Salvation (Short Story)

            The warm orange sun shined down on the golden wheat fields of Hedion V.  The wheat was over a meter and a half long, nearly ready for harvest.  The narrow stalks dwarfed a pale and pudgy young Amarrian boy, who ran along the grassy edge of one of the fields.  He had spotted three dark skinned Brutor boys approaching some distance away, and having recognized them from afar, set out to meet them.
             As he ran, the young Amarrian held one hand behind his back, making his already awkward running gait unbalanced and all the more ridiculous.  His labored breaths came fast and erratic as his short plump legs carried his bulging frame as best as they could.
            The Brutors, aged 7, 8, and 9, were about the same age as the Amarrian boy.  They contrasted sharply in appearance to him, however.  They all possessed dark brown skin, and although somewhat scrawny, were in fit physical condition, a side effect of their servitude as slaves to the Empire.  As the Amarrian drew closer the three, upon spotting him, hesitated for a moment as if considering a change in direction in an attempt to avoid him, but it was already too late.  As he came closer, there was a look of delight on the young pudgy boy's face, and it was apparent that he either did not perceive the displeasure the Brutor boys had at his approach, or simply did not care.
             "What are you holding behind your back, Dochuta?" asked the oldest Brutor, curiously.  The other two, who flanked the eldest to either side, craned their necks in the attempt to get a peek at whatever it was Dochuta was concealing.
            "Goodies!" beamed the Amarrian, his face lighting up with a wide smile.  His hidden hand darted out from behind his back revealing four small packs of Quafe Glucoroos.  They were sugary candy treats that were as unhealthy as they were delicious.  Dochuta gleefully dolled out the treats with a fat sweaty hand.  The Brutor children, who were nearly never able to gain access to such delicacies, happily accepted.
            All four children made short work of the treats, greedily woofing them down.  Dochuta, loving anything sweet was, unsurprisingly, the first to finish, but the Brutor children were not far behind.  The 8 year old Brutor, finishing his tasty Glucoroos, was suddenly hit with a flash of inspiration, and leaned over to whisper something into the ear of the eldest.  He nodded his approval with what was said and smiled.
            "Dochuta, you should go get some more of those Quafe snacks and come with us down to the river to play.  We can all eat them there together!" said the oldest, with a smile.
            "Yes, we are going to make a raft, and sail the river!" chirped the 8 year old Brutor.  The youngest Minmatar looked as if he was about to speak in protest to the idea of the Amarrian coming along, but was quickly elbowed by the eldest, and kept quiet.
             Dochuta jumped at the idea of playing with the other kids.  There were no Amarrian children his age nearby, and unlike Dochuta, the Minmatar children had already been made fully aware of the differences between their two races, and usually took great pains to avoid him.  In his awkward loneliness Dochuta had become desperate for interaction with anyone his age.  So much so that he was not above resorting to bribery.  Still, he had reservations.
            "I don't know if I can get more of them.  Those were all the treats I was allowed for the day.  I might get in trouble," Dochuta said with a frown.  "But I would love to go to the river with you, anyway!"  he said with a smile.
            The smile disappeared from eldest Brutor's face.  "You should, at least, try," he insisted.
             "If he won't try maybe he shouldn't come.  We probably couldn't build a raft to hold him, anyway," said the second oldest Brutor, a sly smile on his face.  He was taking a risk the eldest Brutor wasn't bold enough to try.  Dochuta was the son of Darius Karsoth, a prominent Hedion Holder.  Angering the son of a Holder could have far reaching consequences, but the young Brutor was emboldened partly by the foolishness of youth and partly by a desire for more sweet delicious Quafe Glucoroos.
             "I'll try, I'll try!" Dochuta stammered, with clear desperation in his voice.  "Stay here I'll be right back!  You'll see!"  Dochuta turned and ran for the plantation compound a hundred meters away.  He was normally ignored or avoided by the Minmatar slave children of the plantations, and this was finally his chance to make some friends.
         
            Unbeknownst to the children, the Holder was watching the exchange from one of the compound's windows.  He was not close enough to hear the exchange, but had witnessed his son give his treats to the slave children, and watched with interest as his son ran back to the compound.  It seemed quite unlike his son to let anyone or anything get between himself and his treats. 
            "Interesting," the Holder mused to himself.  "Rise Apostle," the Holder barked.  A large slaver hound which was previously lying silently in the corner of the room, stood up quickly in response to the command.  "Let us...investigate."  He walked toward the door, the slaver hound followed.

            Dochuta entered the compound kitchen quietly and looked around.  Seeing that it was empty he moved for a cabinet next to the tall silver food preservation unit.  The cabinet which usually contained the snacks was above the counter, out of reach.  Little Dochuta climbed up on the counter top as quietly as he could so that he could reach the button to open the cabinet door.  It slid open as he pressed it.  In triumph, he grabbed his Quafe snack prize with his sweaty pudgy hands, and in his excitement nearly fell off the counter to the floor below.  Jumping down from the counter, he waddled quickly across the kitchen floor to the exit, momentarily distracted by the cartoon characters on the back of the box.  He was suddenly startled horribly as he found himself face to face with Apostle.  The slaver hound stood tall in the doorway, blocking the only way out.  The slaver hound gave a low growl and revealed its large sharp teeth with a snarl.  If Dochuta was not already pale white he would have turned so, staggering back in horror.
           "What have we here, Apostle?"  The Holder asked as he strode into view.  The slaver made room for the Holder to enter the kitchen.  The silky red and black robes of the Holder slid across the floor as he walked.  Seeing the startled look on his son, the Holder smiled.  "What is that you have there, my son?"
           "S-s-snacks father," the young boy stammered.
           "I see," said the Holder.  "If I am not mistaken you were already given your allotment of snacks by the house servant were you not?" The Holder's brow raised inquisitively.
           "Y-y-yes father," Dochuta said, as he stood up slowly.  The slaver had entered the kitchen and was eying him angrily, its large teeth still very visible.  It kept its distance but stood near its master.
           "As I recall you received this allotment not ten minutes ago, did you not?  Have you eaten them all so quickly?"  The Holder eyed his son suspiciously.
           "I have father," said Dochuta shamefully.
           "I see."  The holder nodded slowly.  "And I presume in your insatiable hunger you are back for more?"  Dochuta's father reached out with a veiled hand and poked Dochuta's protruding belly with an extended finger.
           "I am, father," Dochuta said as he looked down at the floor.
           The Holder reached down to grasp Dochuta's jaw between his thumb and fingers, tilting his sons face upward to meet his gaze.  His eyes narrowed as he glared at his son.  "If you are going to lie to me, my son, I suggest you learn to do so with more skill," the Holder said in a reproachful tone, releasing his grip on his son's chin.  His tone softened.  "So tell me, dear son, why you gave those slave children outside most of your snacks, and then risked punishment to return for more.  Were you going to give these to them as well?" the Holder asked as he plucked the box away from Dochuta's grasp.
           "I-I-I was," Dochuta stuttered nervously.  "I wanted them to like me...to be friends.  They told me if I got them more treats I could come with them to the river to play."
           "Well!  That is reason indeed!" scoffed the Holder with a laugh. "Come my son.  It is time we had an important conversation."  The Holder motioned for his son to follow him to a chair by the table.  He sat down and motioned for the boy to have a seat on his lap.  "Perhaps this is, in part, my fault," the Holder mused.  "I know that my duties as a Holder often require me to take my leave of you quite frequently.  I have not had the time in recent years to fully educate you in the order of things, and it has become quite apparent that the house servant and your tutors have been negligent in this matter as well...a negligence which will carry with it... severe consequences," the holder hissed through clenched teeth.  "It certainly does not help that there are no Amarrian children for you to play with, instead of those slave rabble." 
            Dochuta nodded, and stared up at his father.  He was in awe of his father, who seemed to have such great control over the affairs of the plantation.  When his father spoke everyone listened, and when they did not, he punished them accordingly.  It seemed from his point of view that his father was the most powerful person on Hedion V, if not the universe.
            "It is important for you to realize, my son, that a true Amarr, like yourself, could never truly be friends with any Minmatar," the Holder scoffed.  "A slave lacks the nobility, the strength of character, and the morality, to be a friend of any real value.  Do you know the story of how the Amarr met the Minmatar?"
            "No father, tell me," said Dochuta.
            "When, by the grace of the Almighty God, we first found the Minmatar, so long ago, they were a sorry breed of savages that lived like animals in huts made of mud.  We saw them in such a poor state, and took pity on them, and raised them up from their state of decay.  We raised them out of their petty conflicts, and squalor, and their rampant disease.  In God's name we brought them faith, and with it salvation, and a purpose for being!  For this they should have loved us!" the Holder exclaimed with wide eyes, as he swung his hand in a grand sweeping gesture.  "But being a sorry breed of fickle, greedy, and savage creature, their memory grew short, and they turned against us, their betters, at the first opportunity!
            "Why did they do that father?" asked Dochuta, his eyes wide.
            "The Minmatar slave is a vile creature, my son!  Do not be fooled by their human appearance, and their ability to mimic speech!  They are beasts in human form!  They are unable to reason as men should, and unmoved by sound argument."  The holders voice calmed and took a quieter tone.  "You see, my son, you are an Amarr.  God in his infinite wisdom and mercy saw fit that we, his chosen few, rule over the Minmatar to save them from themselves.  You are their better.  You are their master, never their equal.  As such, it is better that you be feared by them than loved."
            "Why is that father?" the boy asked.
            "Because the love of a slave for his master is fleeting, and lasts only as long as their fickle slave minds can sustain it.  They would pretend to be your friend in good times, when it suits them, but in your hour of need they would rise up against you!  But while those slaves bound to you by love desert you in your hour of need, those who are bound to you by fear will remain.  For while love is fickle and easily deserted, the fear of the whip endures...no matter what the circumstance."  The holder paused for a moment.  "You love me, do you not, my son?"
            "I do father!" Dochuta cried out.
            "And yet it took them so little time to corrupt you," the Holder growled.  "They had you ready to steal from your own father, whom you profess to love!  All for their own pleasure!  They had no pause at the possibility you might be punished!  If you, a boy of good and blessed Amarr blood could be made to do such evil, just imagine what those beasts would do to you when it suited their needs!"
            "I was so foolish father!" Dochuta squeaked, tears running down his chubby cheeks.
            "Yes you were, my son, but it is good that we corrected such an error in time, before those Brutors had the chance to corrupt you further.  Their Brutor soul's are as dark as their skin, and evil comes so naturally to them." 
             As the Holder spoke, Apostle drew menacingly closer, saliva dripping from his teeth filled maw.  The Holder quickly unveiled a hidden pain-stick, a rod with a forked metallic tip.  With a lightening quick motion he jabbed it into the slaver's side.  The powerful animal yelped loudly and retreated to a corner of the kitchen, whimpering with fear as it curled itself into a small shaking ball.  Dochuta looked on with startled amazement at how quickly the powerful animal was reduced to something so cowardly. 
            "They, like any beast, would be entirely without redemption if it was not for their understanding of pain.  It is only through pain or the fear thereof that the Minmatar can achieve salvation.  Only through fear can the slave savages be dragged, kicking and screaming, out of their own darkness!" The Holder spat out his words through clenched teeth, with vitriol the Minmatar of the plantation knew all too well.  The Holder paused in thought for a few moments, and then handed the pain-stick to his son.  "It is our solemn and sacred duty as Amarr to see that the Minmatar reach salvation.  The Minmatar boys are still outside and await your return, my son.  They await your righteous judgement.  You must not disappoint them...or me."
           
            Dochuta ran back along the edge of the field toward the three boys.  They were sitting on the grassy edge of the field playing in the dirt, and saw him approaching.  They observed the Amarrian's awkward running gait, and saw that he, again, held a hand behind his back.  As he drew close the eldest Minmatar spoke first.
            "We were beginning to wonder if you were coming back!"
            "Did you bring us more treats?" the youngest one asked.
            "I brought something much better!" exclaimed Dochuta Karsoth.  A wicked smile spread across his face as he stepped closer toward the three, his hand still concealed behind his back.  "I've brought you...your salvation!"





       

The Dinner (Chapter 4)

It wasn’t long before a man in a white labcoat appeared.  He brought my clothes with him.  The thirty something Deteis gentlemen stepped out while I changed, but waited just outside the door to the interrogation cell.  It was clear my clothes had been cleaned, but upon further inspection I noticed they had been tampered with.  There were hidden compartments built into my clothing that had previously hid weapons.  Most were composite bladed weapons, fashioned in such a way that made them appear to be normal parts of the clothing.   In addition to those, was a wire built into the lining of my pants that could be used as a garrote.  My belt was missing as well, and the belt was just a belt.  
         
         Irritating.  
         
         When I was ready I stepped outside.

“If you’ll follow me please,”  the Deteis said, motioning for me to follow.

I walked a step behind him down a well lit series of grey concrete corridors.  There were many steel doors but no windows.  I could make out a faint humming noise coming from somewhere down the hall, but was unable to discern its source.  There was a faint odor of bleach in the air, as if this area had been disinfected recently.  I got the distinct impression that we were underground.     

I felt an odd mix of relief and anxiety.  On the positive side of things, I wasn’t captured or awaiting torture.  On the downside I had undergone surgery without my knowledge or consent.  Compounding the issue, there were far more questions than answers, especially when it came to the socket at the base of my skull.  To make matters worse Allison would likely continue to grill me about my past.

The unhealthy interest Dr. Krieger seemed to have in my employers was troubling.  Aside from information regarding assignments I had played a direct and incriminating role in, there wasn’t much information about the organization I could have given her, and certainly nothing that she could have acted on. 

Within the organization, I was kept on a need to know basis.  Information and assignments were compartmentalized in such a way that I was not made aware of other operatives activities, whereabouts, names of the members of other units unless it was deemed necessary.  I'm not sure how many units existed.  I wouldn't even be able to estimate that sort of thing.  
          Discretion was very important to our overall health and well-being.  A lack of discretion usually resulted in an unpleasant death.  If operators had family it wasn’t unheard of for them to share in the burden of that operator’s indiscretion.  The word burden in that last sentence being synonymous with unpleasant death.  They were secretive about many things, but went out of their way to show us the consequences of actions they didn't approve of.  Despite the plethora of reasons to keep quiet, we were all viewed as liabilities to the operation as a whole.

The mantra of compartmentalization was maintained even at Center, the training facility for operators like myself.   Units were kept separate as much as possible during training.  Active communication attempts between training units was forbidden, and violations were punished harshly.  
           Center itself, was a mystery even to the people who trained at the facility.  It's location was kept a secret to the trainees.  I suspected it was located within the belly of a large cloaked ship that moved around to avoid detection.  Some within my unit seemed to believe it was underground.  Nobody within my unit knew for sure, and handlers usually discouraged conversation on the topic.  It seemed as if nobody within the unit had ever returned to Center after the completion of training.  As a result nobody knew where it was or how to find it.  
          I had no idea who comprised the organization’s core leadership, or even how many of them there were.  As for the operation’s true purpose and goals, only the person(s) at the top knew for sure.  What I did know was that agents operated in independent cells of 4-6 operatives that were overseen by a handler.  Handlers reported to, and received assignments from someone up the chain of command.  I was never made aware of how this occurred, I just knew it did.  Operations ranged from anything from reconnaissance and espionage to sabotage and assassination.  Targets were usually foreign or domestic threats to the State.  

How pervasive and far reaching was the influence of the organization?  I couldn't say for sure, but I had seen things, done things, and gotten access to places that would not have been possible without influential forces pulling the strings.  

Early in my career, within the organization, I was a member of a small team of five other operatives.  I was told my talents drew the attention of someone further up the chain of command, and it wasn’t long before I was singled out for special training which prepared me to work alone, primarily to do wet-work.  In the beginning the missions were against targets and assets that belonged to non State factions, but as I continued to succeed I noticed that the missions became increasingly aimed toward domestic targets within the State itself.  I was often sent on assignments that would have gotten me branded as a traitor, and likely executed as one, had I been caught.  Such operations became increasingly frequent and concomitantly disturbing, and although I tried not to show my discomfort my handler eventually picked up on it.

I remember him taking me aside after a mission I wasn't comfortable with. He gave me a long metaphorical speech about how the Caldari State was a lot like a living organism, in which each of the mega-corporations played the role of an organ.  In an organism, the organs worked together seamlessly for the continued life and growth of the whole body.  Under ideal circumstances the State functioned in the same manner, but in actuality each corporation was more like an organ working toward it’s own rapacious self interest, which would have fine as long as it did not harm the organism while it did so.  The problem was that this was often not the case.  

The Caldari State theoretically had institutional as well as social checks and balances in place to help insure corporations didn’t attempt to better their positions at the expense of the State as a whole.  In practice, the checks and balances failed often.  The kind of men that typically rose to the top, within the corporate power structures, were ruthless individuals that hid in the shadows behind lies and proxy stooges.  They accumulated power for its own sake.  Some inevitably become malignant cancers within the organism of the State, requiring intervention to bring things back into balance; surgery to save the organism.  Sometimes that meant killing a director, sometimes that meant planting falsified evidence to implicate a military leader in a crime, and sometimes that meant something far more extreme.

It was a good metaphor, but I wasn’t naive.  I believed that he believed what he said was true.  Perhaps on some level it was, but I had seen first hand what ambition, deep pockets, and a lack of accountability could do.  I'd been sent to take down rogue operatives or intelligence outfits on several separate occasions in the past.  They went off the reservation fairly often, especially when they operated on the fringes of space, far from the watchful eyes of those they were held accountable to.  Even intelligence outfits that were started with the best intentions could take on a life of their own over time, eventually becoming a problem that had to be dealt with.  It wasn’t a stretch to assume we had fallen victim to the same corruption.  After all, while we were watching the State who was watching us?

In the end it was something for me to ponder while brooding over a drink at night.  There was no use losing any sleep over it, and it was a distraction from what was really important, accomplishing the mission and surviving to do it again.  Anything else was just a distraction.  Besides, most of us were raised to see the world in black in white, the brighter among us see things as they really are, shades of grey.    

“This way sir,” the Deteis said as he opened a metal door and motioned for me to step inside.  He didn’t follow.  The door slid closed behind me, as I stepped into the dining room.

It was a large brightly lit room with white walls.  To the left side of the room was a large aquarium that nearly took up the entire wall. It was filled with colorful exotic freshwater fish.  They weaved in and out of the rocks and submerged aquatic plants.  In the center of the room was a sleek looking long table with several chairs.  There were two places set at the center of the table opposite each other, and several dishes laid out under platters.  After walking through spartan hallways that looked like the inside of an underground bunker I wasn’t expecting a room so lavish in appearance.  

“Have a seat I’ll be out in a moment,” I heard Allison shout from an adjacent room.

I sat down in the chair behind the plate nearest to me.  There was the unmistakable odor of long limed roes in the air. Someone pulled out all the stops tonight.

Allison emerged from the next room wearing a grey form fitting dress with matching heels.  The dress showed a conservative amount of skin, but left little up to the imagination about the shape of the fit body below it.  It was sleeveless, showing off her thin but athletically toned arms. Her straight dark brunette hair draped down over her shoulders.  She moved for the chair opposite mine, on the other side of the table.  

“I’m sure you’ve noticed by now, but I had security remove some of your more...weaponized accessories.  You won’t be needing them here.  Some of them were rather creative,” she said as she sat down gracefully.  “The garrote trouser lining was an especially nice touch.”

“I’m more upset about my missing belt.”

“What was so special about the belt?”  she asked.

“It helped hold up my pants,” I said, reaching for a glass of what appeared to be water.  I passed it under my nose to confirm my assumption.  Satisfied I was correct, I took a sip.  

“I’ll see what I can do about getting it back to you,” she said with a smile.  She lifted her tray off her plate, and motioned for me to follow suit. “Help yourself.  I’m sure you’re hungry.”  

I nursed the water slowly, taking small sips.  “How long was I kept unconscious?”

“About three days,” she said, starting on her roes with her fork.     
          I watched her closely for a few moments as she ate.  She made brief eye contact and turned her attention back to her long limbed roes.  I changed my focus to my platter.  Lifting it, I discovered roes, various vegetables, and a steak.  The steak was unquestionably real, not the protein "delicacy" crap that most people throughout the galaxy ate.  The dishes were well seasoned and professionally garnished.  It was a meal worthy of a corporate CEO.

I decided to break the silence first.  “The socket seems a lot like a capsuleer neural socket.”

“Yes it does doesn’t it?” she said between bites.  She paused in thought for a few moments, before looking me directly in the eye.  “But that’s business and we have plenty of time to get to that after we finish eating.  You’re my dinner guest and I don’t know about you, but I prefer light hearted dinner conversation.”  She smirked.            
           I stared back at her blankly.  She continued to eat, but met my stare as she chewed.  An uncomfortable silence settled in.  

“You’re not much of a talker are you?” she quipped.

“Frankly, I find it a little difficult to have a casual dinner conversation when my host drilled a hole into the base of my head nature didn’t intend,”  I said, making no attempt to hide my irritation.

She smiled but said nothing, and continued to eat.  The uncomfortable silence returned.  I decided to try the roes.  They were as genuine as the steak, and very savory.  As I ate them I began to feel a little more generous.

“Okay, lets start over.  So you’re a doctor.  A doctor of what exactly?”  I asked mockingly.

“I hold a doctorate in the field of neurobiology, specializing in neuroplasticity.  I also hold doctorates in psychology, and of course medicine,” she answered happily, ignoring my tone.

“That’s pretty impressive.” I nodded in genuine approval.

“I’d like to think so.” She said, flashing a cat like smile.

“So, why choose those particular fields?  I’ve been told whenever someone wanted to study psychology it was because they were trying to figure out what was wrong with themselves,” I said with a malicious grin.

She ignored the jab.  “I’ve always been fascinated with with the human form.  Especially the human brain, the mind as well of course.  Many people consider them separate...I don’t.  On top of everything else, I like to consider myself a student of human behavior.  Why do people act the way they do?  Why do they feel the way they feel?  The psychology behind people in your line of work is particularly fascinating to me.”

“Why is that?” I asked, reaching across the table to pour more water into my glass.

“There are a lot of reasons.  Take for example, the way different individuals react to combat stress, or more specifically, the myriad of factors which go into determining why an individual performs bravely in combat while another has a complete mental break down under identical circumstances,” she said, sipping from the wine glass before continuing.  “Military psychologists have employed psychological tests and various other methods in the attempt to identify and eliminate people who are less suited to combat roles before they reach the battlefield.  They met with varying degrees of success, but despite the effort they have never really been able to find a truly accurate model for predicting an individuals predisposition to combat stressors, at least not one that didn’t involve a history that detailed past combat performance."
          I nodded, listening with mild interest as I ate.  
          "Predicting an individual's predilection to violent behavior is just as difficult. Even predictive brain scan technology hasn’t been able to crack the puzzle.  Sure, the scanners usually do a fairly good job of singling out risky individuals just before they carry out violent acts, but they can’t really predict what that same person would or wouldn’t be capable of doing down the line.”

“Wolves and sheep,”  I mused.

“Wolves and sheep?”  she repeated inquisitively.  Her eyes narrowed slightly as she cocked her head to one side.

“In my experience there are two types of people in the universe.  There are wolves, people who are the hunters, the predators.  For them aggression comes easy, it’s attractive, even natural.  Then there are the sheep, or carebears as the capsuleers so aptly name the egger equivalent.  The fearful masses.  They avoid serious conflicts that can result in bodily harm to themselves or others.  The overwhelming majority of people fall into the sheep category.”  I paused considering my next words.  Her bright green eyes watched me with an unwavering gaze.  “There are many sheep that think they are wolves, it’s some sort of coping or defense mechanism.  I suppose there are rare circumstances where a wolf thinks they are a sheep.  There really isn’t a way to know which group you fall into until you’re put to the test, I guess.”  

“I suppose you fall into the wolf category,”  she said as a mischievous grin appeared on her face.

 I nodded slowly.

 “And when did you come to that realization?”  
            She turned her knife and fork on her steak while waiting for me to respond.  I was silent for a while before finally deciding to answer.  
           “A few years ago I was on a reconnaissance patrol in a dense jungle environment.  We had seen lots of guerrilla hit and run style fighting for the better part of two days.  I went out alone looking for signs of where the enemy unit had retreated after we broke contact.  It was my first time seeing real action.  I had been out there for a few hours and was fatigued by lack of sleep...but why it happened doesn’t matter now, I suppose," I mused.  "In any case I was uncharacteristically sloppy.  I was following a trail through rough terrain when a soldier, probably the same one who’s trail I had been following, jumped out from behind a tree.  He had the drop on me, was real close...ten meters or so.”  

I shook my head slowly, and took a long sip of water before I spoke again.  
          “He had me dead to rights.  Rifle was pointed right at me.  He could have opened up on me with his eyes closed, and he’d have killed me anyway...he was that close.  I turned my head to look at him because I wanted to at least get a glimpse of the face of the person who was about to kill me... and we locked eyes.  Then something I didn’t expect happened...he just...froze up.  I was waiting for him to pull the trigger or for him to yell at me to drop my weapon and surrender, but he just stood there with the rifle pointed at me.  His eyes were open as wide as dinner plates.  I could see him shaking like a leaf.  Apparently he was alone.  I guess he had gotten separated from the rest of his unit somehow.  I can still remember his face like it was yesterday...those wide eyes.  He was roughly my same age maybe younger...just a scared kid.”  My voiced trailed off.

“What happened?”  Allison asked.

“I snapshot him in the head, no hesitation, boom.  He went limp and crumpled straight to the ground under the weight of his equipment.  He just dropped straight down.  That wasn’t the first person I had ever killed, but that was the first I time I had been so close, the first time I watched someone I killed die.  It was in that moment, as I looked down at him, at that star shaped hole in his head that used to be an eyeball, watching the life drain out of him...that’s when I knew...I had always suspected, but in that moment I was sure.”

She nodded, staring at me intently.  “How did it make you feel?”

“I remember being a little upset he got the jump on me in the first place, but other than that I was just glad it was him and not me.  I felt...satisfied, I guess.”

“Interesting,” Allison said.

 “I’ve seen people freeze up when push came to shove.  It’s pretty common.  Killing just isn’t in most people’s natures.  There's the common belief that mankind as a whole is some kind of killing machine, but for the most part it simply isn’t true.  It's just a rumor the scared sheep spread.  Those who haven’t seen wolves prefer to live as if they don’t exist, and those that have seen wolves see them everywhere, regardless of whether they are really there.”  

She nodded again.  “I’ve done research that would agree with you.  There is a strong genetic imperative amongst most mammalian species that creates a strong resistance to killing members of their own species.  It’s not easy for most to overcome even with training,” she said while cutting into a piece of meat. “Even amongst the capsuleers roughly 10% of them are responsible for 90% of the violence against other capsuleers in a given day, and they aren't even killing each other face to face.  Although they don’t seem to have an issue with turning their guns against mortals.”  She paused for a bite before continuing.  “Interestingly enough evidence shows most psychiatric casualties in warfare don’t stem from threat of death, but from the fear or guilt associated with killing.”

I gave a knowing nod. “You can train sheep to kill each other, but at the end of the day it’s against their nature.  There are consequences that come after.” 
           I inspected some of the vegetables in front of me.  There was some sort of exotic tuber I hadn’t seen before.  I took a small bite of it, and encouraged by the taste I ate the rest of it.

           “What do you think motivates people to kill?”  she asked.
           “Heh, I think the harder question is why don’t they do it more often?”
           “Well?” she insisted.
           “There are a lot of reasons to kill.  Mankind never runs out of reasons to kill.  Some kill in the name of a god, some faceless, unseen, all powerful being that apparently needs his peons to do the dirty work in his name,”  I said, sneering.
           “It’s safe to say you don’t believe in a god then?  I was always under the impression there were no atheists in foxholes.” Her tone was noticeably facetious .
           “I don’t know about you, but I don’t consider yelling god damn it repeatedly while under fire a sign of religious belief.  It’s just something you say.”
           “Ah,” she smiled, “I didn’t mean to interrupt.  Continue.”
            I took a moment to regain my train of thought.  “Some believe they kill for the greater good,” I said, making quotes in the air with my fingers, “then proceed to declare, in their arrogance, what that greater good is.  Then there are some that kill out of duty or loyalty to a cause.  It’s all basically killing in the name of something larger than oneself.  Which, I suppose,  is really not all that different from killing in the name of a god, except it’s being done for something a little more tangible.  There countless reasons to kill.  So many justifications to give, and most of it is just that...justifications.”  I paused in thought for a few moments, while cutting a few pieces from my steak. “Some do it out of necessity, self defense, or defense of friends or family.  Some simply enjoy it, but in nearly all cases people usually find a way to shift the responsibility their actions off on some sort of excuse.  Blame it on society or not being hugged enough as a child.”
           “How do you justify it?  If that’s not too personal a question to ask.”
           “I figured that question was coming," I said, wincing slightly.  "I don’t know... I don't really feel the need to.  I enjoy what I do.  There is a satisfaction that comes with seeing a target go down.  I don’t normally take much pleasure in the act of killing, itself.”
           Was that a lie?

  “There have been times though, when I felt the target really deserved it," I said.  "So, to answer your question, I never really felt the need to justify it to myself.  The existence of killing is merely confirmation of a truth about the nature of the universe playing out.”

          “And what truth is that?” she asked.
          “Life must end life in order to live.  Everyone and everything that lives does so at the expense of something else.
       "What about plants?"
       "Even with plants.  They compete for sunlight and root space without regard to anything around them.  Some of them trap other organisms for nutrients.  The law applies to them as well."
       "I see what you mean, go on."
       "It’s an intrinsic and unpleasant truth that civilization has gone through a great deal of trouble to hide.  People don’t even have to kill for a meal anymore.”  I said, while cutting my steak into additional pieces with the knife.  “The killing is done behind the closed doors of some processing plant, away from the watching eyes of those who will eventually eat it, and by the time it reaches the dinner table it doesn’t even remotely resemble the living thing it once was.”  I slowly shook a forked piece of steak in front of my face to illustrate my point.  “That would be an...unpleasant reminder that something had to pay for the cost of your meal with its life.”  I paused to examine the meat for a moment.   “Most people don’t like their meal to have a face.  They certainly don’t want to look at it while they eat.”
           She nodded.
           “But even within a civilization that basic truth of the universe plays out.  Especially when there is some sort of resource scarcity,  such as a dire shortage of food or medicine, on a colony.  The speed with which things get primal and ugly can be shocking, even to the initiated,”  I said.  
        She gave a knowing nod.  
        “Even in the best of times distribution of goods and resources never ends up even or even equitable...not really.  The wolves ultimately rise to the top in society and guide the sheep to fleecing or slaughter.  The victims of civilization are created with the boardroom instead of with the battle-axe but the end result is largely the same.  Death just comes a bit slower than it otherwise would have.  The inevitable casualties are justified in the name of progress...towards what, who can say for sure?  The wheels must keep turning.  Economic choices, goods, resources, industry...in order to keep the machine running it has to be done at the expense of someone somewhere.”  I motioned with an open hand in the direction of the aquarium.  “We can’t all live like kings. It is easy to see the truth no matter how much society tries to hide it.  In the end I’m essentially no different than someone working in a meat processing plant.  I do an ugly, but necessary, job so that others can sleep at night under the pleasant blanket of an illusion.  People like me exist so that everyone else doesn't have to stare their steaks in the face.”  I bit the steak off the end of the fork and chewed.
          “You have a rather dark conceptualization of the world around you,” she said, with a mischievous smirk.
           I shrugged.  “Hard to see the universe as sunshine and rainbows when you do what I do for a living.  Speaking of dark, if this is your idea of pleasant dinner conversation, I’d hate to see you being unpleasant.  You were all too happy to steer the conversation toward the morbid.”
           She smiled slightly.  “Does it make you uncomfortable?”
          “No, of course not,” I said shaking my head.
           She shifted around in her chair.  “So we have established the fact you don’t believe in a god,” she said, raising her hand to take a sip from her wine glass, “but I’m curious as to whether or not you believe there is anything after death.”
          “I don’t,” I replied.
           She had a look of surprise at that answer.  “You’ve had your share of close calls while on assignments have you not?  How many of those exactly?”
           I thought about it for a second.  “I’m not sure.  I don’t keep count of things like that.  I’ve had more close scrapes than I would like to admit.  What exactly are you getting at?”  I frowned.
          “I’m curious how you can hold the belief that there is nothing after this, and still put yourself in harms way, as your occupation requires.  I’m assuming you don’t have a death wish.”
           I shrugged my shoulders.  “I don’t usually think about dying.  I spend most of my attention on trying to stay alive and accomplish the mission.  Outside of that I’ve accepted the fact that despite my luck or skill my death is going to happen eventually.  Maybe it’s because I make a mistake, or maybe it’s because someone gets lucky.”

“Or maybe because someone is just better than you,” she interjected with a small smile.

“Well, I’d like to think it wouldn’t be because of that, but at that point I guess it wouldn’t matter would it?”  I said with a smile.  “The point is, my death is going to happen eventually it’s just a matter of when... but that’s the case no matter what my occupation.”

            She nodded, and took another sip from her glass.  Then she stared silently for a time before speaking.  The gaze from her green eyes didn’t waver an inch.  “What if I told you that didn’t have to be the case?”
           “You would have my full attention.”  I replied.
           She took a deep breath.  “You were brought here because we have developed the technology to reliably perform infomorph transfers outside of the capsule.”
           “You can transfer the consciousness of a foot-soldier to a clone body?”  As I asked I could feel my eyes widen slightly.
           “Precisely.”
           “Has it been tested?”  I asked with a raised eyebrow.
           “It has.”
           “And?”
           “The system is compatible with individuals with a certain...specific neurological and genetic make up.  One we have confirmed you possess.  You underwent procedures in the time you were unconscious so that we could interface you with the technology.  The transfers of consciousness usually go off without a hitch.”
            “Usually?”
            “Well, as with anything that has to function in an environment as unpredictable as combat, there have been the occasional equipment failures, but those which did occur in testing have been corrected.”
            “I suppose usually coming back to life beats the odds I’d have had without the technology.”
            “No doubt about that,” she said.  
            “How does it work?”
            “Without going into too much detail, we map out the physical structure of the brain of the subject down to the microscopic level.  Memories and experiences, essentially everything that makes us us, are encoded within the physical and chemical structures of the brain.  Personality has as much to do with the typical firing order of an person’s individual neurons, within their brain, as their upbringing or genetics.  There is no divine spark as some would have you believe.”  She paused to see my reaction to that last sentence, and seeing none continued.  “Using the new passive scanning technology, we are able to record the changes that are made from that base mapping, rather than having to take a flash shot of the whole brain just before death, like happens with the capsuleers.  A flash scan creates massive damage to the brain, but the passive method allows periodic updates without damage to the subject.  If a subject was killed in an explosion or shot in the head, the memories and experiences of roughly 2 minutes before that point would be downloaded and transferred to the new clone.  If the subject bled to death or was killed with by some other means that did not damage the brain, there would be a flash-scan to get everything up to the point of death.
           “Wouldn’t that make them able to remember their own deaths?”
           “There is a distinct possibility of that, yes,” she replied calmly.
            “I see.”  I shifted uncomfortably in my chair.

“There is a great cost in time and resources that goes into training an individual soldier that is lost when that soldier...tragically expires in combat.  Not to mention the loss of the experiences, knowledge, and understanding of war that can only be earned in combat.  An immortal soldier could take on dangerous missions, die and then rise again with all his prior memories and experiences intact, and would be afforded the opportunity to learn from and avoid future mistakes.  Such a soldier would become a very formidable weapon on the battlefield.  Wouldn’t you agree?”

           I nodded.  “I’d imagine he would.”
           “Which is why I find it so curious that this organization you work for, knew about the work being done here despite its extremely confidential nature. They even knew enough about it to send a viable candidate, one we couldn’t refuse,” she said with a cocked brow.  “They probably can’t wait to get their hands on you as soon as we are done with evaluations.”    
           “Evaluations?” I asked.
           “Yes,” she said.  She stopped to consider her next words, gently tapping the edge of her plate with her fork.  “I mentioned a physiological and a genetic compatibility with the technology.  There is a psychological one as well.  Unfortunately despite our creation of a rough personality profile that we seek out, there is only one way to evaluate for the psychological component.”
          I don’t like where this sounds like it’s going.
          “And that is?” I knew the answer before I asked.
          “Dying in combat and having one’s consciousness transferred to a new body, in many cases with intact memories of physically traumatic events, can have a profound effect on the mental stability of a soldier.  There can be emotional and psychological scars which can occur and must be endured, even if there are no lasting physical ones.  In short, not everyone can handle it.”
          “It is an unnatural thing,” I mused. I pushed what little food I had left on my plate around with my fork.  Suddenly I wasn’t feeling so hungry.
          “Yes it is.  To prepare soldiers for it we have a challenging training and orientation program to help with the transition.  The program will also serve to weed out those that can’t handle the strain.  It’s all part of the process.  You and the other soldiers have all been given numbers to use in the place of names.  For security reasons nobody will be giving their real names or be allowed to talk about which units they come from or their past operational histories.  I’m sure that won’t be a problem for you.  Yours will be number 11.”
           “How were the others selected?”
           “We screened the psychological profiles of soldiers from other State special forces teams to eliminate individuals who probably wouldn’t emerge from the program successfully, but since I have no background or psychological profile for you, we will have to assume you meet the profile of one that would.  For your sake I hope you do.”
           “I see,” I said.
           “The people you will be entering the program with are all combat veterans, all have confirmed kills under their belts, and are all highly trained.  They meet the profile of what you would consider wolves.  One thing is for certain.  By the end of your time here you are going to find out how much of a wolf you really are.”

The Interview (Chapter3)

             I awoke to find myself seated, slumped over what felt like a cold metal table.  Sitting up slowly, I opened my eyes to darkness.  My mouth and throat were bone dry.  My head hurt with a dull throbbing ache that seemed to radiate down my spine.  There was a noticeable ringing in my ears, an after effect of the sedatives, perhaps.  As I coughed to clear my throat, I noticed a slight echo implying the room was small with hard surfaces.  
            Where the fuck am I?

I rose slowly out of the chair in an attempt to stand up straight, only to find that my hands were cuffed to the table in front of me.  It wasn’t long before I discovered my feet were restrained as well.  My ankles were cuffed together through some sort of metal loop on the ground, only allowing me to pull my feet a few centimeters apart and a few centimeters off the ground.  There wasn’t much room to maneuver.  

I struggled against the restraints for a while, but they didn’t show any signs of giving way.  In testing the restraints I learned a few things.  The table was fixed firmly to the floor, trapping me in a vulnerable position I’d never be able to fight effectively from. It had become painfully obvious the room was set up specifically for interrogations. The equipment being used indicated a professional setup.  To top it off I was in a weakened state.  I felt dizzy and disoriented, and the physical exertion made it worse.  It felt like the whole room was slowly spinning around me.  I dropped back down into the chair.  

Well shit, this isn’t good.  

I’ve been in this situation before, but only in training.  Granted it was very thorough training, and it had been realistic enough to kill more than one trainee and leave me resolute to the idea that I would rather die fighting than be taken alive.  

So much for that idea.  

Touching my wrist I noticed that my watch was gone, but suspected that was the case before I had checked.  Time deprivation was a common tactic in interrogations for pretty much anyone.  Sensory deprivation was another technique that was clearly being used, judging by how dark the room was.  It would have been completely quiet, as well, had it not been for the ringing in my ears.  Luckily that was subsiding.  

Time and sensory deprivation was often used to disorient and soften up targets for interrogation.  Adding to the disorientation was the fact I had no idea how long I’d been unconscious, where I was, who was holding me here, or what they wanted.

Contrary to popular belief perpetuated by popular media, interrogation relies less on torture and more on psychological manipulation to obtain accurate information. The threat of the unknown and the target’s own imagination of what might happen is usually a far more effective tool to getting accurate information than physical torture.  Beat on people all you want, but more often than not those people will just end up doing whatever it takes to make the pain stop, including lying out of their asses.

I had a quick epiphany and leaned forward, bringing my face close to my restrained hands.  I felt stubble, maybe two or three days worth.  I was clean shaven when I had left the station.

Shit, why was I out so long?

My heart beat hard in my chest.  A lump formed in my throat from the anxiety.  The thought that someone was probably going to come into the room and torture the shit out of me at some point wasn’t helping.  Neither was the lack of control.  It's never a good feeling not knowing what your future holds, especially when all of the evidence suggests it was going to be bad.  I took a little solace in the fact that I probably didn’t want to know what was to come.

Falling back on my training I focused on what little I could control, starting with my breathing.  Inhale slowly on a four count...hold for two...exhale for four, and repeat.  The breathing technique itself served to calm me, occupying and focusing my thoughts.  Keeping my head was paramount. Controlled breathing was just one option to accomplish that aim.  Focusing on learning about my surroundings was another, but basically anything other than dwelling on thoughts of how completely fucked I was would do.  That’s easier said than done when in the unfortunate position of being completely fucked, even with prior training on the subject.

I wasn’t wearing the clothes I had on before, it felt like some sort of scratchy jumper.  The fabric was rough to the touch.  It was too dark to tell, but I was betting it was brown.  For some reason they were always brown.  I wiggled my toes.  My feet felt like they were in hospital slippers.  Whatever they were they were they felt nice, so at least there was that.  

It could be worse. I’m not suspended from the ceiling by my arms and being sprayed with cold water from a hose, one of my least favorite memories from training.  I’m not being beaten with said hose either, so that was nice too.  Small blessings, although there is still plenty of time for something like that to happen later.  I shuddered as I recalled the memory in vivid detail.  I quickly pushed those thoughts out of my mind.

After some minutes had passed the lights in the room were suddenly switched on.  The illumination level was normal, but my extended time in the dark made it seem blindingly bright. I squinted hard, struggling to take in what little I could while my eyes were still adjusting to the change.  

The room was small, grey, and concrete without any notable features other than a metal door on the other side of the room. It was the only discernible route into or out of the cell.  Looking down at my torso I saw that my jumper was, indeed, brown.  

Surprise surprise.  

I turned my attention to my restraints.  They were made of a strong metal alloy and had electronic controls.  

State of the art...no way I’m getting out of these.

As I was inspecting the restraints I noticed what looked like a needle puncture mark near a vein on my right arm.  It looked as if blood had been drawn, or perhaps it was the site where an IV line had been.  I wasn’t sure which, but if it was an IV injection site it would have explained the extended unconsciousness.

The door across the room slid open.  An Achura woman wearing a grey business suit strode in, carrying some sort of PDA.  She was an attractive brunette who looked to be in her early 40’s, stood about five and a half feet tall, and carried herself with a confident, almost haughty demeanor.  She had the look of someone that was highly educated.

Interesting choice for a lead off interrogator.  

“First off let me apologize for the way you were brought in,” she said as she moved for the empty chair on the opposite side of the table, “but it was a necessary precaution to keep this facility secret, and frankly from what little I’ve been told about you, it was as much for your safety as it was our own.”

I remained silent as she took a seat across from me.  She didn’t shy away from direct eye contact. She had soul piercing green eyes and their gaze was slightly off putting. She looked me over for a few moments as if she was studying me for a reaction. I tried not to give one.  

“My name is Dr. Allison Krieger, but you can call me Allison,” she said with a polite smile.  I returned the smile and extended an open hand as far as the restraints would allow.

“Has that ever worked for you?” she asked with a sly smile, wisely declining a handshake that wouldn't have ended well for her.

It was worth a shot.

I responded with a shrug, but declined to speak.  I made up my mind to stay silent.

“I don’t suppose you want to tell me your name?”  she asked, seemingly unrattled.  She tilted her head to one side slightly.  A few strands of her long straight dark brown hair fell down over her shoulder.

I stayed quiet. She smirked slightly.

“Would you like me to get you anything?  Some water perhaps?”

A loaded gun and a way out would be nice, I thought to myself.  I was thirsty but stayed silent.  I wasn’t expecting the first person to come through the door to be Caldari. Who did she work for?  

There were so many different State corporations, each with their own private police or military wing.  I had worked in favor of, as well as against, the direct interests of many of them.  It was anybodies guess as to which one of them would have wanted to grab me if they somehow had knowledge of my past actions.  Of course, she might just be a traitor chosen to interrogate me because someone figured I’d be more likely talk to another Caldari.

“Are you feeling okay?” She paused awaiting a response that didn’t come. “ Have you had any strange dreams or hallucinations?”  she asked softly.  Her voice was calm and confident.

I kept silent.  She was asking innocuous yes or no questions to get me talking to build up rapport and momentum.  I wasn’t about to let her have it. Once a person starts talking in interrogation it becomes harder to stop.  Captured soldiers often repeated their name, rank, and serial number.  If I was going to talk that would be as good a way to go as any, but I don’t have a rank, or a serial number, although I did have a bunch of names I could have given her.

A look of amusement appeared on her face.  “As fun as it would be to put your resistance to interrogation to the test, that’s not why you were brought here, and it would be,” she pursed her lips as she looked for the right word, “counterproductive.  I am not your enemy.”  Her tone shifted to one of seriousness as she read off the PDA in front of her. “Your mission authentication code is phoenix red five one nine.”  She paused for a second and looked up at me.  “Your handlers code name for this assignment is Warthog.”  She slid the PDA across the table so I could view it.  “You’ve been assigned directly to me by your handler.”

I glanced suspiciously at the PDA screen.  The first thing to stand out was the seal of the Ishukone Black Projects Division on the header of the message.  The BPD, as it was often referred to by the intelligence community, was a secretive branch of the Ishukone corporation.  It was well funded and carried out discrete research projects that were out of the purview of all but the highest ranking officials of the Ishukone corporation and Caldari State.  All the information she had given checked out.  Only two people would have had access to the information she had given me, myself and my handler.  The authentication code would have been given to her to confirm that she was the client I was working for.  I allowed myself to feel the surge of relief that came with the confirmation code.

“Now that I’ve given you confirmation I trust I can have your restraints removed without you doing anything rash?” she asked while pulling the PDA back towards her.

“You can,” I replied.  

She smiled pleasantly in response to my broken silence.  “I was told once I had given you the authentication code I would have your full cooperation.  Is that correct?”

“It is,” I responded.

She bit her lower lip, perhaps wondering to herself if releasing me was really a good idea.  Making up her mind quickly, she reached into her pocket and typed something into a small device. The restraints on both my hands and my feet popped open, allowing me to remove them.  She looked down at the PDA screen.  “I have a report stating the ID found on you identified you as Aaron White.”  She glanced back up at me.”  Is that correct?”  She spoke with a calm and deliberate tone that was oddly soothing, even before I learned she wasn’t here to torture me.

I nodded.  She smirked.  She looked back down at the PDA.

“Mr. Aaron White...it would appear you have no living relatives, a job history filled with companies that no longer exist or have staff that could not be reached to confirm that you’ve worked for them.  There doesn’t seem to be any physical evidence of the existence of a Mr. Aaron White with your physical description, and there is no electronic evidence of your existence in any records that dated back before a period of about six months ago.”  Her eyes narrowed as she glanced at me for a reaction. “Furthermore a man was captured attempting to smuggle weapons off the Korama III Ishukone Watch Station using a boarding pass under the same identity.”  

I couldn’t help but crack a smile, and responded with a shrug.  Traveling identities within the State were not usually designed to stand up to such close scrutiny.

“I see you find that funny,”  she said calmly.  She leaned back in her chair and crossed her left leg over her right. “When I attempted to run facial recognition on you the computer couldn’t find a single match in any database, civilian or military.  Care to explain why this is?”

“I’m not in them.”

“Obviously.  My question is why are you not in them?” she asked in an assertive tone.

“I’m not answering that question,” I said, frowning.

She nodded slowly, glaring at me silently for a few seconds.  “I don’t suppose you would mind telling me your real name?  Your handler didn’t mention it.”

“If my handler did we would have a problem,”  I said in a matter of fact tone.

“Would we?” She raised an eyebrow. “What kind of problem?”

The kind where you end up dead.

“Let’s just leave it at that,” I said with narrowed eyes.  The only way she would have gotten my real name would have been to torture it out of my handler.  I would have known she was hostile and would have had to act accordingly, and by act accordingly I mean go on a rampage.

“I see,”  She said.  She didn’t seem shaken, but I was fairly sure she caught my drift.  “The organization you work for.  As I understand it you have carried out discrete assignments for it of a military nature. Does it have a name?”

“If you were supposed to know the answer to that question you would.”  The real answer was no, but I thought it was better I didn’t give a straight answer.

“Is this what you consider full cooperation?”  she asked, visibly displeased.

I shrugged again.

She studied my face closely.  Her right brow raised quizzically.  “Do you know why you’re here?”

“No.”

“Well at least you seem to be as badly informed as I am,” she said.  A hint of frustration seeped through in the form of a sigh, but she maintained her cat like calm.

“Why was I kept unconscious for days?”

She looked surprised by the question, and hesitated for a moment before speaking.  “Ah, the facial hair growth.  Very resourceful.”  She typed a short note in the PDA, but I couldn’t see what. “We had to confirm your suitability for the project.”

That was pretty damned vague.

“Project?”  I asked.

“The reason why you were brought here.  I need to ask you a few more questions and I’ll answer whatever questions of yours I can.”

Fair enough.  

I nodded.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty three.”

“I was told you are a highly trained operative.  Can you confirm that?”

“If that’s what you were told, I can,” I replied.

“You’re a little young for an operator aren’t you?

I shrugged.  “Some learn faster than others.”

Doesn’t hurt to have an early start either.

“Where did you do your training, with what branches?”  she asked as she leaned forward slightly.

“I can’t answer that question.”

“Can’t or won’t?” she asked.

“Both.”

There were no records of my prior service but that didn’t mean someone I had trained with in the past wouldn’t recognize my picture had they seen it.  I didn’t give her my real name for the same reason.

“Is it safe to assume you’ve seen combat?”

“It is,” I replied.

“How much action have you seen?” she asked.

“Plenty.”

“Where?”

“I can’t answer that question,”  I said firmly.

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Both,” I replied roughly.

She stared at me for some time.  “Curious,” she said.  She leaned forward in her chair, placing the PDA on the table.  “I have one of the highest security clearances there is.  Was given the green light to evaluate and pluck soldiers, from special operations units from nearly every Caldari State military branch, corporate police force, or intelligence agency.  Vetted them for the project based on psychological evaluations, personal histories, combat records.  All of it highly confidential information.”  She grew a wry smile. “Then I get an order from somewhere high up telling me to make room for one more, and that I had no choice about your inclusion.  I’ll admit at first I was irritated about the situation.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m just curious.”  Dr. Krieger paused, and looked down at her watch and then back up at me. “We should continue this somewhere less...ominous.  I’m sure you’re ready for a real meal.  I’m about to have dinner.  Would you join me?”

“Yes, if it means I can have my turn at asking the questions,”  I said, slightly annoyed.   

“I might even provide more satisfactory answers than you’ve given me,”  She said with a slight smile.  

“I’m not trying to be intentionally difficult.  Someone in your line of work can appreciate the need to compartmentalize sensitive information.”

“It’s easier to appreciate that need when you’re the one holding the information.” She stood up. “I’ll have someone come along and bring you your things, and show you to my quarters.”  She started towards the door.  “One last thing.  If you check the base of your skull you’ll notice a neural socket that wasn’t there before.  I didn’t want you finding it on your own and freaking out.  Nothing to be alarmed about, in fact quite the opposite.  You’re going to be apart of something special.”  

I touched the back of my neck, and felt the socket.  What the hell have I gotten myself into?