Meridien K - Chapter 31: The Condition (Again)

The room seemed to get colder each minute. Like a classic interrogation seen a million times in a million movies. Wondering, then, how much time had passed. No clocks in the room, and when it was the only timepiece around, I was irrationally wary of my own wristwatch. No sound. No hiss from the visible air duct. It could've been an hour or five minutes. I was never good at gauging blind time. And no double-mirror or cameras to monitor my reaction. I was alone.

             

The door opened and someone in a suit came in with my file. When he sat across the table from me, his tie flopped onto the table, and he pushed it down into his lap. He opened my file and read from it. I couldn't tell if it was a show or if the man, really, had never looked at it before.

             

"Robert Meridien Kraid," he said.

             

"Yes."

             

"Fifteen. You don't look fifteen."

            

 "Oh?" and guarded, austere, probing whether or not to raise my shields.

             

"Relax, Robert. This isn't an interrogation."

             

"Seems like an interrogation room."

             

I was playing it too obvious. I did that when I was nervous or felt threatened or, in that case, both.

             

"It does," he said, looking up from the file.

             

"I suppose you want to give me the once-over, maybe the twice-over before you let me in. Make sure I'm not a spy."

             

"And why would I think that, Robert?"

             

"People call me Bobby."

             

"Pardon?" with a tilt of the head, like he didn't hear what I just said.

            

 "My mother calls me Robert. Everyone else calls me Bobby."

             

"This says your mother is dead."

             

"That's right," and my instant reaction, no recoil at the insensitivity, maybe part of a test.

             

"Part of the reason you're volunteering for a job that everyone knows could very well kill them?"

             

"I don't plan on getting killed, sir, but yes, if you must know, the death of my mother has caused a certain rift in my family that has led us to different paths."

             

"I see. I also checked the file of your brother, Ridley. A captain about to end his time with us. A solid record."

             

"So I've heard."

            

"You hear often?"

             

"My brother and I don't speak often, sir."

             

"Please, I'm not a 'sir,' Bobby."

             

"Fair enough."

             

"You're still awfully defensive, though."

             

"I think that's the room's effect."

             

"It is," he said with a laugh. "I just came in last week. You're my first case here."

             

"Case?"

             

"I check the file, ask you a few questions, then send you on your merry way."

             

"I thought the Forces needed bodies and didn't ask questions."

             

"Well, Bobby, that depends. What do you want to do in the Forces?"

             

"My brother said you pick at the end of training."

             

The man leaned back in his chair, stared at a particular point in the ceiling, looked genuinely unsure what to say, looked at me, kept his posture and body language open, tried to cut through my natural defenses.

             

"Your brother said that? What about Lieutenant Matakis who sent you here?"

             

"You mean Seth?"

             

"Seth, sure."

             

"Yeah, he said the same."

             

"So that's what you want? Get on a southbound bus and go through grunt school?"

             

"I was thinking of becoming an officer. Join the EOP. If it's still around."

             

"Oh, of course. But I beg pardon. I usually handle cases for enlisted men. You're the first officer candidate I've interviewed."

             

"It seems like I'm the first for a lot of things," I said.

             

"Is there something fundamentally wrong with that?" the man asked.

             

I didn't say anything.

             

"Let me tell you this, Bobby. I'll tell it straight. You know a fair deal about the Forces. You know about the war. But what you don't know, what your brother doesn't know, and what Seth doesn't know, is that we're looking for special cases. Certain young men for certain assignments."

             

"What, like you're looking for operators?"

             

"Not exactly. You fit a Profile, Bobby. You have a certain…" and his hands shaped like he was holding a ball midair and rolling it back and forth, midair, between his finger, "Condition."

             

"Doesn't everyone?"

             

Back to the file and, "Your voluntary medical records show a tendency toward obsessive compulsion, bipolar disorder, a cluster of anxiety disorders, and schizoid personality disorder. Do you know what this means?"

             

"In a general way or a DSM VII way?"

             

"Both."

             

"Are you saying the Forces doesn't want me?"

             

"The opposite, Bobby. Think of it this way. Don't think of your Condition, your Profile, your whatever, don't think of the negatives. Think of the positives. Someone borderline OCD knows their details. Someone with bipolar disorder, when in a sustained hypomanic state, functions at the height of their abilities. A schizoid person is very detached. These can be admirable qualities."

             

"You want hopped-up, cold-blooded killers?"

             

"Of course we do, Bobby. I'm not going to lie. But you also happen to score in the ninety-eighth percentile in most of your testing, a few cases in the ninety-ninth, which usually means a perfect score. Your prelim IQ screening places you in… well… let's just say there aren't a lot of people like you around. And you're young."

             

"Impressionable."

             

"Let's not make this malicious, Bobby. You're here on your own free will. What if I was to tell you that you could quit at any time? That at any point during training, deployment, or leave, you could walk away?"

             

"What?"

             

A shrug and, "You don't like training, you don't like killing, you see something that fucks you up inside, you get a minor wound, whatever, and you can walk away at anytime."

             

"If my legs get blown off can you wheel me away?" I asked.

             

A smile from the man that, for whatever reason, was polite.

             

"Do I need to explain further?" the man asked.

             

"Why would you let that happen?"

             

"Because the Forces are changing, Bobby. You think we want to keep kids enslaved to their contracts and drag down morale?"

             

"I don't know what you want."

             

"We want people exactly like you, Bobby. Smart, self-motivated individuals for special assignments. Special units that operate under little authority so the Forces won't have to babysit. Units that can go out on assignments for days, even weeks at a time."

             

He let it hang out there in the dead space.

             

"We made some changes to the EOP. At the end you're not part of the Forces proper. You're… something else. But you get college training, military training, the works. And no timelock contract on your end. Does this sound like something you'd be interested in, Bobby?"

             

I said nothing, chose my words carefully, though he knew I'd say it.

            

"Look, I'm not an experiment. I'm not a labrat."

             

"No experiments. You'll be a Forces guard, same as the rest. The only experiment is the Unit."

             

"An experimental unit?"

             

"Eleven other young men, like yourself. Training Stateside for a year or so before expedited deployment."

             

"And are they--?"

             

"They fit their own separate Profiles. You'll go by codenames. You'll never know their real names. They'll never know yours. If you want to share, fine. But I'm guessing you wouldn't or won't. My apologies for speculating, naturally."

             

I said nothing for a while. It was still his move. I signed up for one thing and he was pitching another.

             

"Look, Bobby. You're still in this room, listening. It means you're thinking about it."

             

"It means I just haven't left yet."

            

"And you don't have to make a decision today and--"

             

Maybe too eager and, "But I can quit? Anytime I want?"

             

"Anytime."

             

"Say I'm on the bus to Basic and I decide to quit."

             

"Then tell the driver to turn around."

             

The air duct hissed and the room stayed the exact same temperature.

            

 I stood. He stood. I crossed the distance around the long metal table. The echo of my footsteps dying against the walls. I extended my hand, shook his, nothing ominous, no Satanic pact.

             

"I quit anytime I want," I said.

             

"You won't want to," he said.

             

I looked down for the form to sign away my mortal soul but there was none.

             

"Don't I have to sign something?"

             

"No, Bobby. We do things differently now."

(Chapter 32 coming Friday, January 27, 2012.)