Fleet of the Damned Read Online Free PDF Page A

thug.
    This man also wore a blank flight suit, but one that was tailored and razor-creased. A long scar seamed his face, and the man limped slightly. His voice had the attractive rasp of a wood file on metal.
    "My name is Mason.
    "I can't use words like Mr. Ferrari does, so I'll keep it short.
    "I've looked at all of your files.
    "Drakh. All of you.
    "There is not one of you qualified to fly a combat car.
    "If we screw up, and let any one of you onto a flight deck, you will end up killing someone."
    He tapped the scar.
    "That's how I got this. They let somebody—somebody just like one of you clowns—into my tacflight.
    "Midair collision.
    "Eighteen dead.
    "My job now is easy. All I have to do is keep one of you from killing anyone but himself.
    "Maybe you've heard something like this from another instructor, and think I'm just talking.
    "Wrong, clots.
    "I personally hate each and every one of you."
    He looked up and down the formation. Sten chilled a little. He had, indeed, heard variations on that speech from DIs.
    But Sten had the feeling that Mason really meant it.
    "I've got one peculiarity," Mason added. "I'm going to make sure that every one of you washes out, like I said.
    "But every selection course, there's one person that, for some reason, I hate more than most of you trash.
    "And I pick him out early.
    "And he never makes it."
    Again, Mason looked up and down the class.
    Sten knew, moments before the snake's head stopped, whom he would be looking at.
    Clot, clot, clot, Sten thought, while remaining as petrified as any chicken caught by the glare of the snake.

    CHAPTER SIX
    B y the time Ferrari and Mason had finished the torment they called "muscle toning," it was late afternoon. The master's mate—and Sten would never learn his name—took over the formation, doubled the trainees back to the barracks they were assigned to, and dismissed them.
    The exhausted candidates timidly entered the brick building through double glass doors, knowing that inside would be another werewolf masquerading as an IP.
    They also expected that the barracks, no matter how good-looking on the outside, would be polished plas floors, echoing squad bays, and clanging elderly lockers, just like in basic training.
    They were very wrong.
    Drawn up inside the foyer, which resembled the lobby of an exclusive small hotel, were about fifty middle-aged beings. They looked and were dressed like the retainers Sten had known at the Imperial palace.
    One of them stepped forward.
    "I would imagine you young people might like a chance to relax in the recreation room before we show you to your quarters. We hope you find the facilities adequate."
    He waved them through sliding doors into a large wood-paneled room twenty-five meters on a side. At one end was a large stone fireplace. Along the walls were drink and food dispensers and, between them, computer terminals and game machines. Above them hung abstract paintings.
    In the room were games tables and luxurious easy chairs and sofas.
    Sten's alertness went to condition red! He saw one candidate gape an expression accentuated by the double rings of white fur around his eyes. The candidate scrubbed a small black hand over his gray-furred chest in excitement.
    "Beer! They have a beer machine!" He started forward.
    "Maybe you don't want to be doing that."
    Sten, also about to say something, saw that the caution came from that scarred infantry sergeant.
    "Why not?"
    "Oh, maybe because they told us they were gonna be testing us for physical dexterity and like that, and a hangover doesn't speed up your reaction time.
    "Or maybe they're watching that machine, and anybody who uses it gets down-carded for lack of moral fiber."
    "That doesn't make sense." That came from a very small, very exquisite woman. "Every pilot I've ever known swills alk like it was mother's milk."
    "No drakh," the sergeant agreed. "But that's after they get their wings. And maybe Selection is what makes 'em drink that way."
    Maybe the