The Last Watch （The Divide #1）
J. S. Dewes
For Robert Joseph MacCready,
who inspired me to write with the safety off.
CHAPTER ONE
“Spread your legs and bend over.”
Cavalon’s face flushed. Actually flushed. Embarrassing Cavalon Mercer was a feat few could boast. He was a little impressed.
He looked over his shoulder to grin at the guard, but the sour-faced man narrowed his eyes and jabbed Cavalon’s hip with his shock baton. A jolt of electricity shot along the nerves of his leg.
“Spread ’em, soldier.”
Cavalon’s smirk faded into a scowl. He complied, spreading his legs and leaning against the wall in front of him. He flinched at the snap of a rubber glove. “If we’re gonna do this—agh!”
Apparently they were going to do it, right-the-fuck now.
Cavalon squirmed, pressing his cheek into the cold aerasteel wall as the guard reached higher.
“I mean, if we’re going to be intimate,” he managed, “you could at least tell me your name.”
“Bray.”
“Pleased to—ugh—meet you, Bray.”
“Does talking make this better for you?” Bray jeered.
Another guard snickered from behind a terminal in the corner of the room.
Cavalon pressed his forehead against the wall and closed his eyes. “No.”
Twenty hellishly uncomfortable seconds later, Bray removed his fingers and pulled off the glove. “He’s clear, Rivas.”
“Was that strictly necessary?” Cavalon grumbled.
Rivas stepped out from behind the intake desk, Cavalon’s underwear in hand. “We like to be thorough.”
“Clearly.” Cavalon snatched his boxers from the smug man’s grip and pulled them on. If this was what life aboard the SCS Argus was going to be like, he was already over it.
Rivas returned to his terminal in the corner of the cramped intake chamber, lit only by a few narrow strips of recessed lights running vertically up the aerasteel walls. The holographic displays above the desk cast a dim blue aura across Rivas as he flicked through files. He stopped on a glowing icon and swept it open. “Full name Cavalon Augustus Mercer the Second. Confirm.”
“That’s me.”
“Service number sigma 6454–19. Confirm.”
Cavalon thumbed the pair of newly minted, absurdly antiquated, etched metal and glass identification tags around his neck. “Uh, sounds right.”
“Your bioscan determined a biological age of thirty-four standard years. Confirm.”
Cavalon narrowed his eyes. “I’m twenty-seven.”
“Soldier is advised that biological age factors in degradation of physical form due to environmental factors including injury, wear-and-tear, use of narcotics—”
“Yeah, I get it,” Cavalon sighed. “Sure, confirmed.”
“Offenses listed as…” Rivas exchanged a quick look with Bray, then raised an eyebrow at Cavalon. “Redacted?”
A wave of relief washed over him, and he forced a grin. “Definitely confirmed.”
Rivas shook his head and swiped the screen.
It flashed green, then a shrill, artificial female voice rang from speakers. “Identity confirmed. Please proceed to the next intake chamber.”
A door in the sleek silver wall slid open, and Bray invited Cavalon forward with a condescending smile and a sweep of his arm. Cavalon drew back his shoulders and marched toward the door.