Chapter 93
When you first enlist in the Backward Barracks and start officer training, they grind you down for about a month with one single purpose: to make you forget. Forget the common sense you'd built up over twenty-plus years in outside society, your bad habits, your pride. They wipe it all clean, resetting you to a blank slate. It's like prepping a waterlogged electronic device for restart—not a single drop can remain, or it'll fry the second you power it up. That brutal formatting process turned me into a finished soldier, and it saved my ass more times than I can count in crises.
Now, that "forgetting training"—once just a distant memory—is playing out right in front of me on the screen.
The face of the woman labeled No. 35 in the footage is filled with tension and fear.
"[Trainee No. 35!]"
"Yes, Instructor!"
"What'd you do to land in the slammer?"
"I smashed the bitch's face who was messing with my husband!"
Rose popped up the related data in popup form.
"I like your grit! What's that in your hand?"
The robot's view panned down. A heavy black riot baton, standard issue for Shelter security.
"Riot baton, sir!"
"Swing it!"
"Yes, sir!"
Security teams don't get guns. We considered issuing riot shotguns loaded with salt rounds, but handing unproven inmates firearms felt too risky. So every security trainee drills with combat riot batons.
"You call that a swing, trainee? A vacationing private's limp dick would hit harder!"
No. 35 swung with all her fury, but it clearly fell short of Hartman's standards. The feed showed measured speed and motion data—below Artemis's benchmarks.
"Trainee No. 35!"
"Yes, sir!"
She froze mid-swing to respond. The camera zoomed right in on her.
"Who told you to stop swinging?!"
"Sorry, sir!"
She screamed like a demon and swung again.
"You think that'll cut it against inmates—or infected?!"
The view closed in even tighter, Hartman's face inches from hers. He grabbed her shoulders, sunglasses off.
"Kieeeek—!!!"
A recorded walker's shriek blasted out. The bottom of the screen showed a gaping maw stretched to its limit—shark-like steel teeth ready to chomp, dead-fish eyes glaring. Bonus corpse vibes.
The woman's face on-screen was on the verge of tears.
"You might have to fight things like this!"
"Yes, sir!"
"How many dicks you grabbed so far?"
A flicker of confusion crossed No. 35's face, but it passed quick.
"Six—no, seven, sir!"
"Those dicks you grabbed would hit harder than that baton! Am I wrong?"
"No, sir!"
Hartman snatched her baton and raised it to the ceiling.
"Real soldiers carry rifles! We're giving you these dick-sticks because you're all irredeemable trash! But by the end of this, you'll be regular trash. With effort, you might even escape trashdom."
A faint laugh echoed from somewhere. So quiet I thought I misheard.
"That's when you get rifles and reborn as real soldiers! Until then, you're trash—and you'll get treated like it!"
Hartman's tirade rolled on. Next target: the woman beside her.
"What the fuck is this shit-trash, trainee?!"
Hartman yanked off her headscarf.
"Hijab, sir!"
Her profile popped up: Nazadin. Blue eyes flashed amid flying hair.
"Where you from, trainee?!"
Nazadin cried out her homeland's name.
"Only oil rigs and terrorists there! No oil stink on you, so terrorist?!"
"No, sir! I'm no terrorist!"
"Here to terrorize the Shelter? Assassinate the Manager?!"
Hartman shoved the hijab in her face.
"No, sir! I swear loyalty to the Shelter and Manager!"
"Bullshit!"
He garroted her with the hijab cloth.
"Gack! Kek!"
Her face flushed crimson instantly. Her hands twitched up to fight the choke but dropped—smart, resisting could look like defiance. Solid instincts.
"Guhk!"
He released. "Never wear that shit again! This is the Shelter—rules above all! One more time, I'll strangle you dead with it!"
"Understood, sir!"
Tears welled in Nazadin's eyes. Another laugh echoed—louder, unmistakable.
The view whipped 180 degrees.
"Which bitch was that?"
"Which goddamn bitch?!"
"Which brain-dead cunt laughs during training?!"
Silence. Hiding to avoid the spotlight, probably.
"Can't own your shit? Fine! No sleep—I'll grind you till you piss blood down your legs on the parade ground! All chant 'We're fucked!'"
He zeroed in on one woman. I remembered her—the weasel-faced one I'd pinned a badge on.
"You!"
Steel grip seized her collar, hoisting her.
"Wasn't me, sir!"
Weasel Girl looked wronged as hell.
"Your weasel mug screams guilty! I read faces!"
Liar. Hartman's feed ran real-time facial analysis, not physiognomy.
Anger and contempt aimed at whoever smirked then clammed up. Sadness for her own plight. Self-focused emotions dominating showed Hartman's control.
"Confess now, weasel!"
Weasel Girl dangled in the air from the bot's iron grip.
"Really wasn't me, sir!"
Sadness spiked past 0.9. Peak injustice face.
"It was me laughing!"
The girl next to her shouted. Average Jane everywhere—Plain Girl.
Hartman loomed over her.
"You think I'm a comedian?!"
"No, sir!"
"Credit for confessing!"
Whoosh. He drew his riot baton from his belt.
Thwack!
"Guhk!"
Plain Girl crumpled, clutching her solar plexus.
"Punishment for not reporting immediately! Own your fuckups to superiors on the spot—scary now, best outcome later!"
Echo-Hartman scanned the group.
"Advanced barracks are for weaklings! Shelter needs no soft security—so we're Backward Barracks! What'd I say?!"
"Backward Barracks!"
Trainees roared as one.
"What?!"
He cupped his ear.
"Backward Barracks!!!"
Finally satisfied, he turned to Plain Girl.
"Up! On your feet!"
She bit her lip, staggering upright—legs wobbling from the hit.
"Wanna punch you, but these are steel fists. Flesh tears, bones snap—so baton mercy. Grateful for my generosity?"
Plain Girl eyed the mangling steel claw shoved in her face.
"Yes, sir!"
"Laugh once more in training, these claws rip your vocal cords! Got it?!"
"Yes, sir!"
"Scream!"
"Raaagh!!!"
"That's a scream?! Sounded like 'Kyaaah!' to me. My ears broken?!"
"No, sir!"
"Again!"
"Kriiiyaagh!!!"
Her face beet-red with effort.
"Enough."
My word cut the feed—Echo-Hartman's screen shrank, audio off. Back to split-view of all five instructors.
"This guy's nuts."
"Ahaha."
Rose laughed awkwardly. Every screen showed women grinding through hell. Echo-Ramsey's group looked least traumatized. Who knew—Ramsey's a saint!
"Anyway, training's in good hands."
By the end, they'd be solid security. Trustworthy.
"Good work."
Rose caught the strain in my voice and muscles—sensed me rising, started sliding off my lap.
"Ah!"
I pinned her thigh. Blocked.
"Up we go."
Scooped Rose into a princess carry and stood.
"Got somewhere to be. You're coming."
"Where, sir?"
Brief fluster, then she clasped her fists demurely at her chest—adorably un-Rose-like. Couldn't help smiling.
"Labor Management Office."
That spot where the supervisor went out with a bang. Business there.
"Wanna walk? Set you down?"
"...No."
She whispered. I kissed her forehead and left the room.