Recruiting

Jul 29, 2024

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“Time to get up,” Tomirosh said, “You have sims in twenty minutes. I let you sleep in after your cramps yesterday. And then you have time in hydroponics, and then I wish you to come with me as I begin recruiting.”

“Recruiting?” she said, willing herself out of bed and over to the closet where she pulled out her undersuit and went back to put it on.”

“When traveling with recruits and new-rankers, any officer may ‘recruit’ them, or choose them for his unit.”

“You already know what unit you will be assigned to?”

“No, I have no idea. But it doesn’t matter. If my recruits will bring that unit overstrength, they will either let it stay that way or ask me to cut others from it.”

“So, all the other officers will be recruiting?”

“Yes. Although I will get my choices, regardless.”

She looked at him, “There are advantages to being one of the Dictators own,” he said, fingering the slashes on his uniform.

“You would use that?”

“I will use anything and everything,” he said. He saw her look, “No, I’m not some evil tyrant, nor am I vain. I happen to believe I have an excellent sense for strategy and tactics, and am determined to put them to use. If that means using what influence I have from my medals, I will do so.”

She nodded her head. Her father did the same thing. Perhaps more carefully… but she hadn’t been there when he was just getting started.

“So, have you picked many yet?”

“No… not officially anyway. I could begin, officially, until this final part of the trip. That allows all of the leaders an equal chance to pick.”

“Do sub-commanders and commanders do this too?”

“No, only leaders. The higher ranks are assigned their leaders and the like.”

“So… we go to their dorms to interview them?”

“We could call them here, but I prefer doing it in the dorms.”

He walked out while she had her undersuit half on and, she hurriedly donned it and went off to the sim room where, her comp told her, she had five minutes to wait. Recruiting? He got to choose some of his own unit? Would she ever understand this military stuff?

“Next?” she heard, as she stood there musing.

“Oh, yes,” she said, and hurried in.

“Your husband tells me you failed to take adequate hydration precautions,” she heard as she was taking her oversuit off. Her instructor stood at the edge of a river in a jungle and she felt the room heat up. “We will be doing two things today as a result. You will be swimming and I will be lecturing you on the various dangers you can expect as part of a military dependent life. Dive in.”

Having gotten her suit off and the simulation having fully kicked in she dove in the water, feeling the muscles that had cramped up yesterday complaining.

“The first danger we will discuss… please swim against the current so that I don’t have to move… is mental. The change in your life pattern risks sending you into depression or worse…

An hour later, absolutely exhausted, she crawled out of the water and over to her oversuit which, unlike in earlier sims, seemed to be just laying over a log. “Make sure you freshen after this session, indeed after ever session, and your meeting with your husband should be on your comp.”

She managed to dress before her teacher got impatient and limped out into the corridor. If you could call it limping when both of her legs were on fire with exhaustion. She went back toward their quarters and, as she got close, she saw there was a line for the fresher. No doubt she had arrived just when most of these lasses were getting up for the day.

When she reached the end of the line, the lass there took one look at her chest… “go ahead, Ma’am,” she said, waving her forward.

“Oh, I can wait my turn,” Illoia said, leaning against the wall. She had experience at being the daughter of the governor and was very careful about when she used that influence.

“No, no, please, Ma’am, my husband would be most displeased if he found out. Please, Ma’am,” the lass said, moving around behind her.

Illoia was confused. She had never had anyone be that annoyingly servile before. Not even servants. Suddenly she noticed that the next lass in line had moved out of her way and, indeed, lass after lass was moving… even one lass grown, who, she remembered, was married to a Staff Major! “I… I don’t want…” she said, but the lasses all waved her forward.

“I don’t understand,” she said, when she reached the commanders wife, hesitating.

‘Your husband,” the lass said, pointing to the small badge. “He received the dictators own medal. Our sub-sim included very specific instructions regarding your rank.”

Illoia flushed. She had never imagined that she would be the subject of a sub-sim. then, when a lass came out, went in… into chaos. The fresher was huge, with what must be twenty sprays lining each side of the room. She hurriedly undressed and joined the other lasses, finding the open sprayer. No one seemed to notice her, she was glad that they interpreted Article 4 in that way. At home, among her set, the lasses ignored Article 4 in group freshers, but at home the group freshers were pretty much just for family and intimate friends, not the whole world like this.

And then, suddenly, the relevant Army Reg came into her head. She had totally forgotten about that sub-sim during her training! She hadn’t even ended up with a headache!! Sure enough, “Unwelcome talking when bathing may be punished under Article 4 as a minor violation. Soldiers and dependents should not talk to anyone when bathing except for logistical queries or if they already have a personal relationship where they might normally consider such not an invasion of modesty.”

The group environment and the lack of socialisation, plus her memory of the line, made for a quick freshing, and after she was out in the cooridor again she glanced at her comp and saw that her husband had left her a half an hour for eating. How generous!

She hurried to the dining room and hurried through the buffet line, grabbing food for fuel more than taste. She had swum that entire sim! She hurt everywhere!

She glanced at her comp as she shoveled the food in and saw that she was meeting her husband in their room. Was he going to bring the potential recruits there and interview them?

But when she got to their room, with a few seconds to spare, she saw that her husband was there, his undersuit half on. “Please change,” he said, and she hurridely complied. She was going to leaver her old clothes on the floor but, at his look, she picked them up and put them in the shoot. She couldn’t believe that, as his level, he didn’t have some sort of aide or something.

As soon as that was done he led her out the door and down the hall toward the lasses’ fresher, where there still was a line, but smaller, and including several small children with their mothers, and up to a door just a little farther along. He placed his palm on the pad but, while holding it there, said, “Attention.”

He took his palm down and the door stayed closed for almost a minute, and then opened. Illoia followed Tomirosh in, staring. Sure enough each of the bunks were triple bunks, and two or three young men, lads really, stood at the head of each bunk. One lad had still been sitting on his bed but, seeing Tomirosh enter, hurriedly joined the others. Tomirosh walked directly to him.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning, Sir,” the lad said, looking very nervous.

“Can you tell me why you weren’t standing at attention when I came in?” Tomirosh asked.

“I, umm, I thought I was exempt,” he said.

“Because…?”

“Because I am a recruit, sir, not a draftee.”

“Oh, I see. So you think we just let recruits do whatever they want once they are in the Army?”

“Sir, no Sir,” the recruit said, looking even more nervous.

“So, tell me about yourself, Recruit,” Tomirosh said.

“Sir, Recruit Epitrophos Colden!”

“Can you shoot?”

“Yes Sir!”

“How did you do at the firing sims?” he asked.

“Sir, I scored 49.6 shooting, Sir!” he said.

At her look her husband said, “That is actually very good. The average score from the recruits and rankers, was 29.8. I score a 98.3, myself,” he said, turning back to the recruit.

“Can you run?”

“Run, sir?”

“What was your ten mile time?”

“Ninety-minutes, Sir.”

“With what pack?”

“Twenty pounds, Sir,” he said.

“I want you under sixty minutes with a forty pound pack,” Thom said. “So you didn’t take an article 17?”

“Sir, yes, Sir!”

Tomirosh paused, then asked, “You did take an article 17?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Tomirosh looked around, “Where is she?”

“In Sim, Sir. We were only able to get her in an early slot.”

“Well, very good. Report to me daily on your progress in Sims.”

“Sir, yes, Sir?”

“Or do you not want to be one of mine own?”

“Oh! Sir, yes, Sir! I mean, I do, Sir!”

“Very well. He turned back to the rest of the room, “Is there anyone else that would like to be part of mine own?”

Everyone looked at each other nervously, and then seven lads stepped forward. “So, why should I take you?” he asked the first one.

“Sir, Draftee Ranker Anacharsis Reissman, my time is sixty minutes with a twenty-pound pack, and my firing score was above average. Sir, I do not have an Article 17.”

Illoia stated to giggle but stopped at a look from her husband. Article 17?! This was a littlie!

“Very well,” Tomirosh said, taking his ID. “And you?”

None of the other draftee’s had taken an Article 17 either, for which Illoia was thankful, but they each managed to come up with at least one area where they excelled in the sims. Except for the last lad, who only managed an answer of, “Sir, I would like to be one of yours.”

Tomirosh waited for him to say something else, and when he didn’t, said, “Is that it? You have no scores to tell me about?”

“Sir, I’m sorry for wasting your time, Sir.”

“You haven’t wasted my time, Soldier. I asked who wanted to be one of mine own, and you answered. Now tell me about yourself.”

It turned out that he was a shopkeeper’s son, that he had been drafted directly from work, where he had been learning to be a bookeeper and salesman. “We weren’t big enough to have both,” he admitted.

“Well, good then, you can be my wife’s social secretary,” Tomirosh said, and, when the young man’s face fell, he clarified: “Between your normal training activities, learning to run a sixty minute ten with forty pounds on your back, and killing aliens… you can be my wife’s assistant as she wrangles with all of the other wives and helps me get promoted. Is that clear?”

“Sir, yes, Sir!”

Tomirosh had finished with the draftee’s and recruits, but there was an older lass down the line, standing with five children. “I’m sorry, Ma’am,” he said, when he reached her, “you and yours can be at ease.”

“Oh, they need the practice anyway,” she said. She had a nursing twin in one arm, and one of her triplets, who looked to be about three, was holding the other. Two lads and three lasses all told. But she did move back into her bunk and sit down. Tomirosh turned to her husband, a Mid Ranker.

“So, you don’t want to be one of mine?”

“Sir? You know that the rules aren’t the same for Middys and Tops.”

“But if I can swing it?” Tomirosh asked, fingering his gold slashes.

“They say that serving with a hero is a good way to get dead quick,” the Mid Ranker said.

“Yes, it is much safer to serve under a time-stander,” Tomirosh said, starting to turn away.

“Sir, yes, Sir, I think… if you can swing it.”

“Very well, your ID?”

Just as he got the ID his comp rang. “Well, it seems that we need to go see the commander. Well, I’m done here. If anyone else would like to be considered, please come and see my wife when she is free.”

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Thanks again, God Bless, Soli Deo gloria,

Von

Links

Article 17

Article 17 is a military science fiction story with aliens and romance. It is set in a future reminiscent of Napoleon era Britain. The war was going very poorly until the military installed a dictator. This story follows one of the dictator’s great men: Cladin Tomirosh, Leader, and thrice decorated hero.

Intro // Podcast Version

She was pretty, popular, snobby, and a planetary governor’s daughter. He was the son of shopkeepers, a social misfit, and a decorated hero. She thought she was there to dance. He had other ideas.

A Dance // Podcast Version

As a governor’s daughter, Illoia usually avoided such events, but when the captain made the announcement that there was to be an Article 17 dance, she, too, was forced to attend. If only the scum hadn’t been there too.