Free Hard Corps by Claire Thompson

Wellington and these are my friends, Mr Jordan and Sergeant Sinclair.’
    I looked at the two men with her. Mr Jordan had wavy, blond hair, ruddy skin and blue eyes. He might have been in his mid-thirties. I had never seen him before, as far as I knew. But, of course, I recognised Sergeant Sinclair at once. I wasn’t quite sure which of us should be more embarrassed by this meeting in such strange circumstances.
    Sergeant Sinclair was dark-skinned with tightly curled hair and a cruel-looking mouth that curved up slightly with a natural look of disdain. He stared at me, his dark eyes flashing with amusement and something else. ‘Cadet Harris. Who would have expected to find you here? Tough girl cadet that runs rings around half those pussy wimp freshmen during PT? But maybe you are a leader, a would-be mistress? Though at the moment you look quite submissive, I must say.’
    I looked down, confused and very embarrassed. If I could have gone back in time to the minute before I entered that tower, I would never have come here, never have put myself in this awkward confusing position.
    ‘Ah, you know her, I see?’ Dr Wellington smiled at Sergeant Sinclair.
    ‘Oh yes, she is one of our more promising toads, er, cadets,’ he amended unconvincingly. In spite of my embarrassment, I felt a hot flush of pride course through me at his remark. He had never given any indication that he even knew who I was, much less that he approved of me. ‘But I wonder what she is really made of?’ he mused.
    ‘Well, sir,’ I felt I had to say, ‘I am only visiting, sir.’
    ‘We’ll see about that, won’t we?’ He seemed to leer toward me.
    ‘Don’t press her, George,’ Dr Wellington interjected. ‘She is here to visit, as she says. Let’s just watch the show. It should be starting soon. We’ll show Ms Harris how PT is done around here, right George?’ Mr Jordan, the other man at the table, laughed nervously, perhaps a little too loudly for the small space. Sergeant Sinclair was silent, but he kept staring at me, so that I was forced to look away, pretending his eyes weren’t boring holes through me.
    The lights dimmed and the stage lights brightened. Their attention diverted, the three turned their faces toward the stage, which was a little raised dais on one side of the room. With relief I also looked over, glad their scrutiny was no longer focused on me. The stage lights were blue, casting an eerie light across the room. The stage was empty, save for a chin-up bar supported by two poles. In the back corner I also noticed a small table that had some things on it, but I couldn’t see what. The audience grew quiet as music began to filter through small speakers that I now noticed on the walls. The music was unusual. At first it seemed repetitive but became soothing, almost hypnotic. I learned later that it was Brian Eno’s Music for Airports .
    After a minute, a young woman dressed in all black glided out on to the stage. She wore the same gauzy, soft fabric that the girl who had let us into the room had been wearing. It covered her arms, her body, her legs, like a dancer’s leotard and tights. She was barefoot, her white, slim ankles and feet in striking contrast to the black of her outfit. She curtseyed deeply to the audience, and remained in that bowed position as two more people came on to the stage. One was Sam, stripped of his army-issue fatigues. He was now dressed only in black leather shorts that seemed moulded to his body. Hanging from his chest was a long chain, which I saw was held in place by clamps, one on each nipple. I stared in fascination at the chain. God, that must hurt! But he looked so calm, like it was nothing. I wondered how he could tolerate those pinching teeth, feeling my own nipples stiffen perversely at the thought.
    Following Sam was another young woman, dressed as the first, in sheer black to the ankle. Her feet were also bare. She was built similarly to the other girl, with smallish breasts and