The Volunteer

Then there's the nervous guy. I mean, he's really nervous. He keeps looking around behind him, even though his back is against the wall. Every now and then he pinches himself, or jumps up a little, or opens his mouth as if he's about to say something. He's looks like he's mentally unstable, acts like a drug-addict, and smells like he hasn't bathed in months. In any case he's no doubt headed for the same cannon-fodder regiment they stick all the conscripts. Poor fool shouldn't even have bothered to come here.

After an eternity of waiting the door opens, and this guy in a sergeant's uniform steps into the waiting room. He's young, and I imagine women would consider him fairly good-looking. He's trying to look competent in a martial sort of way, but just ends up looking like he's got a sizable stick shoved up his ass.

"Citizen Davis!" he stutters. I can't help but feel sorry for him. I mean, he is trying. That's me he just called, so I stand up and follow him through the door. The corridors are white plasto-steel , and look like they're sterilized everyone hour. We pass very few people, none of whom are dressed in military attire. We come to a door, which opens automatically. Soldier-boy salutes me, before walking off in what he probably thinks is marching. I enter the room.

Inside there's an old fashioned fan, a very large window, and one of those Faux-Flora? that so commonly adorn waiting rooms. There is also a wastebasket, a chair, and a desk with a man seated at it. The man is of indeterminate age, colorless hair slicked back, and appears to be of Caucasian ancestry. He wears glasses, and is dressed in stylish office attire. The chair he's seated is made out of plasto-steel, and doesn't look very comfortable. His expensive, 200 terabyte, 1200 petrahertz desk is currently displaying a holographic text file. There's something......wrong about all of this, but I can't quite put my finger on it.

"Have a seat," he says in an emotionless voice. I sit. He seems to be surveying his file. "Mr. Davis, Citizen," he says in a voice without any feeling. "Born on Earth in a suburb called Clearfield, California to a factory-worker and a software-package designer. Both parents are currently deceased, no surviving family members. Educated at the local public schools on the kindergarten, grammar, and high school level. Maintained a constant record of average work, not failing, not excelling. Went on to an insignificant university called Justin Smith University, continued to have a consistent record of average work in all areas. Majored in People-Skills, went on to become a moderately successful bell-hop boy at a hotel, quit that job, went on to work as a waiter, quit that job, went on to work as a tour-guide for an amusement park, quit that, finally became a low-ranking scribe for a patent attorney for many years, currently unemployed." He says this all in the same, expressionless voice. It's not a monotone, exactly, but seems to indicate that instead of talking about a person he was listing long chains of numbers.

"Had trouble making friends in school, and later on had trouble getting dates in high school. Married five years ago to Mary Patricia Brown, currently divorced."

He looks at me as though he is staring at a blank wall. "You have volunteered for the Terran Army." I'm not sure if I'm supposed to answer or not, so I say,

"Yes."

He continues to look at me as if I were an inanimate object. There's something odd about him, very odd. Presently he pulls out a device. It's cube shaped, with a wire on one end and electrode or something very similar on the other end. There is a small switch on the cube.