Men from the Boys
by Julnick
He stepped into the next partition, his head spinning. A woman was seated beside the table. She took a glass slide from a box by her elbow and held out her hand for his barcodes. He handed the sheet to her uncertainly. She took it, brushing her light blonde hair over her shoulder. As she peeled off one of the labels, she said, "Drop your trousers, please," with no more emotion than if she'd been commenting on the weather. Darin flushed. He could hear the voices of old timers speaking in the sing song lilt of the colony accents, their language laced heavily with easily spoken curses and equally easy laughter.
Slowly, Darin unfastened his pants and pushed them down, aware how narrow the partition was that was protecting his privacy. The woman noticed him eying it. "Be glad you have it, kid. They only started using them this year." The woman looked up at his face. "Shorts too, kid," she said mildly. Darin flushed darker, feeling his ears burning hot. She didn't look much older than him, but to him she seemed much older somehow. Darin slowly pushed his shorts down to join his pants. With clinical detatchment she put her hand somewhere he didn't think it belonged and quickly pushed a cotton swab somewhere he was sure it didn't belong.
Darin blinked and tried to pull away from the foul odor. He slowly became aware of voices around him, laughter. The back of his head was throbbing and he realized with growing distress that his pants were somewhere near his knees. Fearfully, he opened his eyes. He looked up straight into the bright blue eyes of the medic who capped the smelling salts and gave him an easy smile. "Most of the fainters wait for the blood and needles, thanks for making me feel special." She patted his shoulder firmly. "Hit your head?"
"Uh yeah, I think so... Can I pull my pants up now?" He was acutely aware that a number of the men had stepped out of the line to stare and comment and, he was sure, laugh at him.
She was pulling a small flashlight from one of her pockets. She leaned over him and flashed the light into his eyes. "Nope," she said, repocketing the flashlight. "We didn't get to finish our business."
Darin felt a wave of nausea pass over him. "Do I have a concussion?" He asked plaintively, hoping for a brief reprieve.
"Nope," she said, rising to her feet. He was beginning to hate that word. "Thick skull." She held a hand out to help him up. Awkwardly, he regained an upright position, pulling his pants as high as he could. This time he made it through the test with only furious blushing and fidgeting. As soon as she released him from her clutches, he fled to the next station, almost welcoming the painful series of injections that came next.
Almost.
Back in the barracks he nursed an aching arm and butt and cursed roundly the failure of technology to keep up with the expansion of the human race. With new planets came new worlds of new diseases. Science had sent man beyond the solar system but couldn't come up with a better way of immunizing than needles and that bloody pneumatic gun which scared the hell out of him. And for God's sake couldn't they have come up with a better way of testing for std's by now? He shifted uncomfortably, blushing all over again at the memory.
Other newbies were shuffling into the barracks, all looking bewildered and bedraggled. Most of them fell into their bunks and rubbed at their sore spots. No one seemed to be much up for talking. Not even through his first full day as an Outer Rim Scout and Darin was beginning to wonder what he'd set himself up for.
They made it through evening mess with much shouting and abuse from the officers. The food was thoroughly unappetizing, colorless and tasteless, but Darin was too exhausted to care. He jumped when they said jump, he sat when they said sit and he ate when they said eat. Finally, the new recruits were released back to their barracks to collapse into their bunks.
Darin rolled onto his back and threw his arm across his eyes, not even bothering to take off his boots. His private misery was interupted by a soft hiss from the bunk above. Groaning inwardly he pulled his arm off his face and looked into the face of his bunkmate who was hanging down from the top bed at an improbable angle, his face dangling upside down and looking entirely too cheerful.
"What?" Darin said, too irritable to care about being polite.
Unphased, Jamie grinned at him. "We made it through the first day, we get to start zero g training tomorrow," he said with grating enthusiasm. This time Darin's groan was audible. "Did you have that girl do your clap test? Holy shit was she hot, god damn, she can play with my dick any time." Darin rolled his eyes and turned onto his side, facing away from the chattering bunkie. Jamie didn't take the hint. "We get to start zero g tomorrow."
"So you said," Darin said darkly.
"Aren't you excited?"
"Not particularly."
"Hey, why are you here anyway? You aren't even excited."
Darin scowled at the rough wool blanket. There weren't a lot of options for a seventeen-year-old on his own on Old Earth. Too young for a work permit, and sworn never to return home to the curses, the abuse, the stench of whiskey, the damned belt that came down one time too many, the Scouts seemed like his only escape. Unfortunately, he was beginning to fear he'd traded one devil for another.
Jamie was still chattering inanely when an officer shouted "Lights out, children, let's go!" His accent was thick New Queensland, Darin didn't think he'd run into him before. He quickly kicked off his boots and slid under the covers. Seven or eight recruits were still struggling out of boots and pants when the officer passed down the aisle. He was young, he barely looked older than Darin himself, but he carried himself with a poise and confidence that Darin immediately envied. That was the image he had of a Scout. That was what he came here looking for. As the officer passed his bunk, Darin realized he was holding his breath, he released it softly.
The man grabbed each of the stragglers by the shirt collar and pulled him into the center of the long room. They stood, most of them half dressed, eyes wide with fear. In his right hand, the officer was carrying a short leather strap with two lengthwise cuts separating the business end into three sections. Even safe in his bed, Darin felt his heart pounding and his mouth go dry. The man roughly turned each recruit to face the far wall, their backs to Darin.
"Line up," he said brusquely, manhandling the more befuddled into place. "Drop trou, children." In slow synchrony, the line of boys exchanged helpless glances and bared themselves for the punishment. Suddenly, one recruit near the end of the line began to sob. The officer blinked, his expression changing for a moment. He went to the recruit and put a hand on the back of the boy's neck. "Never been whacked, boy?"
The recruit gulped and shook his head. "No, sir," he choked.
The officer nodded slightly. "Okay," he said gently. "Come 'ere." He pulled the recruit two paces back from the line. "Hands on your knees, boy." His sobs became more desperate as he bent forward, clutching his knees tightly. The officer pulled the strap back and brought it down with a gunshot crack across the pale cheeks. Darin jumped. The boy shot upright, clutching his buttocks and gasping for air. The room was deathly silent but for his whispered, "Oh my god, oh my god..."
The officer gave him a gentle shove in the back. "In bed, boy." The recruit stumbled toward his bunk, pulling up his shorts as he went. Several of the recruits in the line were now trembling. The officer went to the first of them and repeated the procedure. Then to the second. The two at the end of the line were sniffling by the time he bent them forward and administered their strokes.
When they were all in their beds, the officer addressed the room. "In bed at lights out, children. Next time its five whacks." He scanned the room. For a brief moment, his eyes locked on Darin's, and Darin felt electricity flow through him. He lay listening to the sniffling of the spanked recruits and staring into the darkness for a long time that night, his mind filled with strange thoughts, before sleep finally took him.
The next six weeks were grueling. Darin felt like he was stumbling through a waking nightmare. From before dawn to past dark they were trained, taught, shouted at, shoved this way and that. Then, a few hours sleep before it all began again. The leather strap came into the barracks each night, but it found fewer and fewer uses. Slowly, painfully, the ragtag, green recruits were turning into disciplined soldiers. And, Darin had managed to make it through the six weeks without once feeling that bloody strap.
Two days into week seven, things changed. Jamie was chattering again, per usual. Darin was ignoring him again, per usual. It was close to lights out, and everyone was in their bunks. It looked like it would be a peaceful night. Daws called lights out in his now familiar New Queensland accent. The room went dark. Just as Darin was drifting to sleep, Jamie's soft voice drifted down to him, "Hey Darin..."
Darin's heart jumped. What the fuck are you doing, he thought furiously. Then, the lights came back on. Daws stood in the doorway, hands behind his back, face dark. "Who was it?"
Darin glanced around at the pale faces and wide eyes. His own heart was thudding loudly in his chest. He couldn't see Jamie above him, but he hoped he was sweating bullets right now. He waited for Jamie's confession, but it didn't come. The silence lengthened.
Daws looked carefully at each recruit. Darin swallowed as the green eyes pinned him. "You all know who it was. Any one of you can tell me or you can all take his punishment." More silence. Jamie, what is wrong with you, Darin thought angrily. Daws took a deep breath. "Right then..."
"It was me," Darin said, his own voice sounding strange to his ears. He cursed himself up, down, front and back as Daws turned to stare at him. He swallowed. "It was me, sir," he said, his voice sounding confident and strong while his brain railed silently against him. Daws stared at him for a long moment, long enough that Darin began to sweat and wonder if he could tell he was lying. Then Daws blinked and took a heavy breath.
"Alright," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "Front and center, assume the position."
As he moved toward the center of the room, he cast a murderous glance at the still silent Jamie who was looking on, eyes wide as saucers, face white as a sheet. You are dead, boy, he thought viciously as he dropped his shorts and put his hands on his knees. He could hear Daws' heavy boots on the wood floor. His stomach flip flopped as the footsteps stopped near his left hip. He stared at the wood planks, trying to focus his mind elsewhere. It was a trick he'd learned to survive the vicious beatings when he was a child. Just imagine himself inside a brick wall, cool and hard and impervious.
The first stroke made his teeth rattle with its force. He realized quickly that the strap carried a lot more weight than a belt. He gritted his teeth. The number of strokes had been increased each week as they were expected to know the rules and be better able to follow them with time. The number was now eleven. Number three made Darin's eyes sting, he dug his fingers into his knees and concentrated on escaping the pain. But, the strap kept jarring his focus, the pain kept building, each stroke coming slowly but steadily after the last.
He bit his lip, tears began to spatter the floorboards. No one had been punished since the fourth week when the count was eight. He grimaced as number seven fell. He wasn't going to survive four more. Eight. He was beginning to shake all over. Nine. He stumbled forward a step, nearly falling. Daws put a hand on his shoulder and steadied him. "Easy on, mate," he said just loud enough for Darin to hear. Darin shifted his feet back under him. Ten and eleven struck nearly on top of each other. Darin lost his balance again and fell to his hands and knees nearly hyperventilating, tears streaking his face. Stiffly he reached back to touch his blazing ass. He could feel a criss-crossing of narrow welts which stung too much to touch. He put his hands back on the floor and worked on simply breathing in and out. Daws said nothing while Darin gasped and gulped at the air like a fish out of water.
Finally, Darin straightened and carefully pulled his shorts up, gasping and hissing as they brushed the welts. He glanced up in surprise as Daws held out a hand toward him. Grateful, he grasped the officer's wrist and let himself be pulled, painfully, to his feet. Without a word, Daws turned and walked to the doorway, waiting for Darin to limp back to his bunk before shutting off the lights.
Lying on his stomach, Darin entertained deliciously violent fantasies involving Jamie and various implements of mass destruction until exhaustion dragged him into an abyss of dreamless sleep. Just as his eyes were closing, he realized that Daws had called him "mate" not boy or child or any of the other words he usually used. It probably meant nothing, but Darin felt a flush of pride anyway.
Jamie tried to talk to him at breakfast the next morning, but Darin pointedly ignored him. Barely able to sit down, he wasn't anywhere near ready to forgive. He staggered through the calisthenics and somehow survived the morning training excercise. By afternoon, the sun was high and blazing. Sweat soaked every inch of his body as they drilled again and again. The welts stung like bloody hell and he "died" five times in the excercises because he couldn't concentrate. By evening mess he was in a foul temper. Jamie made another attempt at reconciliation and was saved from having his face broken only by Daws' sharp call. "Connor!" Darin jumped at his name and turned to find the officer.
"Yes, sir?"
"Come with me, Connor."
Confused, Darin followed Daws out of the mess hall and across the compound. Alongside the medical building the area was fairly unoccupied. Daws stopped and leaned against the shady side of the building. "At ease," he said. Darin licked his lips nervously. Daws looked at him for a long moment. "Why'd you do it?"
Darin swallowed. "Do what, sir?"
Daws' eyes narrowed momentarily in anger. "Don't play me, boy."
"I'm sorry, sir," he said quickly, lowering his eyes.
Daws blinked slowly and took a long, slow breath. "Are you stupid, boy?"
This time Darin blinked. "What? No, sir."
"Then why'd you do it?" The green eyes pinned him, and he squirmed.
"You would have punished everyone, sir."
"And?"
Darin cast about for a line of logic. "One punishment is better than thirty, sir."
"Even if its unjust?"
"If it was unjust, sir, it was only one unjust punishment, rather than twenty-nine unjust punishments."
"I see." He tilted his head back slightly and looked at Darin for a long moment. "And if it was unjust," he said slowly, "what about the guilty party who goes unpunished?"
Darin stared hard at the ground, he didn't have an answer for that. "Justice for one shouldn't be at the cost of many," he said uncertainly. He found himself desperately wanting the approval of this man, but he had no idea what he wanted to hear. His sense of honor wouldn't let him say anything but what he believed anyway. He bit the inside of his lip, angrily.
Daws gazed into the distance. "Who was it, Connor?"
Darin chewed his lip. Damn, damn, damn. "It was me, sir."
"No it wasn't," Daws said mildly. "Who was it?" He stared hard at Darin.
Darin met his gaze, unflinching, and said with steel in his tone, "It was me, sir."
They remained locked in the silent battle for several more seconds before Daws blinked and gave Darin a strange look. "Go back to mess. If you start a fight, you are stupid, boy."
The days passed slowly, the welts healed and the bruises faded, but Darin's anger still burned, and now he found himself locked in a strange battle of wills with Daws as well. During training, Daws made Darin repeat the excercises until he did them faster and better than anyone else. If he failed in Daws' eyes, he was chewed up, down and sideways 'til his ears burned. His frustration and anger built more by the day until the middle of week ten, he broke.
They were doing a ropes course. Hanging by hands and ankles, they pulled themselves down a wire, a mud pit awaiting any slip.
"Too slow, Connor, get your arse back up there. Do it again." The rest of the recruits had been allowed to pass after two or three attempts. This was Darin's seventh. He seethed pounding up the ladder again. His arms burned and ached, his fingers were numb, his legs were nearly giving out on him. Cursing under his breath, he dangled his body over the mud once more. Daws was shouting at him again but he wasn't listening. He ground his teeth and methodically placed one hand after the other. He was beyond caring about his time, Daws wasn't going to be satisfied no matter what he did, why bother. As he dropped on the other side, Daws stepped close to his face and shouted.
"What the fuck is wrong with you, boy? You giving up on me? Get your ass up there and do it right! MOVE IT!"
Two weeks of abuse, anger and frustration boiled up. Darin screamed back. "Get the fuck out of my face you fucking bastard. You've been on my ass for two weeks! Leave me the fuck alone! Get off my ass!"
"Don't you fucking backtalk me, little boy!" Daws grabbed the front of Darin's shirt and shoved him roughly toward the ladder. "You are nothing and nobody, you do as you're told, you don't question me! Get your ass up there and do your job!"
Darin, furious, slapped Daws' hand away. Daws' face darkened with a flare of rage that made Darin's blood run cold. He froze, blinking and panting. For several long seconds he was sure he was going to be hit. Then, Daws visibly fought the anger down and stared at Darin frowning thoughtfully. "Did you just strike an officer, boy?"
"I'm sorry, sir," Darin said through clenched teeth. He was still angry, but now he was feeling scared and trapped as well.
"Go back to the barracks and wait."
Darin's stomach twisted. He walked slowly back to the barracks and sat on his foot locker, frightened and frustrated. Despite everything, he still desperately wanted to be in Daws' good graces. Knowing he'd failed was making him ache deep inside. He could never satisfy Daws, no matter what he did it wasn't good enough. His eyes stung. It wasn't fair. He was provoked, pushed beyond his breaking point and now he was being punished for reacting. He brushed at the tears angrily. Bloody unfair.
It took fifteen minutes for Daws to appear, a thin cane in his right hand. Darin's stomach turned to ice. Oh God. He rose unsteadily, determined to take his punishment stoicly, but Daws shook his head. "Sit." He gazed at Darin silently for a moment. "I never thought it would be a fainter... Do you want a post?"
Darin blinked. "What...?"
"My next patrol leaves in two weeks. Do you want to be on it?"
Darin's brain scrambled to put pieces together. "Yeah! Yes! Yes, sir!" But before he had a chance to think further, Daws nodded slightly and spoke three words that turned Darin's gut to water.
"Assume the position."
Darin's heart sank. He forced himself to his feet, trembling. "Please, sir... Do you have to use a cane?"
A slight smile flickered across Daws' lips. "The strap is for children, Connor. I thought you were a man..."
--
Julnick