The Complete Legacy Trilogy: Star Corps, Battlespace, Star Marines. Ian Douglas

did to you. But it’s necessary.”

      “Sir, yes, sir. If you say so, sir.”

      “I do say so. Does it surprise you that we pay pretty close attention to a recruit’s private life here? We have to.” He pulled his hand off the contact panel on the desk and leaned back in his chair. Outside, clearly audible through the thin walls of the DI’s barracks office, a boot company jogged past, sounding off to a singsong cadence to the beat of footsteps thundering together.

       “Am I right or am I wrong?

       Each of us is tough and strong!

       We guard the ground, the sea, the sky!

       Ready to fight and willing to die!”

      “It’s a damned paradox, Garroway,” Makowiecz said as the chanting faded away across the grinder. “Lots of kids join the Marines who had bad childhoods. For a lot of ’em, the Corps is their mother and father put together. I know. That’s the way it was for me. And we have to put you through six kinds of hell, have to break you in order to build you up into the kind of Marine we want. If that’s not abuse, I don’t know what is.”

      “A history feed I downloaded once said that it used to be that Marine DIs couldn’t even swear at the recruits. Sir.”

      Makowiecz nodded. “True enough. That was back, oh, 150 years ago or so. We couldn’t lay hands on recruits then either. A number of Marine DIs were discharged, even court-martialed and disgraced, for not following the new guidelines. They’d grown up in the old Corps, after all, and they thought that harassment and even physical abuse toughened the recruits, made them better Marines.

      “We know better now. Still, the rules have relaxed a bit since then, because it was discovered that we couldn’t make Marines without imposing discipline … and sometimes some well-placed profanity or grabbing a recruit by the stacking swivel and giving him a shake is just what is needed to get the message through his damned thick recruit skull. You copy?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “We have to invade each recruit’s private life, right down to his soul—if he has one. We need to know what makes him tick. How he’ll react under stress. And how we can transform him into a U.S. Marine.”

      “I understand that, sir.” And he did, reluctantly … and with a few reservations.

      “Good. You understand too that we have to remove your cerebralink.”

      “Yes … sir.”

      “You don’t sound so sure of that.”

      “Well, it’s kind of scary, thinking about being without it. I’ll be getting a Marine Corps model, right?”

      “That’s affirmative. Eventually. But first you will learn how to function without any electronic enhancement at all.”

      “Without … any? …” The thought wasn’t scary. It was terrifying.

      “Right. Look … you know the cerebralink is nothing but a tiny set of parallel computers nanotechnically grown inside your head and connecting to certain parts of your nervous system, like the linkpads in the palm of your hands. It lets you link head-to-head with others with compatible hardware, lets you connect with the WorldNet and pull down the answer to any question, gives you a whole library just a thought-click away. You can see anything, call anyone, make reservations, even download the whole history of the Corps just by thinking about it. The thing is, too many kids nowadays rely on the net, know what I mean?”

      “I guess so. But … are you saying it’s wrong to link on?”

      “Wrong? Hell no. Direct net access is one of the great cornerstones of modern technology and culture. But you as a Marine need to learn that you can get along without any technic prosthesis whatsoever … not just learn it, but know it right down to your bones. Our ancestors went a long way without implants or c-links. You can too.

      “However, we’ve found a special problem with kids coming from families with major dysfunctions. Alcoholism. Net addictions. Violence. Kids who don’t get the love and care they need at home tend to grow up relying on surrogates, like AI companions, cyberpets, or e-mates. When they’re separated from their comfort-of-choice, whatever it is, it can be pretty rough.”

      “Why don’t you just keep them from enlisting, then?” Damn it, if they were going to kick him out of boot camp for this …

      “If we did that, son, we’d have to exclude the majority of our volunteers. And some of our best people came from bad home situations. Myself included. But we do take them aside first, like I’m doing with you, and give them a final chance to think about it, think about what they’re in for. When we pull your hardware, you’re going to feel more alone, more lost, more isolated than you’ve ever felt in your life. It’s going to be hell. And you’re going to have to ride it out. Eventually, you will be issued with a Marine Corps implant. If you make it through.”

      “And if I don’t?”

      “If you don’t, the government will stand you to a replacement, though I’m afraid it won’t be as fancy as a Sony-TI 12000. Government issue, IBM-800 series. But you can upgrade that for anything you want later.”

      “What … what are my chances, sir?”

      “Oh, pretty good, actually. We lose maybe fifteen percent of our recruits at this stage. But the proportion is higher for kids from dysfunctional families, like yours. We could lose, oh, maybe thirty, thirty-five percent. A lot of kids have formed attachments they can’t get along without. You have an edge, because you haven’t bonded with an AI construct yet.”

      “I can handle it, sir.”

      “Good. Because our best Marines are fighters, the ones who’ve had bad shakes and had to fight to make it through. Tough. Survivors. We want that in our people. But we need to give you the chance to back out now, before we yank your plug-in.”

      “Thank you, sir.”

      “You have twenty-two hours to think it over. Tomorrow, at zero-seven-thirty, you will report to recruit sick bay for processing. You may, at any time until then, refuse the treatment. At that time you may opt either for a full discharge or transfer to one of the other military or government services. One less demanding than the U.S. Marine Corps. Do you understand me?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Very well.” He paused, and his voice hardened again. “Back to the routine. Dismissed!”

      That, Garroway knew, was his cue to slip back into his recruit persona. “Sir! Aye aye, sir!”

      He pulled a sharp about-face, then fairly lunged from the compartment, on the run.

       Headquarters, PanTerra Dynamics

       New Chicago, Illinois

       United Federal Republic, Earth

       1545 hours CT

      A scarlet-uniformed attendant ushered Dr. Traci Hanson into the briefing chamber on the 540th floor of the PanTerra Dynamics Building in New Chicago and toward her seat at a large, crystalline-topped conference table. A viewall behind the table showed the gold, scarlet, and purple panorama of Ishtar, the vast orb of Marduk hanging low in the sky above clustered pyramids, obelisks, and the low, rounded domes of native habitations.

      She was still having some trouble getting around on Earth, three weeks after her return from Mars, but she waved off the proffered arm and made the final walk to her seat on her own. She wore an earth-return EW suit, a utilitarian-looking green jumpsuit with an exoskeleton walker frame invisibly woven into the fabric. It helped her stand without falling, and supported the weight that, to her, still felt three times greater than normal. At least now she could stand. For the first few days after her return, she’d been all but confined to a wheelchair. Now she could get