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.”