Читать книгу Wildfire - P.Z. Johns - Страница 15

Chapter 8

Boot Camp

“Ms. Wildfire, please follow me.” An army corporal stood in front of me.

I guess I have to do this. I have to go with him, but I better be careful because I’m in boot camp now. Yep, that’s what I said, boot camp. Nobody here calls it boot camp. Everybody here calls it “military orientation,” “basic training,” or “survival training.” But from where I sit, it sure looks like boot camp.

I was at an army base. Men and women everywhere in military fatigues, that’s army talk for camo work clothes. There were big concrete block buildings everywhere with huge guns and cannons on them, all aimed at the sky. The buildings that didn’t have guns on them had big satellite dishes also aimed at the sky. There were vehicles of all kinds parked in neat rows, from little things that looked like jeeps or dune buggies to enormous trucks and tanks. Some trucks were personnel carriers, but some had big guns mounted on them. They’d painted all the buildings in the same camo color as the trucks. There were even groups of guys running around in neat rows holding rifles in front of them and singing little songs while they were jogging. I ask you, would you call this “Camp Wigwam’s Orientation Week,” or would you call it “boot camp”?

It started back at the hospital. That’s where they first used the word “orientation.” Okay, I got it; this was a hostile frontier planet, and I was not that familiar with my newly installed abilities. Everyone at the hospital thought it would be good for me to learn how to use all my high-tech skills in real-life situations. But this, I was in the army? But on the other hand, I imagined going on a weekend campout with Jane; Dr. Philippe and Mike would be a bust. Jane would not want to get her business suit dirty; Dr. Philippe would order the animals to be quiet and not understand why they were ignoring him, and Mike would wander off looking for a plug for his computer. No, you can bet that they sent me here alone and that the good doctors would not do this “orientation” with me.

At least, Jane came with me and dropped me off. She held my hand and gave me encouragement, but she sounded like a mother. She was all “Try to be nice and make friends. Don’t let that sassy mouth of yours get you into trouble. Don’t talk back to your superior officers and don’t show off that you can do things that the others can’t. And remember, the others are trying the best they can.” It sounded like “Play nice, share your toys, and let others play in the sandbox with you.”

Before the corporal called my name, I was sitting in a room with about fifty other people, a mix of both guys and girls. Most came in buses but some separately. Those had been sent here by their employers, usually mining companies, to get survival training. It looked like I was the oldest person in the room. Almost everybody else were just kids, eighteen or nineteen, and they looked terrified. I couldn’t say I blamed them.