Forge of War (Jack of Harts) Read Free Page B

shaking his head.  The pack wasn’t worried.  They were expectant.  Of course, this was the day for that.
    “Go,” Bruce barked more sternly.
    “Yes, Sergeant,” Jack answered and turned into the building.  “You’ll tell me if anything bad’s about to happen right?” he asked, covering all the bases just in case.
    “Always,” Bruce returned before letting out several amused yips.
    Jack considered what was going on with the dogs as he walked into the cool air of the building that had been his home for six weeks.  Every day he’d spent eight hours in a single classroom with every candidate in the school, learning everything about the cybernetic intelligences there was to know.  He’d also spent eight hours in a training room, alone with the people he was here to impress.  Half the time they trained, working together to fly anything from fighters to warships.  The other half, he answered questions from knowledge of history and physics to what kind of jelly he wanted on his peanut butter sandwich.  Assuming he liked peanut butter sandwiches.  Or jelly.  They said it was to gain an accurate psychological profile.
    And between each class, there had been four hours of nothing.  Since he’d joined the military, he’d never had so much free time as here at Corpus Christi, and he still couldn’t figure out why.  He had time to eat, to study if he wanted to, to work out in the gym, to sleep, or whatever he felt like.  It was four precious hours that were his with no structure at all enforced from on high.  The only rule was that they could not leave the perimeter.
    That was fine by him.  He’d spent most days playing with the dogs.  Uplifted dogs as it happened weren’t much different from normal dogs when it came down to it.  They loved to play fetch, have their tummies rubbed, or get in wrestling matches.  Bruce was a wrestler.  Annabelle had a favorite ball she loved to chase.  Tony had become his best friend, not to mention a constant wet nose, when he found out Jack came to the yard with sugar cubes in his pocket.
    He stepped into the classroom that took up the center of the Marine Training Air Station and filed down the auditorium steps until he reached his row.  He squeezed past those already in their seats and sat down in the same assigned seat he’d held for the last six weeks.  Then he leaned back in his chair, stretched, and began to study the other Marines.
    Like most Americans, every Marine here had taken the Peloran Treatments that first began wiping out most diseases a century ago.  Some of them looked as old as their fifties or sixties, and a few could have passed for their teens, showing that they’d been alive when the Peloran made Contact.  The first Treatments weren’t as reliable as the modern ones, and slowed or froze the aging process at different ages.
    Most were like Jack, twenty-five years of age until the day they died.  Because every single Marine in the room belonged to the smallest subset of Americans who would never age another day in their life.  And with that, came all the other little side effects that affected people them.  Improved eyesight, superior strength and endurance, quicker reflexes, and intuition.  They saw and reacted to threats faster than anyone.  They could have been the perfect genetically engineered super soldiers.  Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on the point of view, most of them lacked the innate mental temperament it was that drove people to seek physical conflict.  And so most pursued normal civilian jobs until Yosemite fell and the call for volunteers flooded the United States.
    A soft bell sounded and a room full of men and women fell silent.  On time to the second, their instructor walked out onto the stage, the chink chink sound of regulation Dress White cowboy boots on the hard wood floor filling the auditorium.  The instructor stopped behind the podium and peered out from under the white cowboy hat that topped the