverse-role theme—that also related. Spirit and I had escaped the pirates by masquerading as the opposite sex. She had become a little boy, and I a teenaged girl. We had learned that device from Helse, who had protected herself from molestation by passing as a boy. That strategy was not effective in all cases, of course, but it had worked for her. I had left Spirit on a pirate ship, in a compromise with necessity, to be the cabin boy for a reverse-role captain named Brinker.

No, this was no coincidence! That pirate ship must now be involved in the illicit distribution of this line of feelies, and Spirit, who would now be about fourteen, had sent me a message only I could comprehend.

My spirited little sister survived, and was reaching out with considerable ingenuity to find me! I had hardly dared think of her in the interim, fearing confirmation of her demise; now a portal in my heart flung open.

Until this time my life had been somewhat desultory. I had spent a year in the dead-end occupation of migrant labor and gotten into the Navy more or less coincidentally. I had lived from day to day and hour to hour. Now my life assumed meaning, for I had a mission: to rescue my sister, Spirit.

For Spirit was my life. She alone, of all people living, had shared my ordeal of refuge and survived. She alone truly understood me. She was my kin. I had loved Helse as a woman, but I loved Spirit as family and friend. Helse was dead, and I mourned her forever; Spirit lived, and I needed her.

From that moment, I had purpose. The knowledge of Spirit guided me like the light of a distant beacon. Two-thirds of the emptiness of my situation could be filled by the restoration of my sister.

I checked the other feelie-chips. They were scattered about the post, traded from unit to unit, and, of course, there was no computer-library index to them. The Navy might tolerate illicit chips, but the Navy did not encourage them or admit their existence. Everyone knew of them, but no one spoke openly of them, apart from such in-barracks exchangee as had introduced me to the first. It was an unwritten code: Do not rock the boat.

I became a collector of experience, viewing every EMPTY HAND chip I could borrow. The shows were not important to me; I familiarized myself with them only to be able to discuss them intimately with others, justifying my interest in more of the same. It was better to be judged a reverse-role freak than to have my real purpose known. In this manner I became acquainted with the programs FAITH, CHARITY, MAJOR, HELSE, and, of course, HOPE. The names of my older sister, mother, father, fiancée, and myself. But there was none for my younger sister, Spirit. And that made sense, for her own name would be suspect among the pirates. Her absence amounted to confirmation: Spirit was reaching for me and now had touched me.

But where was she? She was aboard the pirate ship, but that could be anywhere in the Jupiter Ecliptic. The pirates would not identify themselves to the Jupiter Navy!

But they did do business with the Navy, however covertly. The EMPTY HAND chips had to get from ship to base. What was their route? It should be possible to trace it backward. There should be pickup points, distribution centers, authorized agents to accept payments—that sort of thing. The chips might be illegitimate, but there had to be a framework. Pirates did not distribute chips free; they were in it for the money. The chips were free to enlisted personnel, common property; that meant that the Navy was in fact paying for them, and what the Navy paid for, it had on record, somewhere, somehow.

Part of my training was in computer research. That is, learning to use the Base Computer to ascertain such things as how many pairs of combat boots were available in storage, for each size of foot. It was not that I had an aptitude for data retrieval; I did, but they didn't know it, because I had literally slept through that segment of my placement testing program. In fact, I wondered how I had scored so well overall, considering that, but the Navy seemed to have more use for supply clerks than for combat specialists. The training computers were centuries out of date, contributing to what I now perceived as the monumental inefficiency of the Jupiter Military System. But I realized that I might be able to use them to gain the information I needed. If the monthly purchases and disbursements of boots were listed, the feelie-chips had to be entered somehow, probably under an alias. I had to look. So I picked the lock during off-hours and sneaked into the terminal room.

Alas, I did not yet know quite enough about even those primitive machines. They were keyed for trainee exercises; when I punched the coding for an unauthorized listing, an alarm was sounded in the Military Police Station. Suddenly I found myself under arrest. To add to my ignominy, I learned that the Base Computer System had no information of the acquisition or disbursal of entertainment chips. The records for gray market purchases were kept separately, by hand, so as to keep the official record clean. I had blundered badly.

My unit was notified, and my platoon sergeant came to fetch me. I knew I was in for the Navy version of hell.

Sergeant Smith was an E5, the lowest level of sergeant, though, of course, that was far beyond my El recruit status. He was no young soldier; he seemed to be in his forties, and the seven longevity slashes on his left sleeve showed he had twenty-one years' service. He had four slanted slashes on the right sleeve, too, indicating two years of combat duty. He should have had a higher rank by this time. He was a rough-tough soldier and a harsh barracks master; he breathed fire when we fouled up, which was often, since we were normal recruits. He was Saxon and did not speak Spanish, and there was a general suspicion that he did not like Hispanics. I had felt the heat of his wrath before, and I was afraid of him.

But Smith surprised me. He brought me to his barracks room, which was in strict military order, its hammock folded away and its furnishings sparse. There were two chairs and a table, and he bade me sit down. "Hubris, I've been watching you," he said. "You're inexperienced but hardened to work, and you're three times as smart as your tests show. Why'n hell'd you pull a stunt like this?"

"I can't tell you, Sergeant," I said, hating this.

"You broke 'n entered, and that's a black mark on your platoon and on me," he said. "It's my business to see that this sort of thing doesn't happen. You aren't a criminal-type, Hubris. You had to have reason. You were after something, and I mean to know what it was."

I sat silent. I couldn't tell him about my quest for Spirit; this was not a thing the Navy would understand. It would be better to take my punishment straight. I deserved it for my foolishness.

"Tell me why, and give me your word there will be no repetition, and I will give you minimum standard punishment," he said.

I shook my head no, fearing what was coming.

He said no more on that subject. "The barracks needs cleaning," he said. "You will scrub it down, beginning at floor level, during your free time, commencing today. Here is your scrub brush." He handed me an archaic toothbrush.

That afternoon, and the afternoon following, I labored to clean the immense inner hull with that tiny brush. My platoon-mates saw me but did not comment; it was forbidden to talk with a person undergoing punishment. The labor was mind-deadening, but I had spent a year on the migrant circuit, so I was toughened to this sort of thing. I simply tuned my mind to other things, freeing it from the mundane blank, and proceeded, as it were, on automatic.

On the third day Sergeant Smith approached while I worked. "This isn't necessary, Hubris," he said. "You have completed minimum punishment and have served as an example. What have you to say?"

"This is supposed to be a training battalion," I said gruffly. "I did wrong and I am being punished; that's fair. But you are making me do something useless when you should be making me do something that forwards my competence as a Jupiter fighting man, even though I'm really a mercenary."

"Just what are you trying to say, Hubris? You may speak freely." That meant I would not suffer additional punishment for anything I might utter; this code, too, is honored. I could call him a fecal-consuming pederast whose hash marks were forged, and get away with it.

I elected for a less personal critique. "This is chicken shit," I said, using the age-sanctified vernacular for pointless harassment.

"You want a rationale to justify it?" he asked disdainfully.

He had the temerity to argue the case. "Yes, if I have to indulge in it." I should have known better than to challenge a military professional. The officer at the Tail had tackled my doubt head-on, and so did Sergeant Smith.

"The foundation of the military service, any military service," he said carefully, "is discipline. Men and women must be trained to do exactly what is required of them, in precisely the way required, and at the moment it is required. The military organization is ideally a finely crafted machine, and the individual parts of that machine can not be permitted free will, or the machine will malfunction. We want the soldiers of the Navy to be able to fight; but first they must obey, lest we become no more than a random horde of scrappers. Civilians come to the service with a number of ungainly and counterproductive attitudes; we must cure them of these, just as we must build up their bodies and their skills. Naturally, civilians resist these changes, just as they resist the first haircut and the first session in the Tail. They have other ideas—and because we must rid them of these ideas, we put them through a program some call chicken shit. It may be unpleasant, but it is necessary if they are ever to become true military personnel, able to function selflessly as part of an effective fighting force. It is, ultimately, not hardware or firepower or numbers that determines the true mettle of any military organization; it is discipline. What you are undergoing now is not useful work by your definition; it is the essence of discipline."

I paused in my scrubbing, impressed. Sergeant Smith had given me a genuine answer, instead of the bawling out I had expected. I realized that I had not properly appreciated the qualities of the man—and that was embarrassing, because I, of all people, had no excuse for such misjudgment. I had turned off my mind too soon!

Yet I resisted the logic. "In what way does scrubbing a clean hull with a toothbrush contribute to discipline that rigorous useful training would not?"

"Rigorous training is proud work," he said. "You have too much pride, Hubris. Your very name smacks of it; I daresay it runs in your family. In civilian life it can be an honorable quality, but here it amounts to arrogance. You assume that your personal standards are superior, even when you are in plain violation of reasonable regulations. We must expunge that arrogance, or you will never be a true soldier. And that would be unfortunate, because you have the makings of a fine one. So I have given you a task that deprives you of pride, because it has no meaning. Chicken shit is very good for abolishing hubris, the arrogance of pride."

He was making some sense. I realized, now that I understood him better, that I could trust Sergeant Smith. He was not the blind disciplinarian I had taken him for. He was a sighted disciplinarian. It was a significant distinction.

"Will you keep a secret?" I asked.

"No. I serve the Jupiter Navy, nothing else."

Did my quest for Spirit really have to be secret? It seemed to me now that Smith would understand, and perhaps it was best that I tell him. I could have told him before, and spared myself all this, had it not been for that very hubris he charged me with. Surely my surname was no coincidence; some distant ancestor had been so proud of his arrogance he had adopted its name for his own. This was, it seemed, a lesson I had needed. "Will you give me a fair hearing, even if it takes some time?"

"Yes." No fudging here.

"Then I will tell you what you want to know, and I will promise not to break any more military regulations."

"Come with me." He turned and walked away.

I set down my toothbrush and followed him to his room. There I told him about the manner I had separated from my sister, Spirit, and how I had received news of her survival.

"Then it was not pride so much, but need," Sergeant Smith said. "You have to try to save your sister from the pirates."

"Yes."

"You should have gone through channels. The Navy is not indifferent to the welfare of the families of soldiers. You should have come to me at the outset."

"I guess I should have. I didn't realize—"

"Lot you have to learn about the Navy, Hubris. That's why you're a recruit. It's my job to teach you, but you have to give me half a chance."

He was right. "I'm sorry," I said. "I—"

"Apology accepted." He looked at his watch. "Chow time." He touched his intercom. "Corporal, bring me dinner for two from the mess."

"Check, Sergeant," the intercom replied.

Startled, I looked at him, the question in my face.

"I have obtained some of your private history, Hubris," he said. "Now I'll give you some of mine. We'll eat here; what we have to discuss is nobody's business but ours."

I nodded, still uncertain what he had in mind.

And while we ate, Sergeant Smith told me his military background. It was amazing. He had been a master sergeant in a regiment, in charge of the specialized training the troops needed for a hazardous mission. The plan had been to make a covert raid to a planetoid in the Asteroid Belt where certain Jupiter officials were being held hostage. Smith had urged against the attempt, believing that the risk of precipitating the murder of the hostages was too great. He believed that negotiation was called for. The captain in charge had overruled him unceremoniously and ordered the preparations to be made. Smith had then gotten the job of training the men in the necessary maneuvers. He had tackled it honestly but pointed out that he needed at least two months to get the men in proper shape so that there would be no foul-ups. The captain, eager to get the job done, cut the time to one month. Again Smith warned against using this inadequately prepared force; again he was overruled.

The mission was launched—and it failed. The hostages were killed, a number of the raiding personnel were lost, and Jupiter's interplanetary relations suffered, exactly as Smith had warned.

There was an investigation. Smith was found guilty of gross negligence, reduced four grades in rank, from master sergeant E7 to private first class E3, and reassigned to the lowest form of supervisory labor: the training of recruits. That had been four years ago; he now had won back two of his lost stripes and might eventually recover the rest if he kept his nose clean.

"But it was the captain who should have paid!" I exclaimed.

"Officers don't pay," Smith said. "Appearances must be preserved. They needed a scapegoat, and I was the one."

"But you were right and he was wrong!"

"Right way, wrong way, Navy way," he reminded me.

I shook my head, confused. "You accepted wrongful punishment to support the military way?"

"You accepted it to protect your sister."

"Yes, I suppose. But—"

"When you are ready to do the same for the Jupiter Navy, you will be a true military man."

"I'll never be that sort of man!" I declared.

He smiled, somewhat grimly. "Hubris, when you finish Basic, I want you to put in for retesting, and then for Officer's Training School. I believe you would make a better officer than the captain I served."

"You are going to all this trouble, just to get me to try to be an officer?" I asked incredulously. "Why?"

"I owe it to the Navy to do my job the best way I know how and to produce the best fighting men I can. You have real potential. I want to straighten you out and set you on the right course. Hubris, you have a real future in the Navy—once you make up your mind to pursue it."

"A future in the Navy? I'm a mercenary, and I'm not even of age!"

"I know that. But irregularities in the induction are excused if the rest is in order. As a resident alien you are eligible for any position in the Navy, which is more than can be said for your civilian opportunities. You have a clean record, Hubris; keep it that way."

"A clean record? But I—"

"There was no court-martial. You accepted unit punishment. No officer was involved. It is off the record. Remember that: In the Navy, souls can be bought and sold for a clean record."

Probably true. "You expect me to be the sort of careerist you are? A scapegoat?"

"I think you can do better, Hubris. Get your house in order, become an officer, and I will be proud to call you 'sir.' "

"I can't do it," I protested. "My first priority is to rescue my sister."

"I will help you do that."

Again I was amazed. "How? You can't break the regulations either."

"I don't have to break regs. I just have to enforce them."

I raised an eyebrow.

"The transsex feelies are unauthorized," he explained. "It is Navy policy to tolerate them as long as they don't cause mischief. It is the prerogative of the Platoon or Company Commander to determine what constitutes mischief; in practice it's left to the noncoms. If I raise an objection, I'll get to the source quickly enough. They'll figure I'm bucking for a bribe; they'll be glad to settle for information."

I smiled. "Sergeant, if you do that for me, I'll be the best soldier I can be. And the day I get my sister back, I'll put in for Officer's School."

"Deal," he said. "But it'll take awhile to trace the supply route, because these people are cagey, understandably. They've been stepped on before. And I don't dare check with the officer who pays for the chips out of general funds; he's twice as cagey as the pirates are."

"I understand." We shook hands, and that was that. It was a great relief to me, in several senses.

Nothing more was said in the following days. But the next week, when the assignments for trainee squad leaders were posted, I was the one for my squad. I had no real authority; all it meant was that I got an armband, marched at the head of my column of ten men, and had to relay minor directives and items of information. I also had to select the men for police call (routine cleanup of refuse) and such other stray chores as were assigned. But it was my first taste of leadership in the Navy, and a signal that I was expected to set an example of good soldiering. I intended to do so.

A few days later, Sergeant Smith called me in for a squad leader conference, told me one of my men had reported for sick call twice when due for special duty formation, and to get him in line pronto. Then: "EMPTY HAND chips are distributed by the pirate fence, Chip Off the Old Block, who handles the more extreme entertainments. They're into drugs, too, and they've got a security system the Navy can hardly match. That's a dead end; we'd have to shut them down before they'd talk, and by the time that scene was done, they'd have destroyed all their records and skipped the base. Only if they get into murder, or if they seduce a general's daughter, will the Navy move firmly against them."

"All I want is information," I said.

"I know. That's why I call this a dead end. We've got to go another route, and it will take time. You don't want the pirates to get any whiff of what you're really after; your sis would pay the penalty. The Navy runs surveillance on the pirate ships in the Juclip; I'm sure there's a record of every one that connects to the Old Block fence. But no enlisted man has access to that list. You need an officer. The right officer."

"What officer?"

"Hubris, I can't tell you. I know him, but I can't violate his trust. I'll have to ask him to contact you. If he refuses—"

"I understand," I said. "You can't tell an officer what to do."

"This one's special. Give it a couple of weeks; I think he'll agree. When you meet him, you'll understand."

"Thanks, Sergeant," I said sincerely.

"Just you be a credit to my platoon."

My squad was already doing well; in due course it would be recognized as the sharpest in the company.

As it happened, the officer did not contact me during Basic Training, but Smith assured me that the man intended to when he deemed the moment propitious, and I believed him. I had to wait, but I knew this was my best chance, and meanwhile there was plenty to keep me occupied. I was discovering that despite the hard work and dehumanization of training, I liked the military life. It was another kind of family, and once its ways were understood, it was a good family. The decent food and thorough exercise filled me out physically, so that I became an unimpressive but extremely fit individual, fast and strong and confident. I was, indeed, becoming a good soldier, and I was learning a lot.

The weeks passed, and the months. The concluding exercise of Basic came in our tenth week. This was the Challenge Course. If we were true soldiers, we would make it successfully through; if not, we would be recycled for further training.

There were other inducements. Our full cycle—the entire training battalion, three hundred recruits—would run the course together. There were many more people in the battalion, of course, but the rest were cadre, training personnel, officers, and staff. The recruits were the ones that counted. The nine platoons of the three companies would vie with each other for points, and the leading platoon would be granted an immediate three-day pass. That meant free time, and free time was the Navy's most precious commodity. The leading individuals would be granted a jump promotion from El to E3, for performance in the Challenge Course was considered to be the measure of competence and potential. There would be nine such promotions—theoretically, one per platoon, but if all the top scorers were in one platoon, they'd get it. Sergeant Smith wanted our platoon to get the victory, for it would mean a commendation for him and facilitate his own promotion. Promotion was another great Navy lure.

The course was through the special Challenge Dome, which was made up like an Earth wilderness. There was supposed to be jungle, desert, mountains, lakes, and snow. Also wild creatures of a number of types, ranging from gnats to crocodiles. And a tribe of headhunters, who would be out to get us. They wouldn't really take our heads, of course, but anyone captured and ritually decapitated—stripes of red paint would serve to show the cuts—would be considered dead and out of the challenge. The headhunters, too, had passes and promotions to earn, so they would be alert, but they had to follow the rules and could not capture any recruit unless he made some sort of error. There would be about a hundred referees in there, personnel in distinctive black garb, who would mark individual injuries and deaths along the way and feed the information into the Casualty Computer. They would neither help nor hinder us; they merely observed, until the occasion came to mark the dead and pull them from the course. We were supposed to ignore them; to ask one for help or information was to forfeit the course immediately.

Supplies would be issued when we entered the Challenge Dome: bug repellent, croc repellent, machetes, maps, and so on. The wild animals were real, but we were not supposed to hurt them; avoidance was the key. "Getting chomped by a croc is line-of-duty-no," Sergeant Smith explained with a smile. Line-of-duty-yes was okay; sometimes legitimate accidents occurred, for which a recruit was not penalized. Line-of-duty-no mishaps were subject to reprimand. The course was supposed to take about three hours, but anyone who got through "alive" within six hours passed. Those who made it in two-and-a-half hours got a higher rating, and chances were that anyone who made it in under two hours would be among the winners of promotions. Last cycle's winner had done it in one hour and fifty minutes, with his buddy right behind.

For we were to use the "buddy" system. We would travel in pairs, with each one looking out for the other. Loss of partner was line-of-duty-no unless there was good reason, such as the death of the buddy under honorable conditions. If two people lost their buddies, they were supposed to buddy up with each other.

I intended to score well in the challenge, for three reasons. First, I was really getting into the training and wanted to prove myself in the field. Second, I wanted to help Sergeant Smith's platoon make the best showing. And third, I had discovered that though E2's were not marched in formation to the Tail, they weren't permitted heterosexual roommates; that was a privilege reserved for E3 and up. E2's could use the Tail, or make private liaisons and clear them with their units. It was catch as catch can, not an ideal situation; most of them wound up at the Tail, anyway. I had had enough of that; I wanted to room with Juana. I was not emotionally involved with her in the sense of being in love, but I did like her, and the rooming arrangement would be more comfortable for both of us for any number of reasons. So I wanted us both to make E3 so we could do it.

I knew that it was important, in any competitive situation, to plan ahead. So I researched the Challenge Dome, learning what prior layouts had been. It changed each time, but there was a certain broad pattern, since lakes and mountains weren't easy to move. What they tended to do was use different segments of the dome, so as to include patterns with minimal effort. I found out what the pattern of patterns was, and so had a pretty good notion what to anticipate for ours.

I consulted with Juana. We had not met in the Tail again, for the Navy policy was to change combinations each time, to prevent exactly such emotional attachments as we were forming, but we met in our free time. After the first month we were permitted to wear civvies during off time, so I saw Juana in a dress and a feminine hairdo. She was lovely! She, like I, had filled out in a beneficial manner, and she had been well endowed to begin with. No one could ever match my lost fiancée, Helse, in my heart, but I realized that as a sexual partner of convenience, Juana was all that I could ask. She could easily have paired with another man, but she had fixed on me because of the difficult contact we had shared that first time. We understood each other in a special way.

She was smart, too. She had had a good education, as I had; her family had been reasonably well-to-do. That was one reason she had had such a problem in the Tail; she had expected to be a virgin at her marriage. The brutality of her rape and loss of her family had shocked her fundamentally but had not made it easier for her to indulge in casual sex; the opposite was the case. I understood this all too well, so in this sense I was right for her. I was almost sorry I could not love her, for she was worthy of love, but neither Navy policy nor my private emotional makeup permitted that. From the outset we had our understanding: we would be friends and sexual partners, but not lovers. That may seem like a strange distinction, but it was valid. Sex can be separated from love, and love from friendship, and only by recognizing this separation could I believe I was not being false to Helse.

Juana shared my eagerness to score well in the Challenge. We agreed to be buddies there, trading off our assigned partners so we could be together. That way we would succeed or fail together, and that was as it should be. Buddies were to be chosen ahead of time, since the Navy knew that strangers did not make the best buddies, but for convenience they had to be in-platoon at the start. So I paired with a handsome Saxon youth, and Juana took a voluptuous Saxon girl; then we introduced them to each other and asked if they would like to make the exchange in the Challenge. They were more than happy to oblige; they had not thought of this particular device.

Then we got down to serious planning. I showed Juana the maps of prior layouts, and she made suggestions on how to proceed. She came up with one notion that appalled me, but she showed me her research and finally convinced me she was correct. The more I considered her proposal, the more I liked it. It was risky; we could be genuinely hurt if we miscalculated. But it offered a chance to complete the probable course in well under two hours—perhaps even record time. As far as we could tell, no one else had ever tried this ploy, and it required courage for us to decide on it. But we did; it was basically double or nothing.

It took some preparation. We were allowed to bring no props to the Challenge Dome, but we could develop whatever skills we wished and had time for. So we researched and found out how to make a paddleboard from natural materials. We went swimming at one of the Base pools—Juana looked great in a suit!—where paddleboards were allowed, and learned how to use them. It took some effort, and we weren't expert, but we could make do. We also practiced our straight swimming, especially the breast-stroke-frog-kick combination.

All too soon, the day came. We were marched into the Challenge Dome. We stripped and stepped naked into the supply section. We had to choose our equipment from what was available and use it to run the course. Anyone who chose foolishly would pay the consequences soon enough. The Dome personnel quickly provided what was ordered but made no suggestions or remarks. Some trainees evidently hadn't thought about it ahead and wasted precious time making up their minds. I had memorized my list and was one of the first on my way.

I wore standard combat boots, jungle fatigues, heavy gloves, and a cap with mosquito netting that tied around my neck, so that no part of me was open to the bugs. Other men simply used insect repellent and traveled lighter and cooler, but I had my reasons to do it my way. I took a standard machete and a small hunting knife and a quadruple ration of reptile repellent. "Going swimming?" the clerk inquired wryly, in violation of the no-comment regulation, but I didn't answer. He thought I was a fool, since land was faster than water for footsoldiers. And, of course, I took one of their little maps.

I smiled as I viewed it. They had set the course just about where I had anticipated. I knew this layout in more detail than the map showed, for it was supposed to be only a general guideline, with a few minor errors to simulate real-life conditions. This was verisimilitude; maps could be out of date or simply wrong, so part of the challenge was to make do despite errors of information.

I focused on a particular area. Sure enough: There was a mismarked quicksand bog. Anyone who trusted this map and tried to swim in clear water could blunder into quicksand instead. Since clear water was infested with crocodiles, few were likely to try, however. Mainly, they would lose time, having to skirt an unexpected bog. Never trust a map too far!

I proceeded to the rendezvous point with my buddy. There were the two girls, as agreed. Juana was shapeless in fatigues and netting, as I was, but her friend was in a fake wool sweater and skirt and looked stunning. The other couple evidently planned to hike through the mountain region where the air was cool, even snowy, so they were warmly dressed. They wore spiked boots and carried coils of fine rope, so they could navigate the high pass. I had studied that route; it was a slow but sure one. They would finish in the middle of the pack—perhaps a little behind, if they dallied during a rest stop for a little romance. It wasn't that either was starved for sex; that was impossible in the Navy! It was that the Challenge Dome was a very special place and this was a special occasion; they were all worked up for it, and love in the wilderness had unique spice.

Now Juana and I were together, and we had no present interest in sex. We forged directly for the quicksand, moving swiftly over the firm ground, then carefully through thickening jungle lowlands. The headhunters were here; we saw one of their snares. But we passed through their territory unmolested, because of our silence and the fact that we wore no strong-smelling bug repellent. Juana had figured that out: The headhunters sniffed the odors and zeroed in on them for the kill.

We came to the edge of the open water by the map, and now the error of the map was plain, for this was perhaps six inches of water topping a quicksand bog. There was no question about the quicksand, because a float carried a sign: QUICKSAND. A real wilderness wouldn't have such a marker, but this was a mock wilderness and the quicksand was simulated; we had to accept it by definition. A Dome observer sat in a shallow-draft boat, ready to pull out any fools who stumbled into it and to ferry them to the morgue.

There was a stand of papyruslike reeds at the edge, as I had known there would be. I began cutting these down with my machete as Juana scouted for suitable vines. Soon we were fashioning two paddleboards: flat bundles of the buoyant reeds. When they were ready, I faced the observer and made my statement: "Quicksand is more dense than water. A person can float in it if he doesn't panic, especially if he is buoyed. There will be no need to consider us mired; we know what we're doing."

There was no response from the observer. But when we stripped, bundling our fatigues into our boots and hooking the boots to our bodies by their linked laces, and smearing croc repellent over our naked bodies, and flopping on our boards in the water, the observer made no protest. In fact, his rapt attention was on Juana's splendid body; observers seldom got the chance to observe this sort of thing in the Dome! We had a viable program.

We paddled carefully across the quicksand, keeping our arm and leg strokes shallow. This was the second reason we used no bug repellent; it was water soluble and would have been lost here. The reptile repellent was more durable in water, and we had plenty. Even so, I felt a thrill of nervousness, not so much for the actual dangers as for the possible reaction of the observer. The crocs were fangless, but if they came too close, we would be disqualified; our repellent had better work!

We swam slowly across. No crocs came. We climbed out on the far bank and shook ourselves off and got dressed again before the bugs could cluster. Then, with a cheery wave to the observer, we resumed our trek. I had not thought of Juana's body as an asset, but surely if the observer had been in doubt about whether to call a fault, this had helped keep him positive.

We had, by use of this shortcut, reduced our travel distance by almost fifty percent. It had taken time to prepare the paddleboards, but we were still a good half hour ahead of any ordinary schedule, and not as tired as we would have been had we spent that time plodding on foot.

We had to cut through a section of palmetto, and at one point heard a rattle; whether it was a real rattlesnake or a planted sound we could not know, but we gave it a wide berth and renewed our dosage of reptile repellent. The headhunters could smell this, too, but according to the map there were none of them in this region, and this coincided with my judgment.

Then we came to higher ground, and moved faster. But it was hot in our netting, and Juana was tiring; it is a fact that the type of flesh that makes a woman a delight to view is not as useful as plain muscle, in such a trek. We had to slow. I carried all our extra equipment, her pack and mine, but still we lost time. Yet she had done very well so far, and was striving hard now; I would not have traded her for a man.

Breathless, we hastened to the finish zone. We were numbers five and six, and Juana was the first woman here. So she would have qualified for the bonus even if she hadn't made the first nine. We had made it!

One day later, when the official tabulations were posted, Sergeant Smith's well-prepared platoon was shown as the leader. A cheer went up, and the troops bustled out on their three-day pass. Juana and I sewed on the single stripes of Privates First Class and moved into a room together, with the blessing of the Navy. Never again would we have to endure the rigors of the Tail.

We received a note from one Commander Dunsted, whose name neither of us recognized. It said, "Congratulations." When I checked the Base listing of officers, I discovered that this was the gracious woman who had put us together in the Tail.