First To Fight

(The Empire’s Corps – Book XI)

Christopher G. Nuttall

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Series Listing

Book One: The Empire’s Corps
Book Two: No Worse Enemy
Book Three: When The Bough Breaks
Book Four: Semper Fi
Book Five: The Outcast
Book Six: To The Shores
Book Seven: Reality Check
Book Eight: Retreat Hell
Book Nine: The Thin Blue Line 
Book Ten: Never Surrender
Book Eleven: First To Fight

Cover Blurb

Before Avalon, before the Fall of the Empire, Edward Stalker was a young man growing up in Earth’s Undercity - a nightmarish rabbit warren of tiny apartments dominated by gangs who loot, rape and murder with impunity.  When his family is killed in a gang attack, Ed takes the opportunity to run to the one place that will take him; the Terran Marine Corps.  

But becoming a Marine isn't easy and Ed will find himself pushed to the limits, surviving a training program designed to weed out everyone but the best, before he learns what it means to be a Terran Marine ...

[As always, my books are DRM-free.  Samples of this title (and others) can be downloaded from my website: www.chrishanger.net.  Reviews and comments are always welcome.]  

Prologue

The Empire did not believe in heroes.

This may seem odd to us, but the Grand Senate was very keen to promote the idea that no one - absolutely no one - stood head and shoulders above everyone else.  The idea that someone might be deserving of extra praise was alien to it, an attitude that makes no sense unless you realise that a popular hero might serve as a rallying point for resistance to the Grand Senate and the government.  Indeed, when someone did become a hero, their positions were quietly undermined; their reputations were called into question, their failures were publicised while their successes were quietly ignored and - if they failed to take the hint - they were often reassigned to somewhere nicely isolated.

The careers of Admiral Stockholm and Admiral Valentine serve, alas, as examples of the vicious jealousy shown by the Grand Senate towards anyone who dared to win unsanctioned admiration.  Admiral Stockholm, who saved an entire sector from an insurgency that threatened to drag it out of the Empire’s clutches, was punished for daring to succeed where others failed.  Tame reporters were encouraged to ask questions about the disposition of the loot - with the obvious implication the Admiral had been looting himself - while his failure to achieve an impossible degree of perfection was held against him.  By the time he resigned from the service, he was a broken man, worn down by fighting against a foe he could neither understand nor defeat.

Admiral Valentine, by contrast, knew very well which side his bread was buttered on.  He served the Grand Senate loyally and, despite a lacklustre performance on Han, found himself assigned to Earth just prior to the Empire’s collapse.  Valentine was no hero; he may have been promoted as a military genius, but he commanded no loyalty from anyone outside his own family.  He posed no threat to the Grand Senate, while Admiral Stockholm, given the right opportunity, could easily have become a rogue warlord, followed by his loyal officers.

Heroes, the Empire claimed, simply did not exist.  The stars of stage and screen were not heroes; they were either promoted as figureheads for their staffs or portrayed as fools, cowards or criminals.  Heroes from the past were deconstructed until their warts came to overshadow their successes.  Captain Ian Macpherson, a noted naval hero during the Unification Wars, fought in seventy-one battles and won sixty-nine of them, a record unmatched before or since.  However, most portrayals of Macpherson in the Empire focus on his relationship with his wife, including a strong allegation that he cheated on her.  The simple fact that theirs was an arranged marriage, that they both had extra-marital partners, that they knew and understood what they were doing is simply ignored.  Macpherson, dead and gone, is branded a villain in the eyes of the Empire’s public.

It is easy, of course, to see why the Grand Senate was so distrusting of heroes.  The Grand Senators lacked charisma, let alone the common touch that would allow them to win the love and admiration of the people they ruled.  They were so detached from their subjects that they might as well have lived in another universe.  A hero, on the other hand, who commanded respect and loyalty from his followers, was a deadly threat.  Might Admiral Stockholm have taken his fleet to Earth and overthrown the Grand Senate?  The Grand Senate did not command the loyalty it needed to secure its position - how could it?  All it could do was systematically undermine anyone who might have posed a threat.

Like so much else, it was a policy that proved disastrous.  As the Empire neared the point of final collapse, military officers in high places were paralysed by the fear of showing any independent volition of their own, or so resentful of the lack of appreciation that they were scheming to take advantage of the fall to establish their own empires.  The emotional ties between the Empire and its military officers were broken, allowing room for strong-minded officers to forge ties of their own.  In many ways, the post-Empire universe was a return to the age of heroes - and villains.  A strong man in the right place, at the right time, could make the difference between the survival of civilisation or a collapse into barbarism.

Colonel Edward Stalker is one such hero.

I first met the Colonel when I was exiled from Earth, bare months before the Fall.  He was and remains an impressive man, a Captain of Marines exiled himself (along with his marines) for daring to tell the Grand Senate the truth.  In short order, Captain Stalker not only reasserted control over Avalon, but forged a lasting peace that laid the groundwork for the Commonwealth.  Avalon may have been abandoned by the Empire - the message warning us that we were being left to our own devices arrived long after Earth itself had fallen - but Captain (now Colonel) Stalker never gave up.  He led the growing power of Avalon against interstellar pirates, the military dictatorship of Admiral Singh and the threatening empire of Wolfbane.  His life was not free of warts - no one is free of warts - but they never overshadowed his success.

It took me years to convince Colonel Stalker to write his autobiography.  He was not enthusiastic about the project, if only because he didn't see himself as a hero or anything other than a marine trying to do his duty.  I pushed as hard as I dared, reminding him that his story was an inspiration to the children of Avalon, to the men and women who lived in safety because of him and his marines.  Even so, it was not until recently that I was able to convince him to put hand to keyboard and start outlining his early life and career.

I have changed none of the essence of this document, beyond inserting a handful of quotes and notes about the final days of the Empire.  There are aspects, for various reasons, he chose to gloss over.  As many of these aspects are covered in other works, I have not pressed the issue.  

This, then, is the story of the forging of a Terran Marine - and a hero, even if he doesn't want the title.  And it is that, I think, that makes him a true hero.

- Professor Leo Caesius, Avalon University, 46PE.

Chapter One

Marines are not born, I was told, but made.  They were put through hell in Boot Camp, then a different kind of hell at the Slaughterhouse.  Many fall by the wayside, but those who survive become part of a truly unique brotherhood.  
-Professor Leo Caesius

When we rolled into the unnamed town - which we rapidly started calling Shithole, because no two factions could agree on a name - we were greeted in the manner we had come to expect.  The women and children were hurried off the streets, while the young men glared at us, some of them waving weapons openly, daring us to emulate our predecessors in Shithole and try to confiscate them.  Some of them spat, others made rude signs and a couple picked up rocks, as if they intended to hurl them at the AFVs.  The machine gun whirred as it turned to point at the men, who stood their ground.  I fingered my rifle and watched, feeling sweat running down my spine.  It wasn't my first deployment, but it promised to be the most challenging.

“As you were,” Sergeant Harris ordered.  “They’re not a threat.”

I had my doubts.  The waves of hatred and rage emitting from the men were practically a tangible force.  They didn't want us anywhere near them, let alone trying to stop them from exterminating their rivals.  Shithole had ten separate factions vying for control over the city and all of them, given half a chance, would happily rape, pillage and burn their way through the others.  As far as I could tell, none of them were remotely decent people ... but then, war does tend to erode human decency.  There’s no point in telling people they should behave when war teaches us that nice guys finish last.

Five years of increasingly brutal civil war hadn't done anything for Shithole, which might have been a decent city once upon a time.  The streets were cracked and broken, lined with piles of garbage that no one had bothered to clear up.  I could have sworn I saw a handful of dead bodies lying amidst the pile, the remnants of a family that had been unlucky enough to live in a war zone.  There was no way to know, now, whose side they’d been on, if they’d had a side in the first place.  They might have been innocent victims or they might have been killed in revenge for an atrocity they’d committed.  It didn't matter now, I thought, as I saw rats running away from the pile.  Now, they were nothing more than dead bodies.

The buildings were pockmarked with bullet holes, their doors and windows heavily barricaded to provide a limited amount of protection for their inhabitants.  A number of houses had clearly been knocked down, either deliberately to provide building material or blown up by their enemies.  The taller buildings, skyscrapers that would have been impressive if I hadn’t been born in the CityBlocks of Earth, looked deserted.  One of them looked as though it had copped an HVM and, by some miracle, stayed upright.  I wouldn't have cared to live there, if I’d had a choice.  It looked as though a strong wind would send it crashing into a pile of rubble.

And we might knock it down ourselves, I thought, as the small convoy turned towards the Forward Operating Base.  A tall building could hide enemy snipers.

I gritted my teeth as a dull explosion rolled over the city, followed by several gunshots.  The Imperial Army detachment charged with securing the city hadn't done a very good job, according to the briefings; they’d rapidly managed to alienate all of the factions, even the ones that might have been happy to work with an outside force.  I blamed it on the Rules of Engagement myself, rules written by people countless light years from Shithole.  The soldiers had been ordered to show nothing, but strict neutrality ... and to disarm the factions, as if removing weapons would somehow weaken the hatred pulsing through the city.  It shouldn't have surprised anyone, least of all the soldiers, that no one dared risk being disarmed.  The soldiers had promptly made themselves the enemies of everyone.

The Forward Operating Base looked utterly unwelcoming, even though it was - reasonably - safe.  It was nothing more than a school that had been taken over by the soldiers, then turned into an armed camp.  Strong prefabricated walls, topped with jagged glass and studded with murder holes, surrounded a large building, while a number of soldiers, radars and point-defence weapons were mounted on the roof.  If the briefing hadn't already told me that the enemy had mortars and were willing to use them, I would have guessed from the presence of the point defence.  But the soldiers had only made matters worse, thanks to the ROE, by not shooting back at the mortar teams.  The planners who’d drawn up the ROE had worried that innocent civilians might be hurt.

I snorted, then disembarked with the rest of the platoon as soon as the convoy rolled through the gate.  The soldiers looked tired and thoroughly demoralised, which really shouldn’t have been a surprise.  They knew they were being targeted, they knew they were vulnerable ... and they knew that doing something to tighten up the defences would only get them in trouble with their superiors.  Holding a city is hard enough at the best of times, but deliberately not taking basic precautions for political reasons only makes it impossible.  The soldiers controlled only the territory under their guns and, sometimes, not even that.  I was surprised the FOB had lasted as long as it had without someone smuggling a vehicle-borne IED through the gates and blowing it to hell.

“Get some rest,” the Sergeant ordered, pointing towards one of the former classrooms.  It looked better than the classrooms I’d seen on Earth, even though the tables and chairs were gone and the floor was covered with sleeping mats.  “We’re going out on patrol tomorrow.”

The enemy, it seemed, recovered very quickly from the shock of our arrival and started to organise a proper welcome.  I snapped awake hours later to the sound of mortar shells screaming towards the FOB, only to be picked off in mid-flight by the point defence.  It might have seemed a pointless exercise, but the enemy knew that it wasn't impossible to overload the tracking radars and land a shell in the middle of the compound.  The building itself had been strengthened, yet a lucky shot might kill a couple of us and convince our superiors to leave the factions to their mutual slaughter.  And besides, it kept us awake.  I might have grown used to only a few hours of sleep in Boot Camp, but it wasn't something I enjoyed.  Tired marines made mistakes.

“Fuck it,” Joker muttered.  “This isn't funny, you know.”

I shrugged.  We’d trained for war endlessly, practicing in simulators and training grounds, but this was different.  This time, real people could get hurt.

“Wake up, ladies,” Sergeant Harris bellowed, crashing through the door.  The rest of the platoon either sat up or jerked awake, depending on how well they’d managed to sleep through the welcoming barrage.  “Stuff some crap down your throat, then grab your kit.”

I nodded - salutes were forbidden in combat zones, with harsh punishment for anyone who dared - and reached for the MREs in my pack.  The rations tasted better than anything I’d eaten in the Undercity, but I’d been told that complaining about them was an old marine tradition.  I honestly hadn't understood why until I’d gone on leave for the first time.  Joker crouched next to me and offered to swap one of his ration bars for one of mine.  We made the trade, chewed rapidly, answered the call of nature and finally lined up in front of the sergeant, who eyed us all disapprovingly.

“1st Platoon is on QRF,” he said, crossly.  “2nd Platoon will take the first patrol, accompanying the old timers.”

I felt a chill run down my spine.  I was in 2nd Platoon.

The old hands met us as we assembled near the gates.  There were four of them; Young, Benedict, Hobbes and Green.  They looked less spruce than us, unsurprisingly; they’d been assigned to work with the army deployment here, instead of remaining with their regular companies.  They had been intended to train the local soldiers, but apparently all attempts to set up a local militia to support the outsiders had floundered on political correctness and local realities, leaving them with little to do.

“Expect the wankers to test your determination as soon as they can,” Young said.  Wankers was an old term for enemy combatants, particularly those who didn't play by the rules.  (As if there was any other kind, these days.)  “Remember your training, watch your backs and don't let any of them come close to you.  If you have to take prisoners, force them to strip.  Better to walk someone through the streets naked than let them bring a bomb to you.”

“Shit,” Joker said.

The sickening feeling in my chest only got worse as we checked our weapons and body armour one final time, then advanced through the gates and out into bandit country.  My hands felt sweaty as we slipped down the street, careful to give any piles of rubbish a wide berth.  The enemy knew they couldn't face us - or even the soldiers - in open combat, so they resorted to all sorts of tricks to even the odds.  Hiding an IED under a pile of debris and then detonating it when we passed was an old trick.  I saw a couple of faces peeping at us from behind a curtain - were they reporting our progress to their superiors? - which vanished the moment I glanced at them.  They had looked like kids, but that meant nothing.  A kid could easily serve as a spy, his handlers banking on the fact we would be reluctant to shoot at them.

And if we did shoot a kid, I thought grimly, we would only create a new rallying cry for the enemy.

We turned the corner and strode towards a marketplace.  I would have preferred to be somewhere - anywhere - else, but doctrine said it was important to convince the locals that we could go anywhere, at will, and there was nothing they could do to stop us.  The locals scattered in front of us, the women hurrying out of sight while the menfolk looked ready to fight, if necessary.  I didn't really blame them.  They’d endured the attentions of a regiment more known for abusing the locals than fighting the enemy in the past, according to the briefing, and it would be a long time before any of them really trusted us.  Stallkeepers eyed us warily as we passed, clearly expecting us to take what we wanted, but we had been warned not to take anything.  If we wanted something, we’d been told, we had to pay for it.  

The marketplace was a testament to human determination to survive, somehow.  Everything was on sale, from meat (probably rat, but there was no way to know) to weapons and supplies smuggled in from outside the city.  In a way, it was the only truly neutral ground in the city; I was mildly surprised the soldiers hadn't set up their base just inside the market.  But then, there were weapons on display.  We made a show of ignoring them as we reached the end of the market and headed down the next street.  It looked cleaner than the others, which surprised me.  In hindsight, it should also have worried me.

One of the wankers panicked and opened fire, a second before we walked right into the ambush.  We snapped up our rifles and returned fire, putting several rounds through the windows to keep the snipers from continuing their attack, then ducked for cover and advanced, in fire teams, towards the house.  It wasn't a big building, I noted absently as Joker prepared a charge to break down the door, but that wasn't reassuring.  Our advantages were most pronounced in open battle, not close-quarter knife-fights.  The enemy had worked hard to create a situation that maximised their advantages and minimised ours.  Joker snapped the charge against the door, shouted a warning, then detonated the device.  The doorway exploded inwards; I unhooked a grenade from my belt and threw it inside in one smooth motion, then followed up as soon as it detonated.  Several wankers who had been lying in wait had been caught in the blast; I glanced at their bodies, then led the way through the house.  Four other wankers made the mistake of running downstairs and straight into our waiting guns.  We shot them down and advanced upstairs, checking the upper rooms one by one.  The sniper who’d started the ambush was dead.  There was no way to tell which of us had shot him.

The brief encounter expanded as the QRF arrived, then started setting up barricades to trap the insurgents.  Determined to show that we would not be pushed around, we searched through a dozen houses, killing nine insurgents and capturing three more.  I knew they’d go into our detention camps, rather than those run by the army or the local government, such as it was.  Hopefully, we'd actually get some valuable intelligence out of them.  Oddly, I no longer felt nervous.  I was doing the job I’d trained to do.  

It was nearly an hour before we heard the whimper.

The area was firmly under control, or so we believed.  The prisoners had been dumped into an armoured van, the locals were being kept out and we were merely making a final sweep for anything we might have missed.  We didn’t - quite - relax, but we weren’t expecting further trouble.  The wankers hadn’t expected such a vigorous response and, I thought, they were reconsidering their tactics.  We were walking past an alleyway when I heard someone moaning in pain.  It could have been a trap, but I couldn't simply leave it; I called it in, informing the sergeant of what we’d heard, then led the way down the alleyway.  Joker followed, watching my back.

I stopped and stared in horror as the alleyway opened into a backyard.  A young girl was bent over a dustbin, her long dress raised, while Young stood behind her, unbuttoning his fly and clearly preparing to have some fun.  Hobbes held her arms firmly in place, his face consumed with an unholy lust.  For seconds - it felt like hours - I just stared.  We’d been taught, time and time again, that molesting the locals was not only stupid, but wrong.  Marines were held to a higher code of conduct and anything that smacked of mistreating anyone would draw harsh punishment.  And yet Young was preparing to commit rape ...

“Get away from her,” I snapped, levelling my rifle and aiming at his head.  “Now!”

Young turned to look at me, then gave a sickly smile.  “No one will miss the bitch,” he said, as the girl’s dress fell back to cover her legs.  “You can have a go too, then we can dump her body and no one will ever know.”

Horror and disbelief were rapidly replaced by anger.  I knew, all too well, just how my sister had died.

“Keep your fucking hands where I can fucking see them,” I ordered, snapping the laser rangefinder to visual.  No one uses them in combat because the beam of light is visible in anything less than bright sunlight, revealing your position to the enemy, but they’re useful for making an unmistakable threat.  Beside me, Joker covered Hobbes.  “You’re a fucking ...”

I got control of my anger, then muttered a command into the intercom.  People passing the buck up the chain of command was one of the reasons the Imperial Army was so screwed up, but there were some matters that could only be handled by a superior officer.  Captain Bilbo and Sergeant Harris arrived within moments, escorted by an entire fire team.  Young and Hobbes were cuffed, stuffed into the van and driven back to the FOB.  The girl was taken with them.  We were told to join the rest of the QRF for the day, then report to Captain Bilbo when we returned to the FOB.  I wasn’t looking forward to the discussion I knew we were going to have, but there was no choice.

“I understand you caught them in the middle of a rape,” the Captain said.  I honestly hadn't had much time to forge an impression of him, save for dedication and determination.  “Do you believe we should press charges.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.  I fought down the bitter wave of emotion that, somehow, I had never managed to suppress.  My sister’s death had left scars I had never managed to lose.  But that wasn't something I could say to him.  “We have to show the locals that we’re not above the law.”

“Indeed,” the Captain said.  He keyed his intercom.  “Come in!”

I turned ... and blinked in surprise as Young, Hobbes and the girl stepped into the room.  The two men were wearing their uniforms ... and so was the girl.  Hers marked her out as a Field Intelligence Officer.

Joker grabbed for the pistol at his belt.  “Sir?”

I understood, suddenly.  “It was a test, wasn't it?”

“Yes,” Captain Bilbo said.  “A test.  And you passed with flying colours.”

“Oh,” I said.

I knew what he meant.  We weren't training to become soldiers, any more than we were civil guardsmen or militiamen.  We were training to become marines, members of the deadliest brotherhood in history.  We had to live up to our own standards ... and police those amongst our ranks who failed to keep faith with those who had died, serving as marines.  And if that meant enduring a test so realistic that we forgot it was a test, it had to be done.  I didn’t like it, but I accepted it.

It would have been easy to fail.  We could have told ourselves that keeping faith with our comrades was more important than an innocent girl’s life and covered for them.  But that wouldn't have kept faith with the corps.  We’d have been binned - kicked out of training - and we would have deserved it.

“Thank you, sir,” I said.

“Go back to your barracks,” the Captain ordered.  “You’re on QRF tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” we said.

Chapter Two

The population of Earth, in the years before the Fall, was estimated as roughly eighty billion lives. (Just how accurate the estimate was is now impossible to tell.)   It should not be surprising, therefore, that most of the population lived in the CityBlocks; towering constructions that held over a hundred thousand people apiece.  Men and women were born within their CityBlocks and, unless they were lucky enough to escape, lived and died without ever leaving.  It should be no great surprise that the lower levels of those blocks - the Undercity - fell into barbarism long before the Empire itself.
-Professor Leo Caesius

I was born in the Undercity.

If you were born on Avalon - or anywhere, really, outside the Core Worlds - you probably won’t understand what that means.  Imagine a transit barracks from Camelot, with a thousand tiny apartments for immigrants in search of employment and a new life, then scale it up until you get a rabbit warren composed of millions of apartments, each one playing host to a separate family, linked together by dim corridors and illuminated by flickering lights.  Every so often, there’s a school, an entertainment complex, a government office and not much else.  Now imagine another such barracks built next to the first, and then a third barracks built on top of the first two ... 

It was not a pleasant place to live.

Truthfully, I have no idea who fathered me.  My mother, like almost everyone else in the CityBlock, had no job and no particular hope of getting one.  She only survived - and survived poorly - on the regular handout of rations, as ordered by the Grand Senate.  As she received extra rations per child, it was perhaps no surprise that she managed to get pregnant several times, giving birth to five healthy children.  None of us grew up with a father figure, not even when my mother was cohabiting with a man.  They showed no interest in us for fear of being charged with our welfare.

I would like to claim we learned to look after each other, but the dog-eat-dog attitude of the Undercity ensured that we didn’t.  Trevor, my older brother, was a bully who’d learned that the only way to avoid being bullied was to be a bully himself.  He was fond of saying, as he handed out beatings, that it was for my own good.  The hell of it was that he had a point.  If I hadn't been struggling with him, practically from the day I could walk unaided, I would have been eaten alive by school.  Linda and Dare, my younger sister and brother, learned fast too.  As soon as I was too strong to bully safely, Trevor switched his attentions to them.  The only one of us children who escaped his attentions was Cindy, the baby.

In hindsight, of course, I was incredibly lucky to survive my childhood.  The mortality rate in the Undercity was terrifyingly high and a child could die in so many ways.  It wasn't uncommon for an ill child to be given bad medicine - someone in the assessment office missed the fact that the workers, in order to meet their quotas, had filled the capsules with powdered chalk instead of medicine - or simply to be killed by their parents or a random stranger.  Or in an accident.  The CityBlocks were immensely complex structures, keeping us all alive, yet by the time I was born they were already decaying.  If a child went wandering in the wrong place, the child might well die.  

It only got worse when I went to school, which was mandatory for kids from five to eighteen.  Attendance might have been mandatory, of course, but learning something - anything - was not actually a requirement.  The teachers had no power over us, which meant they were trapped in the sealed complexes with children who had learned that they could get away with almost anything, as long as they picked their targets carefully.  If you showed a hint of weakness in an Undercity school, a hint that you couldn't stand up for yourself, you were targeted.  And the teachers?  They had no power.  They couldn't do anything.

They tell me I’m a brave man.  I’ve walked into firefights without showing a hint of hesitation, even though bullets were flying all around me.  But I wouldn't willingly walk into an Undercity school and try to teach, not with the rules and regulations governing teachers and how they were supposed to relate to the kids.  The merest suggestion that they’d hit a child, or spoken sharply to one, or made the grave mistake of telling them the truth, or hurting their delicate little feelings ... well, let’s just say it would destroy their lives.  Teachers could be insulted, hurt or even killed by their charges and there was nothing anyone would do about it.  I knew five teachers who left the school after being attacked, two of them in body bags.

I was lucky.  I was strong enough to keep myself reasonably safe, thankfully, and Trevor’s beatings had given me just enough empathy to refrain from picking on the weaker souls myself.  By the time I was thirteen, I could actually read and write, which put me head and shoulders ahead of just about everyone else, and I had figured out that most of the classroom tests we were meant to do were pointless.  I spent the time we were meant to be staring at a testing machine - I don’t think I need to say that most of us goofed off - either doing nothing or reading from my datapad.  There wasn't much else to do.

Matters only got worse as I matured.  You can't imagine the horrors running through the schools as we grew interested in sex.  Rape - in all of its horrific forms - was depressingly common, while the rapists were rarely - if ever - punished for their crimes.  A smart girl would find a strong boy, someone capable of protecting her, and attach herself to him in exchange for protection.  Others would hang around in gangs, trying to find strength and security in numbers.  It rarely worked.  There were hundreds of girls in my school on antidepressants, struggling to cope with the realities of helplessness, and countless others who chose suicide, rather than endure another moment of their hellish existence.  When society starts to break down, it’s always the women who get the worst of it.

Like everyone else, I wanted a way out, but how?  My exam results were poor - I just wasn’t a good test-taker - and I didn't have much hope of getting a place at Imperial University, no matter how much they lowered the standards.  Nor did I have much patience, then and now, for bullshit ... and Leo tells me that Imperial University was full of bullshit.  As I turned sixteen, I knew there were only a handful of options awaiting me.  I could go to the gangs and become yet another savage, I could try to raise a family to perpetuate the cycle or I could try to break out.  But how?

It was sheer luck that led me to discover the marines.  One of the teachers boasted constantly about his achievements in the military, as if it would impress or intimidate the barbarians he had to teach.  Perhaps it would have done, if we hadn't been raised on a diet of ultra-violent movies that were both profoundly stupid and anti-military.  The idea of him clowning around like the heroes of those movies struck us as absurd; we laughed at him, of course.  But I grew interested in the military.  Maybe I didn't have the qualifications to go to a colony world as anything other than an indentured colonist - a slave, in other words - but military experience might just offer me a chance to make my way in the world.  I started to look up online resources, glancing through the different files on offer ...

... And it didn't take me long to start sniffing bullshit.

The thing you have to understand - and you probably won’t, if you were born on Avalon - is that the Empire’s military was having a horrific recruitment crisis.  It wasn't getting the sheer number of new bodies it needed, no matter how much it spent on propaganda.  (The idea of giving soldiers respect and a living wage probably never occurred to them.)  The kindest thing civilians on Earth said about the military was that it took idiots off the streets, gave them deadly weapons and pointed them at the enemies of civilisation on other worlds.  By the time I started to look for prospective opportunities, there was a sheer mountain of bullshit about what the military would do for me ... and, as I had learned in the cradle, anything that looks too good to be true probably is.  It was only a reference on a datanet forum that led me to the marines.

Their site was different.  The marines promised nothing to me personally, beyond a chance to make something of myself.  Their site talked about being the best of the best, about fighting enemies on distant worlds ... the more I read their blunt plain-spoken words, the more I liked it.  There was no attempt to lure me in; indeed, if anything, their words were designed to repel anyone who couldn't stand the thought of seeing blood.  The movies they showed me were live combat footage, not elaborate promises of keg parties and girls by the score.  It looked harsh and unpleasant ... but it still looked better than the Undercity.  At least I’d be able to shoot back at my enemies.  

At sixteen, I needed parental permission to enlist.  My mother said no.  My younger siblings needed me, she said, and my older brother might need me too.  I grew frustrated and we exchanged harsh words; there was nothing to look forward to, I said, beyond finding a wife and starting a family of my own.  Or, perhaps, impregnating a dozen different girls, secure in the knowledge that the state would take care of them.  The argument ran backwards and forwards for hours, ending with my declaration that I could seek a special wavier from school - to signal my maturity - or simply wait until my next birthday.  And, with that, I stormed out.

Trevor caught up with me an hour later.  He wasn't too pleased.

“If you go into the military, you might die,” he pointed out, curtly.  “And for what?”

“A chance at a better life,” I said.  “What do we have to look forward to here?”

“I’ve made connections,” Trevor said.  “Why not join us?”

I groaned.  Trevor had joined the Blades, one of the thousands upon thousands of gangs who controlled the Undercity.  They were nasty; they fought each other for territory, or women, or what passed for honour among them ... and, in the meantime, extorted payments from everyone unfortunate enough to live in the territory they controlled.  Their primitive weapons - weapons were, of course, forbidden on Earth - should have been laughable, but their aggression and ruthlessness made them a threat to everyone.  The police?  Don’t make me laugh.  In some places, the gangs paid off the police force; in others, the gangs were the police.

And while Trevor might boast of his connections, I knew better.  He might work his way to the top, but it was far more likely he’d end up dead in a pointless fight.

“It’s pointless,” I said.  I hated the gangsters.  Everyone did, but no one had the nerve to fight them.  No wonder so many young men, denied a healthy outlet for their aggression, set out to join them.  “And I don’t want to lie dead in a sanitation tube.”

Trevor smirked.  “You’d prefer to lie dead on an alien world?”

I shrugged.  There was no point in talking to Trevor.  He only saw the Undercity ... and how best to make himself a major player.  I knew he wouldn't care how many others got hurt, including his family, as long as he became a strong man.  It was the only way to survive in the Undercity.  But I just wanted to get out.

“What about Linda?  Or Dare?  Or Cindy?”  Trevor asked.  “Do you want to leave them here?”

“I could take them with me,” I protested weakly.  Linda was thirteen; Dare, at seven, was already showing signs of becoming a successful bully.  Cindy, the baby, was barely old enough to walk.  “I ...”

“I don’t think the military would be so glad to have you they’d provide accommodation for them too,” Trevor said, sarcastically.  “And what will they do without you?”

He showed no concern for them - or our mother - at all.  And why not?  The Undercity broke down parental bonds, convincing children they shouldn't listen to their parents on one hand and ensuring that parents had no power over their children on the other.  Even I didn't think much of my mother; Trevor would happily have sold her - or our younger siblings - into slavery for money or power.  It wasn't until much later that I learned how horrific - and unhealthy - such an attitude actually was.

Matters rested there for several weeks.  I asked at school for a waiver, but I didn't have the money to pay the bribe and was told I’d have to wait.  Trevor made several attempts to get me into the gangs, alternatively telling me how great it was or making veiled threats against my life.  Linda, growing into womanhood, watched me fearfully.  Trevor had told her that the only thing keeping her safe was my reputation - not his, for some unaccountable reason - and that it would be open season on her when I left.  I asked him why he couldn’t protect her himself and he said nothing, merely glared.  Did it really matter so much to him that I joined the gangs?

I kept quiet and waited, patiently, for graduation.  I’d be seventeen; I could join the military, if I wanted, or seek employment elsewhere.  I spent the time reading more about the marines, and their role in the Empire, while trying to prepare myself as best as I could.  The datanet offered all sorts of pieces of advice, some of it contradictory.  I spent hours in the gym, trying to build up my muscles or running around the track as fast as I could.  I’d never looked so fit, I told myself, as I looked in the mirror.  I was sure the marines would take one look and beg me to join.  

One week before graduation, all hell broke loose.

It was rare for us to have a family dinner.  Our mother would get the rations from the local store, sell half of them to pay for her drug habit and leave the rest in the cupboards for when we felt peckish.  There was never enough, really; it wasn't unknown for older siblings to steal food from their younger siblings.  But Trevor was feeling full of himself for some reason and he’d actually paid for a proper dinner, one that tasted of something other than recycled cardboard.   We were just sitting down to eat when the door unlocked and a stream of masked gangsters raged into the apartment.  Trevor, it seemed, had alienated someone during his desperate struggle for power.  That person - and I never found out who - had decided to nip this upstart challenger in the bud.

Resistance was futile, but I tried.  I knocked one of them out before four more slammed me down and tied my hands and feet with duct tape.  Trevor was slammed down too, despite his fearsome reputation.  Dare, only seven, was thrown against the wall so hard that it cracked his skull.   He died instantly, I hope.  Linda and my mother were not so lucky.  By the time they died, they’d been raped so savagely that death would have come for them anyway.  And Trevor?  I had to watch as they cut him open and bled him to death.  

I don’t know why they left me alive, when they’d finally finished their ghastly task.  Perhaps they wanted someone to spread the word, just to make sure everyone knew they were bastards, or perhaps the drugs they were taking as they had their fun interfered with their thoughts.  It took me hours to wriggle free and, when I stumbled over to the cot, I discovered that my baby sister was dead.  They’d put a pillow over her head and ...

My family was dead.

The Undercity doesn't encourage you to care.  I knew people who had quite happily done horrific things to their families and gotten away with them.  Trevor probably would have sold his younger sisters for power, if he’d been asked.  And yet, I felt a pang as I stared down at their bodies.  None of them had asked to be born, nor to grow up in hell.  I forced myself to close their eyes, then step back from the bodies.  There was nothing else I could do for them.

I knew there was no point in reporting the crime.  No one would give a damn.  It wasn't as if anyone in the Undercity had friends.  Hell, I was sure the neighbours had heard the screams, but they’d done nothing.  And I knew there was no point in trying for revenge.  I didn't know who to target, let alone where to find them.  All I could do was shower, change into something clean and search the apartment for money before leaving and closing the door, one final time.  I have no doubt that our neighbours broke in the following day and took whatever they wanted, but I have no idea what happened to the bodies.  They were probably carried to the nearest trash chute and dumped in.

Using some of Trevor’s money, I boarded a tube and set off for the recruiting office.  I was an orphan, without parents.  There was no one to grant me permission to enlist - and no one who could object.  Maybe the military would take me ...

... Because, as I knew all too well, there was nowhere else to go.

Chapter Three

I am often asked why so few civilians from Earth joined the military, even when it was clear the military would offer them a better life.  To that, all I can say is that military service was not only roundly mocked on Earth, but also dismissed.  There was, in their view, nothing and no one worth fighting for.  The Grand Senate commanded neither respect nor loyalty.
-Professor Leo Caesius

I must have looked a sight on the tube as it progressed from the lower levels up to the more civilised sections of the CityBlock.  Maybe I had showered, maybe I had changed my clothes, but my eyes were haunted and my fists were clenched.  I was grimly aware of men eying me sharply and women inching away from me, as if I was a wolf who had come to prowl amongst the sheep.  I think I hated the upper-blockers at that moment, hated them more intensely than Trevor or the men who’d destroyed my family; the upper-blockers had lives and opportunities few of us could even dream about.  It wasn't until much later that I learned they had problems of their own.

It was a relief when I finally reached the recruiting stations.  There were a handful of recruiting stations, most showing glamorous posters of men in uniform or starships performing immensely dangerous manoeuvres.  The Imperial Navy, it seemed, was determined to milk the old line about all the nice girls liking spacers for as much as it could get, while the Imperial Army and Civil Guard talked about being all one could be.  Only the marines were different, their office decorated with a simple picture of a marine in a muddy field.  The sign on the door stated that the office was closed for the day, but it would be opening in a number of hours.  I had nowhere else to go, so I sat down on the step and closed my eyes.

I must have dozed off, for the next thing I remember was a man peering down at me.  He looked friendly enough, yet there was a perceptiveness in his gaze that bothered me at a very primal level.   I had the impression - and nothing I saw later ever belied it - that he could see right through me.  We stared at each other for a long moment, then I hastily stood and stepped aside, allowing him to open the office.

“I want to enlist,” I said.

He gave me a look that was neither welcoming nor unfriendly.  I felt an unaccustomed pit in my stomach as he looked me up and down, then beckoned me to step into the office.  Inside, it was dark and bland, almost Spartan.  The walls were bare, save for a single rank chart and a couple of medals.  I assumed, in the absence of other evidence, that they belonged to the man who’d met me.  He sat down behind a desk and pointed me to a chair, then tapped a terminal keyboard.  The system came to life with a contented hum.

“I am Recruiting Sergeant Muhammad Bakker,” he said, shortly.  “Before we begin, there is one piece of advice I want you to bear in mind at all times.  Never - ever - try to lie to me.”

“I won't,” I said.  

Somehow, I doubted Bakker would be fooled if I tried to lie.  There was something in the way he moved that spoke of an easy confidence, a self-certainty so strong that it had no need to justify itself.  I’d met men with more muscles, men who looked more intimidating ... and none of them had seemed so capable.  I wished, with a sudden bitter intensity, that some of our teachers had had that attitude.  Our schools might have actually been worth something.

“Good,” Bakker said.  He took my ID card and ran it through the scanner, then shrugged when no obvious red cards appeared.  “Tell me why you want to join the marines.”

I swallowed.  I had my reasons, but how could I put them into words?

“Because I want to be something more,” I said, finally.  “Because ... because I don’t want to remain stuck in the Undercity.”

Bakker lifted his eyebrows.  “And you feel the marines can offer you that chance?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.  The sir just slipped out automatically.  His attitude commanded respect, even from an Undercity brat.  “I don’t want to go back there.”

His eyebrows lifted again.  “Is this one of those enlistments when the recruit wants to be shipped out at once?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Explain,” he ordered.

I did, starting with my pathetic education and ending with the death of my family.  Bakker listened, saying nothing, as I went through the whole story, his face utterly expressionless.  I cursed myself mentally, wondering if I should have worked harder at school.  Maybe if I’d had better grades, no matter how pointless, he might have enlisted me on the spot.

“I see,” Bakker said, when I had finished.  “Do you have a criminal record?”

“No, sir,” I said.

“Very good,” he said.  He glanced at his terminal.  “Piss-poor academic standing, young man.”

“The tests are useless, sir,” I said.  His eyebrows rose, once again.  “All they do is test how well you can swallow, then spit back the material.  I forgot everything I was taught as soon as the test was over.”

“How true,” Bakker agreed.  He gave me a considering look.  “Can you read?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, irked.  It wasn't a stupid question - I doubted that more than ten percent of the Undercity’s inhabitants could even recite the alphabet - but it was annoying.  “I mastered reading at a very early age.”

He took a datapad from a drawer, tapped a switch and passed it to me.  “Read this out loud.”

I glanced down at the datapad, then started to read.  “I, insert your own name here, agree to submit myself for testing in line with the Military Readiness and Accountability Act,” I said.  “I understand that data collected ...”

Bakker held up a hand.  “Finish it silently, then summarise it for me.”

I felt sweat prickling down my back as I finished reading the document.  “It says ... it says that some of these tests can only be given with prior permission,” I said, carefully.  “And that I’m not allowed to be offended by the results.”

“Press your finger against the reader, if you agree,” Bakker said, tonelessly.  It was obvious that he considered the whole procedure to be bullshit.  “If you don’t agree, get out that door.”

“I agree,” I said.  I hesitated, then asked.  “Why do we have to do this?”

“Because you’re about to undergo a set of aptitude tests,” Bakker said, as he rose to his feet and walked around the desk.  He didn't make any attempt to loom over me, yet I still couldn't help feeling intimidated.  “By law, those tests can only be given with permission, as testing all children and teenagers is deemed unfair.  They will hopefully suggest your general suitability for the corps and what, if any, role you may be suited for.”

I didn't understand what I was being told until much later.  Aptitude tests measure both developed intelligence and how a person may react, if put into a number of different situations.  They could be used to separate a prospective computer expert from a prospective janitor and, as such, were considered unfair by the educational community.  It wouldn't do, they said, to tell a teenager that he or she wasn’t suited to be anything more than a cleaner or garbage disposal man.  It would only undermine their self-confidence.

“You clearly didn't take the standardised tests seriously,” Bakker said.  He led me through a hidden door and into another room.  It was empty, save for a computer sitting on a desk and a water dispenser placed against the wall.  “This test?  You need to take it seriously.  Give each question serious consideration before you answer, if there’s time.”

I blinked.  “If there’s time?”

“Some of these questions have a time limit,” Bakker said.  He sat down in front of the computer, then took me through a couple of sample questions.  “Even the others, the ones without a formal time limit ... we will be measuring just how long you take to answer them.”

He rose, motioning for me to sit down.  “Feel free to take water from the dispenser, if you like,” he added.  “Touch the keyboard when you’re ready to start.”

I stared at the computer, bracing myself, then tapped the switch.  The first question blinked up in front of me.  Dave is smarter than Devon.  Who is stupider?  I stared at it for a moment, then worked out that Devon was the stupider one of the pair.  There was nothing to tell me if I was right or wrong, merely the next question.  The first set were along the same lines, testing my ability to comprehend what I was seeing; the next set were far more complex.  I found myself sweating again as I answered them to the best of my ability, growing increasingly convinced that I was failing badly.  My food-deprived mind was starting to hurt and hurt badly.  By the time the series of questions finally came to an end, I was half-expecting to be unceremoniously booted out of the office.  Instead, Bakker returned and beckoned me through yet another door.

“I need to evaluate your results,” he said.  

He passed me a ration bar and a bottle of juice, then motioned for me to sit and wait.  I had the feeling it was another test, so I sat quietly and ate my ration bar slowly, savouring every morsel.  It tasted far better than the crud we’d been given in the Undercity.  Bakker sat on the other side of the room, tapping away at his datapad.  It felt like hours before he finally looked up at me and smiled, rather cruelly.

“You’ll be pleased to know you meet the minimum necessary requirements for Boot Camp,” he said.  “Do you still want to go?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.  “How well did I do?”

“You met the minimum requirements,” Bakker repeated, shortly.  It wasn't until much later that I learned I’d been placed in the top percentile.  “Have you finished your meal?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Stand against the wall,” he ordered.  “I need to take measurements, as well as a blood sample.  If you took any drugs prior to coming here, this is your one chance to tell me.”

“I didn't, sir,” I said.

“You’d be amazed at just how many idiots think they can fool a blood test,” Bakker said, as he picked up an injector tube.  I refused to show any sign of unease as he pressed it against my arm, withdrawing a small sample of blood.  “Do you have anything you want to confess to me now?”

“No, sir,” I said.

“Good,” Bakker said.  He put the blood sample in a machine I didn't recognise, then measured my height and weight manually.  “Decent enough, I suppose.  You really need to put a bit more weight on, but they’ll take care of that at Boot Camp.”

He turned back to the machine, then nodded.  “Your blood sample seems to be clear,” he added.  “Do you have any allergies that you know about?  Any medical problems?  Any genetic enhancement in the family?”

“No, sir,” I said.  Getting ill could be the kiss of death in the Undercity.  “If there was any enhancement, I don’t know about it.”

Bakker frowned.  “There are some traces of hackwork in your blood, but that’s true of most residents of Earth these days,” he said.  “It shouldn't be a problem, as it isn't flagging up any warning signs.  Boot Camp will do a full work-up, if necessary, but I don’t think it will stand in your way.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said, relieved.  “Hackwork?”

“Genetic engineering to fix a hereditary problem,” Bakker said, shortly.  “Your distant ancestors might have had a problem with hay fever, for example, and they might have spliced a modification into your DNA to ensure their descendants didn't have the same problem.”

He met my eyes.  “Your test results, both physical and mental, show that you can proceed forward from here,” he added, changing the subject.  “You may quit at any time, but you have to tell us you quit.  If you decide not to show up for the shuttle flight, you will be listed as a deserter and probably arrested.  It may also be counted against you if you wish to sign up for another branch of the military - and there will not be a second chance to join us.  We don’t want quitters.  Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.  

“There's a scheduled shuttle flight from here to Boot Camp tomorrow, then another two weeks from now,” Bakker said.  “You may, if you wish, leave on the second shuttle, but it’s unlikely I can offer you a later seat.”

“I’ll leave tomorrow,” I said.

Bakker lifted his eyebrows, yet again.  “You don’t want a chance to think about it?”

“No, sir,” I said.  I could live on the streets for a night, if necessary, but not for two weeks, not when I had almost no money with me.  “There’s nothing left for me here.”

“Very well,” Bakker said.  He reached for another datapad and placed it in front of me.  “I want you to read this carefully, then sign it.  That will put you in the system as a recruit.”

I read through it, page by page.  There wasn't much; it was just a note that I was old enough to enlist, that I understood what I was doing and that I accepted the risk of death, either in combat or in a training accident.  Bakker kept an eye on me as I read the last paragraph twice, then placed my finger against the reader to sign it.  He smiled, took the reader back and held out a hand.  I shook it, feeling committed.  And I was committed.

“This is a rough outline of the training schedule and a list of regulations for Boot Camp,” he said, holding out a set of papers.  “I suggest, very strongly, that you spend the rest of the day reading through them and committing the details to memory.  Here” - he passed me a card - “is the emergency number, which you may ring at any time if you wish to quit.  Your temporary recruit number is printed at the top; don’t bother to memorise it because you won’t keep it past the day you arrive at Boot Camp.  Quote it if you wish to quit so they know who you are.”

“I won’t quit,” I said.

Bakker gave me a nasty smile.  “If I had a credit for every prospective recruit who told me that and then quit, I’d have enough money to afford my own starship,” he said.  “And some of them did better on the tests than you.”

I swallowed.

“Your shuttle will be departing from Admiral Nimitz Military Spaceport at 1700 tomorrow,” Bakker continued.  “Here is your travel warrant, which includes a flight from here to the spaceport, and permission to stay in a recruit hostel on the complex.  It’s free, but I strongly advise you to remember that everything you do may be counted against you.”

I took the piece of cardboard, then placed it carefully into my pocket.  “Thank you,” I said, sincerely.  “Do you ... do you have any pieces of advice?”

“I have plenty,” Bakker said.  “But most of them won’t mean anything to you until it’s too late.”

He looked me in the eye.  “There’s a list of what you can take in the paperwork,” he said, after a moment.  “Don’t worry about clothing, as that will be supplied, and don’t take anything illegal.  If you have anything with you that isn't on the list, dump it before you get on the shuttle.  And don’t go out partying after you reach the hostel, no matter what invites you get from your fellows.  A high alcohol count in your blood when you enter Boot Camp will be enough to get you in deep shit.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.  I honestly hadn't had a drinking habit, not after one of my stepfathers had shown me just how far a man could fall when he was hooked on booze.  “I won’t drink.”

Bakker smiled.  “The only other piece of advice I will give you is this,” he added.  “At Boot Camp - and the Slaughterhouse - everything is a test.  You will be watched and evaluated constantly by men who have already seen the elephant.  They will contrive a hundred situations where you will be tested on everything from combat skills to moral grounding, just to see how you react.  You will find yourself pushed to the limits, because they will prefer to break you in training rather than have you break in the field.”

That was, if anything, an understatement.  But I didn't realise it until later.

“You can get a flight from here at any time up to 2200,” Bakker warned.  “But I’d suggest you leave now.”

I nodded.  There was no way I wanted to spend too much time in the upper-block.  As soon as he dismissed me, with a set of paperwork and dire warnings about what would happen if I didn't read it all, I hurried up to the airport on the top of the CityBlock and boarded a flight to the military spaceport.  It wasn't a pleasant experience - I had never flown before - but I forced myself to endure it.  I was quite certain there would be a great deal more flying in the marines.

And, as soon as I found the hostel and was given a room, I sat down and started to shake.  My family was gone, my old life was wiped from existence ... and I was entering a whole new world.  The spaceport alone looked very different from anything I’d seen before; hell, I’d never seen the sky in my entire life, until now.  And tomorrow I was going to leave Earth forever ...

I recalled my family one last time, then forced myself to put the memory in a box.  There was no point in dwelling on the past, not when the bitter pain and helplessness would drag me down into madness.  It was time to look to the future.    

Chapter Four

Mars is the oldest settled world in human space - and one of the very few to ever be terraformed completely.  Indeed, Mars was settled for so long that many people are unsure if humanity was born on Mars or Earth.  However, despite its proximity to Earth, Mars has a far smaller population.  Its combination of harsh environment, natives who dislike immigrants from Earth, and low gravity sees to that.
-Professor Leo Caesius

I was not, of course, the only prospective marine who boarded the shuttle to Mars.  There were thirty of us, twenty-seven boys and three girls.  The latter attracted my attention more than I care to admit; one of them looked muscular, glaring defiantly at any of the boys who dared look at her for longer than a second, while the other two had the edgy brittleness I’d seen at school, the face of a woman who was trying to carry on despite everything that had happened to her.  I didn't speak to them, or any of the boys; none of us spoke, save for a couple of friends who’d signed up together.  We were too lost in our own thoughts to socialise as the shuttle made its way to Mars.  

It was my first shuttle flight and, alas, my first brush with the agoraphobia that bedevilled so many Earthers who left Earth, searching for a new home among the stars.  The sheer wide open vastness of interplanetary space was so different from the endless rabbit warrens of the Undercity that I almost cowered into my seat, before forcing myself to look out of the porthole as the shuttle left Earth.  It had been bad enough on the aircraft, but this was far - far - worse.  I couldn't help feeling that I was all alone, even though I was on a shuttle with twenty-nine other recruits.  By the time the shuttle finally started its descent to Mars, I was torn between a desire to face my fears and a primal urge to hide.  It was something I knew I would have to overcome.

Welcome to Mars, I thought, as the shuttle dropped towards the red-green orb.  And welcome to hell.

The windows went black as we descended, preventing us from seeing anything as we flew down to Boot Camp Olympus Mons.  It was, I learned later, the core marine training facility for Sector 001, accommodating recruits from Earth, Terra Nova and most of the original Core Worlds.  But for the moment, all I could do was brace myself as the shuttle dropped to the ground and landed with a heavy thump on a shuttlepad.  Moments later, we were ordered off the shuttle and onto a landing strip.  A dark-skinned man wearing a white uniform was standing there, glaring at us as if we had personally offended him.  I took one look and felt utterly intimidated.

“Welcome to Boot Camp Olympus Mons,” he growled.  His accent was odd, but understandable.  “Do any of you want to quit now and save time?”

His gaze raked our line, but none of us spoke.

“The shuttle will be staying here for two hours,” he said, after a moment.  “If any of you want to quit, you can get back on the shuttle and go home, no questions asked.  There’s no shame in admitting you don’t have the guts to do something.  However, we are over three hundred miles from the nearest settlement.  If you head off into the badlands, the chances of you making it to safety are very remote - and, in the unlikely event of you surviving, you will promptly be arrested for being a deserter.  I strongly advise you, if you feel like quitting, to do it the proper way.  There is no shame, again, in admitting you cannot make it through basic training.”

He waited, again, then cleared his throat loudly.  “I am Sergeant (Recruit Processing) Darren Cobb.  It is my job to get you through this day, nothing else.  Tomorrow, you will meet the Drill Instructors who will have the task of breaking you down and turning you into marines.  Until then, do as you’re told and you might just survive the day.  Follow me.”

I winced inwardly - I wasn't the only one - and followed him as he led us towards a large building at the far side of the shuttlefield.  The mountains in the distance were red, but covered with flecks of green; the air was hot and humid, warm enough to send sweat pouring down my backside.  Cobb shouted encouragement at us as we half-ran into the building, then stopped in front of a set of doors, each one numbered and topped with a bright red light.  I couldn't help thinking that it looked very much like a doctor’s waiting room.

“Halt,” Cobb bellowed.  He pointed a hand towards the doors.  “When the red light above the door goes green, I want one of you recruits to walk through the door.  Ladies, you will take door one.  Everyone else, take doors two to seven.”

The lights turned green.  We started forward.

“One at a time,” Cobb reminded us, sharply.  He jabbed fingers at six of us men, pointing them towards the doors.  “The rest of you, wait.”

I waited, feeling the heat in the room steadily starting to rise, until the lights turned green again.  There was no sign of the men who’d already gone forward.  Cobb pointed to six more men, including me, and motioned us forward.  I sighed, braced myself as best as I could, and walked through the door.  Inside, there was a large table, a plastic box placed on top of it, and a grim-faced woman standing behind it.

“Undress,” she ordered.  “Place everything you brought with you into this box, including your clothes.  You’ll be leaving this room as naked as the day you were born.”

I blinked.  “Naked?”

“Are you deaf?”  She asked, nastily.  “Undress and place everything you brought with you into this box.”

I swore under my breath - I had never liked being naked - and did as I was told.  Her gaze showed no interest in me, but I still felt exposed as I removed my underwear, folded it neatly and placed it into the box.  The handful of items I’d brought with me followed; she looked me up and down, perhaps checking to make sure I wasn't carrying anything in my hands, then snapped the box closed.

“You can claim this back the day you leave Boot Camp,” she informed me, as she jabbed a finger at the far door.  “Go through that door.”

I obeyed, feeling cold as the door opened.  This one led to a doctor’s room, with a man wearing a white coat standing next to an examination table.  I gritted my teeth, expecting to be poked and prodded mercilessly, but he merely took another blood sample, examined my teeth and ran a scanner over my eyes.  I couldn't help wondering why the regular medical check-ups at school couldn't be so simple, although I suspected I knew the truth.  There was so great a risk of being sued that every test had to be done, even if they were complete wastes of time.

“Healthy enough,” the doctor grunted.  He pressed an injector against my neck and pushed the trigger before I could object.  I felt a sudden sting as ... something ... was shot into my bloodstream.  “It is unlikely you will suffer any side effects from the injection, but if you feel unwell over the next week inform your Drill Instructor at once.  It will not be held against you.”

“Oh,” I said.  “And what is the injection?”

“Broad-spectrum vaccine,” the doctor explained, curtly.  “It will protect you against most diseases known to exist, along with a number that were created in laboratories.”

He looked me up and down, then pointed to yet another door.  “Go.”

I went.  The next room held a barber’s chair and a young man standing there, holding an electric razor.  I suppressed my fear at the thought of anyone holding a sharp instrument next to my throat, then sat down.  There was a buzzing sound, a handful of passes and most of my blond-brown hair fell to the floor.  He held a mirror in front of me and ...

“Shit,” I muttered.

I’d kept my hair short, if only to keep bullies from having something to grab when we were fighting, but the barber had shaved it so close to the scalp that there was barely any left.  I touched it, then looked at my face in the mirror for the second time.  If I hadn't known who I was, I might have doubted it at that moment.  I looked completely different.

“They all say something like that,” the barber said.  He pointed at another far door.  “Don’t worry, it does grow back.  And then I shave it again.”

I rubbed my scalp as I walked into yet another room.  This one held a set of shelves crammed with clothing, managed by an older man who looked tired.  I thought I understood how he felt, if all he had to do was hand out clothing to the recruits.  He held out a set of clothes for me, then pointed to a bench.  I took them and started to get dressed.  The uniform - I couldn't help feeling a tingle of excitement - fitted surprisingly well.

“Make sure you use this marker to mark your clothes,” the man said, holding out a black pen.  “You really don’t want to get it mixed up with everyone else’s clothes.”

I nodded, then took the pen and wrote my name on everything.  He watched me for a long moment, then held out the jacket.  I took it, pulled it over my head and glanced into the mirror hanging from the wall.  I looked very different.  The green uniform made me looked like a real soldier, not just a recruit.  Maybe I would have been mistaken for one, if I hadn't slouched.  The red bands around the shoulders were a bit of a giveaway too.

“Take this bag and check the contents,” the man ordered.  “There’s a masterlist at the top.”

The bag felt lighter than I’d expected.  Inside, there was a spare jacket and trousers, five pairs of pants and socks and a small cleaning kit.  I shuddered - clearly, we were expected to clean our own clothes - and checked everything against the list.  It was complete.  The man nodded wordlessly, passed me a pair of shoes and then pointed to the final door.  Outside, there was another large waiting room, with a handful of recruits standing outside.  A sergeant was watching them, his rugged face unreadable.  I couldn’t help thinking, as I joined them, that we looked identical.  Hell, it took me a moment to spot the girl who’d gone through the doors first.  Without her hair, she looked surprisingly masculine.

Cobb appeared from a side door as soon as the remainder of the recruits had joined us, then led the way out of the building and back into the open air.  I followed, feeling sweaty once again as we half-ran towards the next building.  It was a relief to step back into the air-conditioned chamber, which was crammed with chairs set facing a large podium.  Half of us moved immediately to sit down ...

“And what,” Cobb demanded, “do you think you’re doing?”

He went on before any of us could answer.  “This is Boot Camp, not a pathetic school on your pathetic planet,” he continued.  “You will only sit when you are told to sit.”

There was a long pause.  “Once the other recruits arrive, you will be addressed, here and now, by the commandant of this camp,” he warned.  “When I tell you to sit, you will sit; when he enters, you will rise to your feet until he tells you to sit.  If you are lucky, this will be the last time you meet him until the day you graduate.  Place your bags under the seats, then sit.”

I sat, relieved.  Cobb watched us all through dark eyes, firing off a question from time to time, always aimed at a different recruit.  Some of the questions were understandable, others puzzled me.  I did my best to answer them mentally, hoping I would get one of the understandable questions.  There didn’t seem to be any point in asking what instrument a recruit would play, if he could afford it.  Even now, I’m still not sure I see the logic.

“Stalker,” Cobb snapped.  I did my best not to cringe.  “You have a grenade.  Where do you want your buddies to be when you throw it?”

“Under cover,” I said, at once.  “Or behind me.”

“Behind you,” Cobb repeated.  “Are you trying to be funny, Stalker?”

“No, sir,” I said, hastily.

“You don’t call me sir,” Cobb said.  His voice hardened.  “I am a Sergeant.  As the old saying goes, I work for a living.  You will address me as Sergeant.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” I said.  

I caught myself before I could point out that Bakker hadn't objected.  But then, he had been trying to convince me to join.  Cobb ... had me in his clutches, as long as I didn’t quit.  And I was damned if I was going to quit.

“And relying on your body to shield your comrade from a grenade is unwise, Stalker,” Cobb added, nastily.  I have no idea why he singled me out.  “The blast could easily kill both of you.”

He paused as the door opened, revealing a tall man wearing a dark uniform and a number of medals.  A gold badge - the Rifleman’s Tab - glittered prominently on his collar.  I rose to my feet hastily, followed by the other recruits.  There were over a hundred of us now.  I later discovered that most of them had actually come from the edge of the Core Worlds, rather than Earth itself.  There were eighty billion people on Earth, or so I was told, and yet only thirty of us had left for Boot Camp.

“Be seated,” the newcomer ordered.  His voice was crisp, precise; there wasn’t a hint of doubt in his words.  But there wasn't a sense of threat, either.  He was deliberately presenting a fatherly image to us.  It would have meant more to me if I’d had a father.  “I am Commandant Paul VanGundy, CO Boot Camp Olympus Mons.”

He paused, then spoke on.  “In the Marine Corps, we have a tradition we call Nice Day and Hell Week.  This is Nice Day.  We bring you to Boot Camp, we check your medical condition, we give you this little talk” - he smiled, rather thinly - “and we generally get all our ducks in order before the end of the day.  Hell Week ... is your first real introduction to Boot Camp.  It is no exaggeration to say that we lose around half of our prospective recruits within the first three to four days as they find themselves unable to cope.

“We don't promise you anything, but blood, sweat, tears and the simple awareness that it is all worthwhile.  Those of you who make it through the course will have your chance to go on to the Slaughterhouse, to become part of the finest fighting brotherhood in human history, or to take up a high position in the army, if that is your wish.  I can honestly tell you that I have been a marine for over forty years and I have never regretted sticking with it, even though there were times when I seriously thought about walking away.

“We are, in many ways, the ones who hold the Empire together.  We are the first responders, when a crisis blows up.  We have crushed countless warlords, saved the lives of millions of civilians and helped them to rebuild their worlds.  We rush from crisis to crisis, putting out fires, and we love it; when we retire, we take our expertise to colony worlds and help the settlers establish themselves.  We simply do not know how to quit.

“It will not be easy.  These six months will be the hardest thing you have ever done.  Many of you will quit; others, I'm afraid, will die in training.  Some of you will complete Boot Camp and choose to transfer into the regulars, rather than go to the Slaughterhouse.  But I promise you that it will all be worthwhile.  I look forward to the day I shake your hands as you graduate ... wherever you go, afterwards.  Good luck.”

He nodded to us, then strode out of the room.

The rest of the day passed in a blur.  Cobb took us into another room, administered the oath and organised our pay.  The marines, it turned out, had their own bank; our salaries were paid directly into those accounts for as long as we served, which could then be transferred to another bank after we retired. 

“Anything you need will be issued to you,” Cobb informed us, as we were shown the sole shop on the base.  “If you want anything else, it will be charged to your account ... if, of course, you can convince your Drill Instructor that you need it.”

He showed us a handful of other locations, ending with the first set of recruit barracks.  They were large, crammed with bunks; the toilets - heads, we learned to call them - were at the far end.  I couldn't help noticing that all the female recruits had been taken off somewhere; I learned, later, that they were kept strictly segregated from the males until they passed the first two waypoints.  By the time I was told I could flop into bed, after a dinner composed of ration bars and juice, I was utterly exhausted ... and yet, in a way, happy.  I’d been nervous, and I hadn't liked parts of it, but I could endure six months if necessary ...

In hindsight, of course, that was just laughable.  

Chapter Five

The concept of discipline was largely unknown to the children of Earth, in the final years of the Empire.  They were not forced to learn, let alone develop the skills they needed; the only form of discipline they could rely on was self-discipline and that was extremely hard to develop.  For them, going to Boot Camp - even a relatively mild Boot Camp - would be a complete culture shock.
-Professor Leo Caesius

“GET OUT OF BED!  GET DRESSED!  GET OUTSIDE!  MOVE IT!”

I jerked awake, my head spinning.  Where was I?  Who was shouting?

“GET UP, GET DRESSED, GET OUT,” the voice repeated.  “MOVE IT, RECRUITS!

I rolled out of my bunk, grabbed for my uniform and pulled it on as fast as I could.  All around me, the other recruits were doing the same, banging and crashing into one another as they hurried towards the door, pulling their jackets over their heads as they ran.  Someone grunted in pain as they tripped and fell, two more tripping over the prone body and landing on top of the poor bastard.  The voice kept bellowing orders, practically dragging us out into the darkness.  It wasn't quite pitch dark outside, but it was dark enough to keep us disoriented.

“LINE UP,” the voice bellowed.  “FEET ON THE YELLOW FOOTPRINTS!”

In my dazed state, it took me a moment to see the yellow footprints on the ground, glowing slightly in the darkness.  We ran forward, the voice growing more and more impatient as the last of us scurried out of the barracks, and rested our feet on the footprints.  I would later learn that these were to help us stand at attention, but for the moment all I could do was wonder in horror just what I’d managed to get myself into.  This wasn't anything like the last couple of days!  I cursed myself for a fool for thinking it could be anything else.

The lights came on, throwing the entire scene into sharp relief.  Three men stood in front of us, wearing Smoky the Bear Hats.  (No, I don’t know who Smoky the Bear was, but his name lives on with us.)  I’d thought that Bakker and Cobb were intimidating, but these two were far - far - worse.  Their faces were set in expressions that promised pain, their eyes seeming to peer straight into our very souls, while their bodies were staggeringly muscular.  I had never seen anyone so tough, not even among the gangs.  They struck me as men who would dominate anywhere they chose to live.

“I am Drill Instructor Douglas Bainbridge, Top Hat,” the leader said, in a slightly more normal tone of voice.  “To my left is Drill Instructor Scott Nordstrom, Black Hat; to my right, Drill Instructor Alan Johnson, Hard Hat.  Our mission is to train each and every one of you to become a Terran Marine.  Starting now, you will treat me and every other marine you meet with the highest respect.  Do you understand me?”

There was a ragged chorus of understanding.

“In future, you will answer YES SIR or NO SIR,” he said.  “Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” we said.

“Louder than that,” he ordered.  “Again!”

“YES, SIR,” we screamed.

“Better,” Bainbridge said, grudgingly.  “This course is designed to separate those who can handle it from those who can’t.  If you want to quit, raise your hand and say so.  We will dismiss you from the training platoon, arrange shipping back to wherever you come from and wave goodbye without regret.  There’s no shame in admitting you can’t handle it.  It might even be easier to give up now.”

He gave us all a sardonic look, daring us to quit.  “The three of us will be with you at all hours of the day,” he added.  “We will accept nothing less than the best from you; in return, we will treat you with firmness, fairness, dignity and compassion.  If you feel that you have been abused by any of us, you are expected to take the complaint to the base commandant.  Do you understand me?”

“YES, SIR,” we bellowed.

“I didn’t quite hear that,” Bainbridge said, cocking his head as though he was deaf.  “Again!”

“YES, SIR,” we bellowed.

“There are four ways you can leave this place,” he said.  He made a show of ticking them off his fingers as he spoke.  “You can quit.  You can die.  You can commit an offense against the Imperial Code of Military Justice and get booted out.  Or you can graduate and go on to a long and successful career in the military.  We will be covering the Imperial Code of Military Justice every day until you can memorise all fifty of the headshots that will kill your career, but for the moment all you need to know is that you must obey orders from seniors such as myself without hesitation.  Do you understand me?”

“YES, SIR,” we shouted.

“Good,” Bainbridge said.  He looked from recruit to recruit.  “For the moment, you are all part of Recruit Training Company OM4574, Platoon 2.  Do not forget those details unless you are reassigned to another unit.  If asked, you are expected to shout out the number without hesitation.  Do you understand me?”

“YES, SIR,” we bellowed.  My throat was started to get sore.

Bainbridge didn't look as though he cared.  “From now on, you will talk about yourself in the third person,” he said.  “You will refer to yourselves as ‘this recruit.’  You” - he pointed at a young man I didn't know - “where were you born?”

“I was born on ...”

“I?  I?”  Bainbridge demanded.  He didn't move, but the atmosphere suddenly became a great deal more intimidating.  “I?”

The recruit stumbled backwards, clearly terrified.

“No, keep your feet on the footsteps,” Bainbridge ordered.  “Try again!”

“YES, SIR,” the recruit bellowed.  He took a breath.  “This recruit was born in Rowdy Yates Block, Earth.”

“Better,” Bainbridge said.  His eyes swept the row, looking for a second victim, and I found myself praying he didn't choose me.  No such luck.  “You” - he jabbed his finger at me - “where were you born?”

I had to swallow before I could answer.  “This recruit was born in Jackson King Block, Earth,” I said.

Bainbridge eyed me for a long moment - it took all I had to stand my ground - then moved to the next victim.  I watched, feeling suddenly hungry, as he checked with five more recruits, telling one of them off for getting it wrong after watching four others getting it right.  The other Drill Instructors watched us, their eyes following our every movement.  They hadn't said a word and yet I was far too aware of their presence.  It was almost like sharing a room with Trevor again ...

... And yet, none of them gave a damn about me.

“I’m sure we’re all feeling cold right now,” Bainbridge said, as he returned to his position in front of us.  “You see that building over there?  That’s where they’re serving the slop that will keep you warm and healthy while we break you down and build you up again.  When I blow the whistle, I want you to run over to the building and line up outside the door.  Do you understand me?”

“YES, SIR,” we bellowed.

Bainbridge smirked, then blew the whistle.  We turned towards the building and ran, rapidly falling into a disorganised mass.  The three Drill Instructors ran behind us, shouting encouragement; we rapidly discovered that the building was further away than it seemed.  By the time we reached the door, we were sweating buckets and gasping for breath.  None of the Drill Instructors even seemed to be winded.  I fought for breath as Bainbridge eyed us darkly, then made another show of consulting his watch.

“Over fifteen minutes to run one and a half miles,” he sneered.  He gave the recruits who had finished last a sharp look.  “Pathetic.  Absolutely pathetic.  And to think you’re going to be ruining my corps.”

I swallowed, again.  I hadn't finished last, not by any means, but I knew I hadn't done anything like as well as the Drill Instructors.  Several of us glared at the slower runners, as if they were to blame for the delay, then straightened up as the Drill Instructors eyed us warningly.

“This is the Chow Hall,” Bainbridge said, raising his voice slightly.  “Inside, you will take one plate from the pile, one serving of food from the cooks, one glass of juice from the dispenser and finally take a seat at the nearest table.   You will not eat or drink anything until I permit you to eat.  Do you understand me?”

“YES, SIR,” we stammered.

“Shout louder,” Bainbridge ordered.  “Again!”

“YES, SIR,” we bellowed, somehow.

“Inside,” Bainbridge ordered.

I wasn't sure what to expect from the Chow Hall, but it turned out to resemble a school dining room.  The only real difference was that there weren't any armoured bars protecting the cooks from the students, although I rather doubted anyone on the base would dare pick a fight with the cooks.  All the material I’d read insisted that all marines, even logistics staff, were riflemen first, having passed both Boot Camp and the Slaughterhouse.  I took a plate, received a serving of food from the cook and took a glass of juice before sitting down.  The food didn't look very appetizing, but it smelled heavenly.

Bainbridge watched us all closely, snapping and snarling at anyone who even looked as though they were going to start eating.  The other Drill Instructors got their own meals and sat down at the table, but Bainbridge neither ate nor sat.  Instead, he strode up and down, eying us nastily.  He didn't even give us permission to eat when the last of the recruits sat down and waited, nervously.

“You may eat,” he said, finally.

I grabbed for my spoon and started to dig into the slop.

“Wait,” Bainbridge snapped.  “Haven’t you forgotten something?”

I swore.  I wasn't the only one.

“YES, SIR,” we bellowed.

“Good,” Bainbridge said.  “Eat.”

The food had the same consistency as porridge, but tasted better.  It wasn't until later that I learned that it was seeded with various compounds to boost our energy levels, develop our muscles and enhance our appetites.   We ate in silence, listening to Bainbridge telling us more about the Marine Corps and the standards we would be expected to uphold, if we made it through another week of Boot Camp.  I looked from face to face as he advised us not to get too close to anyone, not until Hell Week was over.  It wasn't uncommon, apparently, for Hell Week to convince half the recruits to raise the white flag and quit.  I wondered, at the time, how many of my fellows had homes to go back to, if they left.  There was nowhere for me to go.

We had just finished when the door opened and a second platoon entered, led by another Drill Instructor.  I stared at them; they wore the same uniform as we did, but they held themselves like real soldiers, not children playacting at being men.  They walked in step, they carried actual weapons ... and there was something about them, a confidence, that I knew none of us showed.  Bainbridge let us study them in silence for a long moment - I later learned that absolutely nothing in Boot Camp, including that meeting, happens by coincidence - and then bellowed for us to rise to our feet.  We looked like a bunch of slobs compared to the older platoon.

“And just what,” Bainbridge demanded, “do you think you are doing?”

He eyed a recruit darkly, while the rest of us were silently grateful he wasn't looking at us.

“Sir ... ah ... this recruit is saving food,” the recruit said.  He reminded me of myself, a little, or perhaps of the boys at school who were hounded away from the dining hall at lunchtime and never had enough to eat.  “This recruit couldn’t eat everything on his plate.”

“There is no need to save food,” Bainbridge snapped.  His voice softened, just slightly.  “And when you see the medic, tell him about it.”

He looked us up and down, then led us out of the door and back into the morning air.  It felt warmer now, although the sun had barely peeked over the horizon.  Mars, I later discovered, had one hell of a greenhouse effect, something designed to trap what little heat the planet received in the atmosphere.  For the moment, all that mattered was that it felt warmer, but I had the uneasy feeling that it was going to get warmer still.

“This time, we are going to march back to the barracks,” Bainbridge informed us.  “Line up in a single column, then follow the recruit in front of you.”

It wasn't anything like as easy as it sounded, I discovered.  Our first attempt at marching forward in unison proved to be an embarrassing disaster.  Bainbridge and his fellows ran up and down, snapping and snarling at us, until we were shuffling forward, putting one foot forward and then the other.  It was hard to hold back the tendency to move faster, or to accidentally walk into the person in front, but we managed it - eventually.  Bainbridge chanted a drill march - a cadence - as he took the lead, walking us slowly back to the barracks.  I found myself joining in the singing as we marched and I wasn’t the only one.

“Get inside, stuff all your crap in your bags and get back out here,” Bainbridge ordered, shortly.

“YES, SIR,” we bellowed.

We were learning, I told myself, as I recovered my bag from the locker and hurried back out of the barracks.  The Drill Instructors pointed me towards the yellow footprints, waiting for the others; Bainbridge strode up and down, glowering at the latecomers, then finally waved us all forward into line when we were done.

“If you need anything you left behind,” he informed us, “it will be coming out of your pay.”

He paused as I frantically tried to remember if I’d left anything behind.  I didn’t think I had, but what if I was wrong?  I had only the vaguest idea of just how much the items in the bag cost ... and, in truth, I wasn't sure how much free cash I’d have.  It wasn't unknown for employers on Earth to withhold over seventy percent of the money they were meant to pay their employees, just to meet taxes or to keep them dependent.  I hadn't realised - yet - that the Marine Corps didn't work that way.

“Follow me,” Bainbridge ordered, when that had sunk in.  “One, two; one, two; one, two ...”

It felt like hours of marching, winding our way through a series of buildings that looked depressingly identical, before we reached another set of barracks.  Bainbridge stopped outside, then looked us up and down.  We did our best to look back at him, but very few of us could meet his gaze.

“These are your barracks now,” he said.  His voice was very calm.  “Most of you will be staying here until you complete Phase Two Recruit Training, whereupon you will be moved to new accommodation.  You will be responsible for keeping your sleeping quarters in shape.  They will be inspected every morning, after reveille.   Anyone who fails to keep his bunk in shape will be given a hefty dose of Incentive Training.  Do you understand me?”

“YES, SIR,” we bellowed.

He led us into the barracks and pointed towards the nearest bunk.  “The last occupants of these barracks did it up for you,” he snarled, in a tone that suggested he thought we should have started from scratch.  “Note just how it has been done, because that’s what we want to see every day.  The showers and toilets are to be cleaned once a day too and the floor is to be swept - we expect you to sort out your own rota for cleaning.  You’ll find cleaning equipment in the cupboard.”

I swallowed.  I’d been a teenage boy.  Okay, I wasn't as bad as some of the assholes from school who would deliberately make a mess, just to force someone to clean it up, but I’d still been pretty messy.  My mother had never tried to get us to do chores, or clean the apartment; I honestly didn't know where to begin.  And, judging from some of the looks, nor did most of my fellow recruits.

“One of us will be sleeping there, every night,” Bainbridge continued, pointing to a bunk by the door.  “After Hell Week, one of you will also take watch every night.  Should you notice any problems with your fellow recruits, we expect you to bring it to us.  Homesickness is not uncommon among new recruits.  Later, there may be depression, even suicidal thoughts.”

I wasn't impressed.  Why would I want to go home?

“Place your bags in the lockers, then meet me back outside,” Bainbridge ordered.  “If any of you need to go to the head” - the toilets - “go now.”

The locker was barely large enough for my bag, but I managed to put it inside and check out the showers and toilets before going back outside.  They were communal - there was no such thing as communal showers and toilets on Earth, for fear of lawsuits - and the thought of either stripping naked or having a shit in front of my new comrades was appalling.  But it was clear I had no choice.  None of us did.

I can endure, I told myself, as I stepped back into the warm air.  Whatever they throw at me, I can endure.

“Now,” Bainbridge said, in a sweet voice that fooled absolutely no one.  “Who wants to learn how to do a push-up?” 

Chapter Six

Everything in Boot Camp is meant to be a teachable moment, even if it’s nothing more than a lesson in what not to do.
-Professor Leo Caesius

We lost our first recruit later that day.

I never knew his name.  In truth, I barely remember him as anything other than the wimp who opened the floodgates.  There’s a certain reluctance among humans to be the first to do anything, be it the first to put up one’s hand or the first to quit military training.  But once someone actually takes that first step, others follow.  We had been told, time and time again, that there was no shame in quitting - and there was some truth to it - but at the same time we needed to develop the stubbornness not to quit.  The reluctance to be the first might have saved many of us from quitting within the first few days of Boot Camp.

“When you do something mildly stupid,” Bainbridge told us, as soon as we gathered outside the barracks, “you will be given push-ups to do.  This serves as both a punishment to remind you of your own stupidity and a chance to do more exercise, which will help you to develop more upper body strength.  You will not be expected to do many push-ups now, but as you progress you will be given more and more to do every day.”

He dropped to the ground, rested briefly on his chest and then used his arms to push his entire body upwards.  I watched, doubtfully, as he lowered himself until his chest was almost touching the ground, then pushed himself back up again.  It didn't seem to cost him any effort at all.

“You are not to allow your body to return to the ground until you have finished,” Bainbridge said, without standing up. “As you can see” - he lowered himself to the ground; Nordstrom blew a whistle, making us all jump - “we will be watching and we will add more push-ups for you to do, just to make sure you get the right amount of exercise.”

He jumped to his feet, then smiled at us.  “Spread out,” he ordered, “then lie down on the ground.”

I scowled as I fell to my knees, then rested on the hard ground.  I’d gotten them wrong, back when I’d been trying to make myself stronger; I’d lowered my body to the ground every time, rather than just at the end.  I had a feeling I was going to find it hard to keep my body in the air, no matter how hard I tried.  Bainbridge glanced from recruit to recruit, then motioned for us to lift up our bodies.  It felt easy at first, resting on my hands, but the longer I kept my body in the air the harder it grew.  The aches and pains were surprisingly strong.

“Lower yourself, gently,” Bainbridge ordered.  “Do not touch the ground.”

I tried.  It wasn't easy, but somehow I managed to hold my chest an inch above the ground.  I heard the whistle blow, again, as some unlucky recruit was caught resting his chest on the ground; I felt a flicker of sympathy, which I ruthlessly suppressed.  My arms were aching badly now; it was almost a relief when I was ordered to lift my body again, even though the aches and pains were getting worse.  Bainbridge ordered us to lower ourselves again, then rise; the whistle blew, several times, as others failed to follow orders.  By the time we had stumbled through ten push-ups, I felt as though my arms were on the verge of breaking.  It looked as though others felt the same.

“Only nine of you managed to follow orders and keep your chests off the ground,” Bainbridge said, in a disgusted tone.  I couldn't help a flicker of pleasure at being one of the few who’d made it, even though I knew it had been a damn close shave.  “Let’s try that again, shall we?”

There was a collective groan as we fell back to the ground and stumbled through another ten push-ups.  This time, I managed to get through five before I lost control and fell to the ground.  The whistle blew - my face went red with shame - and somehow I started again, plodding through the remaining five push-ups.  I doubted the Drill Instructors would be pleased, really.  But they’d sighted another target.

“Recruit,” Nordstrom snapped, pointing at a young man who couldn't have been any older than myself.  “Did you only do one push-up before parking your chest on the ground?”

The recruit looked terrified.  “No, sir,” he said, weakly.  “I ...”

Nordstrom purpled.  “I?  I?”

There was a nasty pause.  “I quit,” the recruit said, finally.  “I want to go home.”

Some of us sniggered.  Bainbridge shot us all a dark look and we shut up, instantly.

“Very well,” Nordstrom said.  His voice dripped honey and battery acid.  “A wise decision, if I may say so.  Walk to the administrative building over there and report to the front desk.  They’ll send you home.”

I watched the former recruit go before we were sucked back into more physical training.  A day?  No, not even a day; I wasn't sure of the time, but I knew it couldn't be later than 1100.  He’d gone through Nice Day, but Hell Week had defeated him.  I wondered just what would happen when he got home, if he had a home to go to, then pushed the thought to the back of my mind.  Later, I would be glad that that person wouldn't be behind me when I went to war.

“See how easy it is to quit?”  Bainbridge asked.  “Anyone else want to go now?”

There was an awkward pause.  No one said a word.  I tried to avoid rubbing my arms as the Drill Instructors looked at us, then started to show us more exercises.  Some of them were easy enough, others were far more complicated; the stretching exercises, in particular, seemed designed to tear our limbs from their sockets.  I puzzled over them as we were put through our paces, then ordered to take another run to the Chow Hall and back.

“There are fifty headshots - criminal acts - you can commit that will get you kicked out of Boot Camp,” Bainbridge informed us, as we ran.  “These include insubordination, use of drugs, tobacco and alcohol, possession and/or consumption of food outside designated eating periods, possession of any contraband, failure to perform duties as assigned to you by lawful authority, being absent without leave and, last, but far from least, fraternisation.  To repeat; any of those offences will get you a punishment that may range from summarily discharged to court martial and execution.  You will have those offences read to you every day, along with the definition of each offence.  You will have no excuse for committing any of them!”

“Fraternisation,” Nordstrom said.  He was talking and running, but he didn't sound even remotely winded.  “Sexual contact with a marine, marine recruit, marine auxiliary or marine consultant.  Punishment: immediate discharge from the corps.  You may request a court martial, if you wish, but a court martial can heap additional punishment on you if it feels you have no acceptable excuse.”

I glanced at the recruits running beside me.  They were all male: hot, sweaty, smelly and tired.  It didn't seem likely that I’d come to see any of them as potential conquests, assuming I’d have the energy.  The files I’d read told me that we’d be worked to death every day, then woken up after seven hours of sleep to do it all over again.  It wasn't until later that I learned just how badly sexual integration had damaged the Imperial Army when the discipline to enforce regulations against fraternisation had faltered.  The Marine Corps was determined not to allow it to undermine its fighting power.

The day started to blur into a haze as we worked our way through a long program of exercises, running, more exercises and yet more running.  I rapidly realised that Bainbridge hadn't been kidding about using push-ups as punishment; every little mistake, no matter how minor, was greeted with an order to do an immediate ten push-ups.  Nordstrom watched us closely, snapping orders to repeat the entire ten push-ups if a single one was dropped.  We lost two more recruits after lunch, when one gave up in the middle of a push-up and the other tried to throw a punch at Nordstrom.  The Drill Instructor caught his arm and asked if he wanted to quit.  It wasn't until later that I realised it was a mercy.  Legally, the recruit could have been put in front of a court martial for attempting to strike a superior officer.

By the time we staggered back into barracks, we were tired, cranky and utterly drained ... but it didn't end.  The Drill Instructors lined us up in front of the showers and demonstrated how to use them, one by one.  I couldn't believe it when they told us we were expected to wash by numbers - heads, then arms, then legs, etc - but they were insistent.  Somehow, I forgot my embarrassment as we were marched through a hasty shower, then were guided towards our bunks.  I noted that several of the other recruits clearly intended to go to the head after the rest of us were fast asleep.  It was hard to blame them.  I knew, all too well, what could happen to people at school who were caught in the toilets by the bullies.

“If you wish to make a head call,” Bainbridge informed us, once we had all showered and changed into a fresh set of underwear, “you must ask permission from the watch officer.  It doesn't matter how urgent it is; request permission from the officer before leaving your bunk.  For the moment, that’s the Drill Instructor on duty.”

He pointed to the bunks, then strode back towards the front of the building.  “Lights will dim in ten minutes,” he added.  “After that, anyone moving around without permission will be in deep shit.”

I believed him.  Hastily, I scrambled into my bunk and closed my eyes.  It had been hard sleeping in a crowded barracks last night, but this time I fell asleep almost at once.  My entire body was sore after running hundreds of miles - it certainly felt like hundreds of miles - and I was dreading the rest of Hell Week.  It would be easy to quit, I knew, but where would I go if they sent me home?  I had the feeling that begging for mercy wouldn’t get me anywhere - and even if it did, what could they do?  Perhaps they could send me to a colony world ...

... But I still wouldn't have any stake, no money to buy land.  Maybe I’d be better than an indent, but not - alas - by much.

It felt like seconds had passed before Bainbridge started shouting at us, again.  I’d been too tired to realise - and I should have realised - that we would be woken up in bare hours and driven back out to the training field.  I jerked out of bed - my body felt stiff and unfamiliar - and groped for my uniform, cursing under my breath.  Hell Week wasn't called Hell Week because some asshole had wanted to make it sound bad.  Someone literally fell out of bed with a crash, then picked himself up just before Nordstrom stamped over to check he was alive and well.  I barely had time to notice before we were headed back outside, where the sun was just peeking over the horizon.  The Drill Instructors looked disgustingly fresh and eager as they looked us up and down, then started to point out all the problems with our uniforms.

“We expect you to be out, in future, within five minutes,” Bainbridge said, once he had finished telling us off for a number of minor problems, including - in one case - forgetting to don underwear.  I honestly don’t know, even today, just how Bainbridge knew the poor recruit was going commando.  “Those of you who don’t get out in time will be doing more push-ups.  Now drop and give me twenty.”

“YES, SIR,” we bellowed, somehow.

We dropped and, somehow, stumbled through the push-ups, even though our bodies were aching from the previous day.  Oddly, the heavy exercise helped me feel better, as if my body was slowly becoming accustomed to the new workload.  The Drill Instructors paced around, bawling out anyone who dared let their chests touch the ground, then assigned a whole series of new exercises, followed by a run to the Chow Hall.  This time, there were two platoons already there, waiting in line to be served.  None of us dared to try to cut in line ahead of them, not when they looked nastier than any of the gangsters on Earth.  It would be weeks, if not months, before we looked like them.

As soon as we had eaten, we marched around the field, chanting the latest cadence.  This time, we didn't have quite so many problems, although Bainbridge kept varying the speed to keep us alert.  I found it harder and harder to think clearly as we paused for breath, then stepped into an obstacle course.  Some of the wooden frames looked easy - we rapidly learned that that was deceptive - and others looked impossible to understand, let alone complete.  The netting under the high wire structures chilled me to the bone.

“This is the Phase One Obstacle Course,” Bainbridge informed us.  “Each of you will be expected to master each and every one of these structures by the time you proceed to Phase Two.  Should you fall off” - he waved at the netting - “it will be counted as a fail.  Do you understand me?”

“YES, SIR,” we screamed.

I’ll say one thing for the Drill Instructors.  They never asked us to do anything they couldn't or wouldn't do for themselves.  Bainbridge walked up to the first structure, clambered up a wooden wall that looked unbeatable, then waved to us from the top.  Nordstrom, following him, showed us how to find handholds and make our way slowly up the wall.  Johnston stood at the back, watching us all.  We advanced forward, one by one, and tried to climb the wood while Nordstrom offered advice and instructions.  It was tricky as hell to clamber up without looking down, but somehow we made it.  I think it would have been easier if I hadn't made the mistake of looking down.

“Don't look down, you fucking idiot,” Nordstrom called.  He was right, of course.  “There’s no safety wire holding you in place.”

The next structure had a rope I was meant to clamber along to reach the other side.  It gave me trouble; I barely made it three or four steps along before I lost my grip and plummeted into the safety netting.  Johnston helped me out, then pointed me back to the end of the line and offered some valuable pieces of advice.  I honestly wasn't sure if I needed to learn how to clamber along a rope, but I later learned it was a very useful skill.  Besides, another recruit - who had been having problems after three successive tries - quit in disgust.

“This one is particularly interesting,” Bainbridge said, as we walked up to a large metal barrel.  It was surrounded by a square marked out with string that was anchored firmly to the ground.  I didn't understand what I was seeing; the string, barely a couple of inches off the ground, was hardly high enough to keep anyone from reaching the barrel.  A coil of rope had been placed just outside the square.  “And - this time - we are not going to show you what to do in advance.”

I eyed him, torn between nervousness and puzzlement.  Everything else had seemed obvious, but this was odd.  Were we meant to jump over the barrel?  I didn’t see how.

“A convoy of vehicles is running short of fuel,” Bainbridge informed us.  “The intrepid flyboys have dropped a barrel of fuel for you, but they managed to put it in the middle of a minefield.  If you put a foot into that patch of ground” - he pointed to the square - “you will be blown to smithereens and the fuel will explode.  All you have to do is get the barrel out of the square without putting a foot into the field.”

I stared.  How the hell were we meant to do that?  I could just reach the barrel, if I stretched, but I couldn't hope to pick it up.  If someone was on the other side ... no, we’d break our wrists if we tried.  They wouldn't have given us an impossible task, would they?  There had to be a solution, but what?

“We could try to pick our way through the minefield,” a recruit offered.

“Bang,” Nordstrom said, coolly.  “You’re dead.  Drop and give me twenty.”

“Can we set up a pipe?”  Another recruit asked.  “Drain the barrel without moving it?”

Nordstrom smirked.  “With what?”

I looked back at the coil of rope.  They wouldn't have left it there by accident, would they?

“Here,” I said, as everything fell into place.  I picked up the rope and uncoiled it.  “Wrap the rope around the lid, then use it to lift up the barrel and get it to the edge of the square without touching the ground.”

“Try,” Nordstrom said.

It was the hardest thing I’d done so far.  I’d never seen myself as a leader and getting everyone organised wasn't easy, but somehow we managed to lift up the barrel and manoeuvre it to the edge of the square and over the line.  Bainbridge congratulated us briefly, just enough to make me flush with pleasure, then mustered us for the march back to the barracks.

“It isn’t enough to fight,” he said, as we started to march.  “You have to be prepared to solve problems too.”

Chapter Seven

The Terran Marine Corps has a strict cap placed on manpower, thanks to the Grand Senate’s paranoia.  Therefore, every marine has to be trained extensively to ensure that he or she is as adaptable as possible.  Marines are expected to be capable of making a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, if you will excuse the metaphor, at a moment’s notice.
-Professor Leo Caesius

The remainder of Hell Week passed in a blur.

There were endless exercises, forced marches, constant tests of our mental agility and an infinite number of push-ups.  We worked our way through the obstacle course, time and time again, and learned to swim in the pool, dire warnings ringing in our ears that there would be far nastier water tests in the future.  I had never learned to swim - I’d honestly never seen the value - until I entered Boot Camp, an oversight I rapidly came to regret.  Perhaps it would have been easier to master the skill if I’d started as a child ...

... But, given just what happened in swimming pools, perhaps I should be relieved I hadn't.

The Drill Instructors watched us constantly, but they seemed to have different roles.  Bainbridge, the Top Hat, played the strict father; Nordstrom, the Black Hat, was the disciplinarian; Johnston, the Hard Hat, seemed to be the technical expert, always there to offer advice on how to complete a task ... if, of course, we needed to ask.  It was hard to like any of them, but we were definitely starting to respect them.  We wouldn't have made it through Hell Week if they hadn't been pushing us along - and, I realised later, helping to separate those who couldn't get much further from those who could.  By the time Hell Week was officially at an end, the platoon had lost half of its recruits and was merged with another platoon to keep the number up. 

“I don’t know what they’re putting in the water on Earth,” Bainbridge sneered.  “We have bugger-all recruits from that shithole these days and hardly any last the first week.”

He was right.  I discovered, later, that Earth produced the smallest number of military recruits in the Empire, even though it had easily the largest population.  Even the Imperial Navy - widely regarded as a cushy billet by everyone else - recruited only a few thousand Earthers every year.  There were even calls to abandon recruiting on Earth altogether, although they never came to anything.  The manpower crisis was just too acute to turn down any prospective source of new recruits.

I understood, but it took me a long time to articulate it.  Earth’s population, thanks to a combination of social engineering and emigration, was effectively divided into two subsets: sheep and wolves.  The sheep couldn't lift a hand to defend themselves, let alone defend others; the wolves, the gangsters, were more interested in preying on the sheep than defending them against other wolves.  Even the smarter gangsters, the ones bright enough to realise the dangers of killing the geese that laid the golden eggs, weren't really interested in spreading security.  They were just interested in their share of the booty.  There were only a handful of sheepdogs in Earth’s entire population and most of them chose to immigrate to new worlds rather than stay on Earth.

Does that sound absurd?  Consider this - on Earth, there was no right of self-defence.  Beat the tar out of someone who threatened your family and you might wind up in deep shit yourself.  It was a great deal easier for the police to pick on the lone defender than try to take on the might of the gangs.  Or, if you lived in the Undercity, you’d just make a whole string of new and deadly enemies who would stop at nothing to make a horrific example out of you, just to keep resistance from spreading.  And, if you thought you could better yourself, it wouldn't be long before taxes and regulations defeated you.  How could I blame anyone for fleeing Earth?

There was no real let-up, of course, just because we’d passed Hell Week.  I honestly don’t think the Drill Instructors respected us that much more, although we had survived a test intended to weed out the quitters from those who just wouldn’t quit.  All that changed, I think, is that we developed a little more confidence in ourselves.  We’d survived the first test and we could go further.  And yes, we were doing more and more push-ups too.

With the recruits more settled, I actually started to get to know my squad.  (A recruit training company has three platoons, each one approximating thirty to forty recruits, which are further divided into squads of ten recruits each.)  The later exercises we were given were deliberately designed to force us to work together, even if we didn't like each other.  There is no ‘I’ in ‘team,’ as Bainbridge pointed out.  Each of us had different strengths and weaknesses, which was perhaps unsurprising.  There were only four recruits from Earth in my platoon and I was the only Earther in my squad.

Joker rapidly became my best friend in the squad, even though we had very little in common beyond being human, male and marine recruits.  He was a thin lanky young man, a year older than me, who kept cracking jokes at the worst possible moment.  Apparently, he had an older brother in the corps who told him that Drill Instructors appreciated recruits who tried to show that they had a sense of humour.  He was somewhat lacking in common sense as it seemed to me that the Drill Instructors only used it as an excuse to pile more push-ups on him, but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing.  Thanks to the intensive physical training, we were all developing more muscles than any of us had ever enjoyed in our lives.

(I knew his name.  Of course I knew his name - I knew all of them, by the time we completed Phase One.  But, as God is my witness, I honestly can't remember any of them.  I only remember the nicknames - some complementary, some insulting - they earned.)

Professor was an odd one, a student at Imperial University who’d quit for an undisclosed reason and joined the marines.  I didn't think much of him at first, but after he completed Hell Week it was clear that he might be weaker than the rest of us, yet he had an icy determination to keep going no matter what the Drill Instructors heaped on him.  He was easily the best-educated of the platoon and later, when we completed Phase Two, he was one of the recruits tapped to help with educating the other recruits.  When he started, he was slightly overweight - not enough to put him in the special platoon, just enough to be noticeable - but that flab was replaced by muscle soon enough.  It was just a shame they made him wear a pair of dorky glasses.  He didn't have a hope of being laid while wearing them.

Posh, in some ways, was even stranger.  He didn't talk about his life at first and it was only when we pressed, after sharing some of our own stories, that he confessed.  His father was a relative of a Grand Senator, which placed him solidly in the upper class; he’d grown up on Island One, a giant space habitat orbiting Terra Nova.  But, for some reason, he'd grown disenchanted with the aristocracy and chosen to join the marines.  I later found out that his father expected him to help shape the Marine Corps in the future, a difficult task for anyone who didn't graduate Boot Camp.  Luckily, by the time Posh did graduate, he’d absorbed enough of the marine ethos to keep him from becoming a major problem.  It wasn't until much later that I understood why he’d wanted to leave.

Thug was a simpler case.  A short man who had shaved his head long before entering Boot Camp, he’d grown up on Terra Nova in one of the slums surrounding Landing City.  He liked to fight and, after a run-in with the law that had put him in front of a judge, he’d chosen military service instead of being exiled to a distant colony world.  I was surprised the marines had taken him, but I had to admit he was a good man to have on your side.  He wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, yet he never stopped coming.  

Bandit had a similar story, in a way.  He’d been a dealer on New Washington when a deal had turned sour, leaving him running for his life - and straight into the recruiting office.  By his own admission, he’d nearly been rejected and he’d been given a strong warning, before he’d been shipped to Boot Camp, that the charges against him would be resurrected if he stepped away from the straight and narrow.  I’d met too many people like him before - Trevor had been fond of bragging about his connections - to like him, at least at first, but if the corps wanted to give him a second chance it was none of my business.  Besides, he had a devious mind and no reluctance to use it.

But it was Viper who bothered me.

He was a reject, someone held back from completing the first phase of training.  The Drill Instructors added him to the platoon shortly after Hell Week, informing us that he knew most of what we had to learn and we might find him useful.  They were wrong, I figured; Viper might have mastered some of the skills we hadn’t - yet - but he moaned and whined about everything.  I honestly didn't understand why he didn't quit.  A month or two of recruit training, we’d been told, could be parlayed into a better deal, if one wanted to go to a colony world.  God knew we’d already picked up enough discipline - it was astonishing how motivational push-ups and the threat of more push-ups could be - to actually make something of ourselves, if we left.  But Viper seemed reluctant to either stay or go.  

It might not have bothered me so much if we hadn't been in constant competition.  My squad was in competition with the rest of the platoon, the platoon was in competition with the rest of the company and the company is in competition with any other companies on the base, if they’re at the same level.  (Mind you, if a junior company outshot a senior company, their Drill Instructors would engage in achingly polite gloating at the officer’s club.)  It didn't take us long to realise that Viper was a weak link.  He did the bare minimum to pass each test and each of us, even Professor, rapidly started to surpass him.

“Maybe he’s just a loser,” Thug snarled.  “He’s not even trying!”

I nodded in agreement.  I’d seen people like Viper on Earth, people who knew they had no hope of anything in their future, but I didn't think it could be tolerated in the corps.  They just drifted through life, doing nothing.  Most of them were on some kind of medication because it was easier for the state to drug them than admit their lives were utterly meaningless ... and there was no hope of meaningful reform.  They spent their lives in front of the viewer, watching the latest programs.  Why not?  They had nothing to live for.

But Viper was a marine recruit.  His lassitude, for want of a better word, wasn’t just dragging him down (we could have ignored it, if that were the case).  He was dragging us down with him.  We were sinking down the competition tables within the platoon and we knew - we just knew - that it wouldn't be long before the Drill Instructors started to ‘counsel’ us to do better ... with push-ups, of course.  But how could we do better when we had Viper pulling us down?

“Go talk to him,” Professor said, looking at me.  “He might listen to you.”

I was tempted to ask why me, but I already knew the answer.  The Drill Instructors praised those who took the lead, who saw a problem and leapt to grapple with it.  I’d done that once and been rewarded; now, we all tried to take the lead, except Viper.  And besides, overall, I had the best scores in the entire squad.  Thug was better at some tests, Professor was better at others, but I had the best overall score.  (I was third in the entire platoon.)

That night, Viper made a head call.  I followed him as soon as he entered the chamber.  This wasn't uncommon; we’d all grown used to sharing a communal toilet, even if the jokes had to be heard to be believed.  (And the less said about the stench the better.)

“Tell me something,” I said.  I’d rehearsed the moment as best as I could, in my head, but now the time had come I decided to go with my instincts.  “Why the fuck are you dragging us all down?”

Viper stared at me, sullenly.  “They held me back.”

I felt a flicker of pure rage.  We’d been told that if we really had to have it out with one another, we could do it in the field with fighting sticks.  Picking fights inside the barracks was strictly forbidden.  The best we could hope for, if we were caught, was a long session of Intensive Training.  But I wanted to slap some sense into him before it was too late.  

It was all I could do to keep my voice down, but I really didn’t want to alert Johnston.  “So you’re holding us back?”

I gritted my teeth.  “They didn’t hold the rest of your squad back,” I pointed out.  I didn't actually know it for sure, but I had a feeling that Viper was the only person who’d been held back.  He was definitely the only one who’d joined the platoon.  “Why would they hold the rest of us back, when the time comes, if the only one who’s a real problem is you?”

It was, I later learned, one of the weaknesses of the training program.  A person could quit, or commit one of the headshots, but they couldn't be dismissed without good cause.  The Drill Instructors had plenty of ways to urge someone to quit, yet they couldn't force them to take that step.  As long as Viper met the bare minimal requirements, it was impossible to do more than keep holding him back until he got the hint.

“I don’t care,” Viper said.

“Well, you fucking should,” I snapped.  “Every fucking day, we go out into the exercise grounds and fucking depend on each and every fucking one of us to do our fucking share!”

Viper smirked.  “Do you get a credit for every time you swear?”

I clenched my fists.  Maybe he’d had extra training, but I could take him.  I was sure I could take him ...

... And then what?  Burn up my career just to take down his?

“Tell me something,” I said.  “There isn't a person in the platoon who doesn't know you’re a fucking loser.  What do you think is going to happen when you get out there in the pit and face all of us?  Either shape the fuck up or quit.  You can go to the Drills now and quit.  No one will think any less of you.”

Viper’s eyes flashed.  “Do you think I want to be here?”

That, I have to admit, stunned me.  Who in their right mind would go to Boot Camp if they didn't want to go to Boot Camp?  Even Posh, despite his background, freely admitted he’d hoped for a military career.  Hell, it wasn't as if it was difficult to get into the Civil Guard - although, if the Drill Instructors were telling the truth, Viper was probably overqualified on the grounds he could string more than two words together into a reasonably coherent statement.  

“If you don’t want to be here, then quit,” I snarled.  I didn't want to hear a sob story.  I’d heard enough of them on Earth.  Viper had more opportunities than I’d ever had and if he didn't want to make use of them ... well, that was his problem, not mine.  “Go to the Drill Instructors and quit!  But don’t keep fucking things up for us!”

I turned and strode back to my bunk, cursing him under my breath.  We were supposed to get somewhere between seven to eight hours of sleep each night, but the Drill Instructors had a nasty habit of sometimes waking us up early, just to see who would snap.  I was just closing my eyes when Viper stalked past me and climbed into his own bunk.  He didn't look happy ... I wondered, suddenly, if it was a mistake to sleep so close to him.  But there was a Drill Instructor at the far end of the room ...

In hindsight, maybe we should have complained about Viper.  He wasn't physically weak, unlike Professor, or mentally challenged; he was deliberately not giving us his all.  There were no excuses for his conduct - and besides, he’d had over two months of training before being held back.  But none of us really wanted to go sneaking to the Drill Instructors, not when the situation was so sensitive.  Bitching about our fellows might not make any of us look very good.  

And, when Viper started to shape up, I told myself that our little talk had actually worked and maybe we’d actually get some use out of him.  Maybe the thought of being completely isolated, of being completely alienated from the rest of the squad, had convinced him to put his own problems aside.  I liked to think I’d made a very real difference ...

But that too was a mistake.  

Chapter Eight

It is difficult to exaggerate just how stressful recruit training can actually be. The typical Core Worlds recruit may never have been away from home before, let alone had to rely on a band of complete strangers.  Drill Instructors are trained to watch for signs of trouble, but many teenagers and young adults from Earth are skilled at hiding their feelings.  A minor problem, therefore, can become a great deal more dangerous before it is exposed.
-Professor Leo Caesius

“Well,” Doctor Jenna Amundsen said, as I entered the examination room.  “How are you feeling?”

Odd, I thought.  The doctor wasn't the prettiest woman I’d ever seen, but it was the first time I’d seen a woman for three weeks.  I look at you and I feel nothing.

I wasn't stupid enough to say that out loud, of course.  “This recruit is fine,” I said.  Regular medical check-ups were part of our training, but we resented them hugely.  “No problems at all.”

“Glad to hear it,” the doctor said.  “Take off your clothes, then lie down on the table.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, automatically.  ‘Sir’ seemed to be the default term of address for both male and female superiors.  “How long will this take?”

“As long as it takes,” Jenna said, giving me a sympathetic smile.  “I’ll be a quick as I can.”

I sighed inwardly as I removed my uniform.  In theory, we were entitled to half an hour of free time each day, but in practice we rarely got to make any real use of it.  There was reading to do, exercises to catch up on ... and the Drill Instructors kept us hopping.  I’d heard that some of the recruits were complaining loudly about not having time to write home, something that would have annoyed me too if I’d had anyone to write to.  As soon as I was naked, I clambered up onto the table and lay down.  Oddly, I no longer felt nervous at being naked in front of anyone, even a doctor.

“You had the last set of injections the day you entered Boot Camp,” the doctor said, poking and prodding at my growing muscles.  “Did you notice any ill effects?”

“No, sir,” I said.

“Good,” the doctor said.  “It’s very rare that anyone gets any effect at all, but it needs to be watched.”

I nodded, curtly.  Malingering was not encouraged, unsurprisingly, but we had been warned not to conceal any health condition from the Drill Instructors.  Better safe than sorry, they said, although few of us would have dared to malinger.  If the medics believed you were malingering, you were doomed when you were sent back to the platoon.  Even Viper, for all his faults, wouldn't have claimed to be ill unless he could prove it.

She prodded my chest, then nodded to herself.  “No problems with breathing?  Or muscular problems?”

“Just aches and pains as we push ourselves forwards,” I said.  “Pain is weakness leaving the body.”

“In some ways,” Jenna agreed.  It was one of Bainbridge’s favourite sayings.  He said it at least four times a day, normally while supervising our push-ups.  “On the other hand, everyone has limits and we need to make sure you’re not crossing yours.”

She poked me one final time, then ordered me to roll over.  I did as I was told, then shivered as her hands walked down my back and upper legs.  There was nothing remotely erotic about it, just a sense that she was checking my development against a file stored in her head.  I sat up as soon as she was done, then watched as she produced a device that looked like a large gun and placed it on the table next to me.  It looked silly, in a way, as if it were a ray gun from a bad movie, but somehow I found it ominous.

“You appear to be developing within acceptable limits,” Jenna said.  “You’re cleared to proceed to the next stage of training.”

I breathed a sigh of relief.  “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, giving me a faint smile.  “I’m afraid I have to inject the side of your neck, now.  This may sting a little.”

She picked up the gun-like device and held it against my neck before I could object, then pulled the trigger.  There was a stab of pain, as if someone had jabbed my skin with a pin, which faded rapidly as she pulled the device away from me.  When I touched the skin, I felt an odd lump just below the surface.  It felt as if she’d stuck something in me.

“It shouldn't cause you any problems,” Jenna said.  “The pain should be gone within an hour, but if it gets worse or reoccurs inform your Drill Instructor at once.  This can be quite serious, if something goes badly wrong.”

I swallowed.  “What did you do to me ... ah, to this recruit?”

“The Drill Instructors will explain tonight,” Jenna said.  She nodded towards a chair on the other side of the room.  “Sit there and open your mouth.”

I eyed her warily, then obeyed.  Jenna sat down next to me and peered into my mouth, using a small device to shine a spotlight into the darkened recesses of my teeth.  I suddenly wished I’d had time to brush my teeth before the appointment, or something to make my breath smell better; I cringed in embarrassment at the thought of her smelling the remains of the ration bars we’d been given for dinner.  Jenna didn't say anything; she merely inspected my mouth, then nodded curtly to herself.

“No change from the last report,” she said.  “Have you been having problems with your teeth?”

“No, sir,” I said.  “I believe this recruit was vaccinated against tooth decay.”

“The vaccines aren't always effective, not the ones on Earth,” Jenna warned.  “There hasn't been any genuinely comprehensive program of vaccination for centuries, recruit.”

She shrugged.  “Still, there doesn't seem to be any problem,” she added.  Her face curved into a mischievous smile.  “If you have a few knocked out in the pit, we can replace them within hours.

“This recruit was told that anything that wasn't immediately fatal could be fixed,” I said.  “Is that actually true?”

Jenna made a show of considering it.  “Minor injuries, yes; we can heal those at once,” she said, slowly.  “Anything more serious ... yes, we can heal it, but you would need time to recover and you might find yourself recycled back to an earlier training cycle.  I’ve known marines who had their legs blown off and replaced.  They returned to duty, eventually, but it took them months to get used to their new limbs.  We can pretty much replace everything, save for the brain.”

I smiled.  “Could you grow me a whole new body?”

“Technically, yes; legally, no,” Jenna said.  “We can grow you a new pair of arms or legs, if necessary, but growing a full-body clone to serve as a walking transplant is illegal.  You’d be killing your genetic brother just so you could have his body.  There are brain transplants, occasionally, but they rely on having a suitable donor.”

“And they’re rare,” I guessed.

“Of course,” Jenna said.  She took another blood sample as she spoke, then dropped it in the analyser.  “Would you die so that someone else can have your body?”

“This recruit has seen flicks where that happens,” I said.  The analyser bleeped, reporting that I was clean of forbidden drugs.  “It never ends well.”

“No, it doesn't,” Jenna agreed.  She removed the tube from the analyser and dropped it into a metal container.  “Get dressed, recruit, and inform the Drill Instructors that they can send the next one in.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.  I’d forgotten I was naked.  “Nothing to worry about, then?”

“You’re healthy and fit,” Jenna said.  “Try not to get injured when you start martial arts training.”

I nodded, then finished dressing and headed out the hatch.  The rest of the platoon was supposed to be in the barracks, but I wasn't surprised to see half of them outside, performing various exercises as they were supervised by the Drill Instructors.  Johnston was watching Viper with dark eyes, shouting encouragement as the recruit worked his way through a series of push-ups.  It didn't look as if either of them was having fun.  I reported to Bainbridge, who promptly ordered me to do another fifty push-ups.  They were very good at finding excuses for punishment exercises.

“All right, ladies,” he said, half an hour (and innumerable push-ups) later.  “Line up, single file!”

We snapped to attention.  The Drill Instructors had somehow managed to become more and more critical as the days went by, snapping at us for something they would have let pass a week earlier.  I’d found myself checking and rechecking the bunk every day, just to make sure there wasn't something they could use as an excuse for more punishment exercises.  And yet, no matter how hard I tried, there was always something they could use.  If I hadn't thought it was all worthwhile - and there was nowhere else to go - I would have quit in disgust.

“I trust you all have a pain in the neck now,” he said.  “Is there any of you who wasn't given an injection into the neck?”

There was a long pause.  No one spoke.

“Stand to attention, recruit,” Bainbridge bellowed.  Professor had made the mistake of scratching the side of his neck.  “It won’t come out no matter how much you stroke it!”

We would have sniggered, but we knew better.  Bainbridge wouldn't hesitate to punish anyone who showed amusement at another person getting in trouble, no matter how funny it was.  We were meant to be a team, after all, and laughing at our fellows wouldn't build a sense of camaraderie.  Or so we had been told.

“You have been implanted,” Bainbridge continued, in a slightly quieter voice.  “I’ll spare your innocent minds the technical details, recruits; all you really have to know is that the implant will, when queried, send out a pulse reporting your location to the base’s sensors.  If you manage to get lost on the track, we can and we will find you - or your body.  There are recruits, men and women just like you, who have been swept away by sudden downpours on the training grounds.  Their lives were lost, but their bodies were recovered and buried with full honours.”

He paused, his features shifting into something more intimidating.  “Headshot Fifty,” he added, coldly.  “Accessing the implants and using them to cheat on the training field.”

I swallowed.  None of us liked being reminded of the headshots, the offences that could get us kicked out of Boot Camp, but the Drill Instructors did so frequently.  Headshot Fifty hadn't made much sense to me at the time, although I hadn't had the nerve to ask the Drill Instructors to clarify.  What implants?  But I understood now.

“You will be working with all manner of devices intended to make enemy lives miserable,” Bainbridge said, after a long moment.  “Some of those devices - which we will go over in greater detail later - are designed to track radio signals.  You can, if you felt like cheating, use them to track your fellows on the training field.  Why do we not permit you to try?”

He looked from face to face, then pointed a finger at Thug.  “Explain.”

Thug hesitated.  “This recruit thinks it would be cheating,” he said.  “It wouldn’t be fair.”

“And yet I have told you that if you’re not cheating, you’re not trying,” Bainbridge said.  He looked from face to face again, then pointed a finger at Professor.  “Why is this particular brand of cheating not allowed?”

Professor frowned.  “This recruit thinks that the enemy, in a real combat situation, will not have implanted troops, sir.”

“Correct,” Bainbridge said.  He scowled at us all.  “You cannot assume the enemy will be kind enough to broadcast his location to the entire universe.  Our opponents know that emitting any form of betraying energy leads to certain death.  The Imperial Navy is good at tracking morons on the ground and dropping rocks on their heads.  I will not allow you to develop the lazy habit of tracking your fellows when the fog of war will envelop any actual deployment.  Do you understand me?”

“YES, SIR,” we bellowed.

He was right, of course.  Most of my career, prior to Avalon, was spent on worlds where we could call in fire support from the Imperial Navy, if necessary.  Our enemies were good - very good - at hiding from prying eyes, knowing that a moment of weakness would spell doom.  Even without the starships, drones could track radio messages and call in long-range strikes from field artillery.  The enemy would know to be very careful.

“It will be a long time before you’re able to cheat in such a fashion,” Bainbridge added, “but you will not have a chance to get into bad habits.  Anyone who does will be summarily removed from Boot Camp and tossed back into the civilian population.  Do you understand me?”

“YES, SIR,” we bellowed, again.

“Good,” Bainbridge said.  He glanced at his watch.  “We should just have time for a run over to the Chow Hall and back before Lights Out.”

A few weeks ago, I would have groaned out loud at the thought.  Now ... I just started to run, pacing myself as best as I could.  The throbbing in my neck had faded completely, leaving me feeling ... happy.  I knew it wouldn't last - the Drill Instructors kept upping the pressure, pushing us to step past our previous limits - but for the moment I felt good.  We reached the Chow Hall, slapped our hands against the wall as instructed, then started running back again, right into the barracks.  Nordstrom, standing just inside the door, pointed us at the shower and supervised as we washed ourselves, then climbed into bed.

“Stalker,” he growled.  “You're on first watch.”

I did groan this time, which earned me a warning look.  Being on watch meant that I would have to stay awake for four hours, then snatch a bare three to four hours of sleep before it was time to get up and do our early morning callisthenics.  I had no idea how the Drill Instructors picked the watch candidates - we weren't allowed to set a rota for ourselves - but it wasn't going to be fun.  I sighed, picked up one of the books we’d been assigned to read in our copious spare time and sat down by the door.

“Hard luck, mate,” Joker called.

“Silence,” Nordstrom growled.  “Lights Out.”

I flicked a switch and the lights went dim, save for the one over my head.  The Drill Instructors were never gentle, but they reserved particular wrath for anyone who fell asleep on watch.  It could spell death, they’d warned, if someone fell asleep while they were watching for enemy infiltrators.  I’d seen Joker and Thug being berated for falling asleep and I had no intention of having it happen to me.  I was midway through the latest chapter when I heard someone moaning in fear, as if they were having a nightmare.

Bracing myself, I rose to my feet.  Some of the first recruits, back when we’d just arrived at Boot Camp, had been homesick, something that had puzzled me until I’d learned that they actually came from decent homes.  A handful had quit within the week; the remainder had learned to adapt, to cope with being so far from their families.  I slipped down past the rows of sleeping recruits, wondering who was making the noise.  Viper?  No, it was Professor.  He jerked awake as I approached.

“It’s all right,” I said, very quietly.  If he woke everyone else up, he’d rapidly become even less popular than Viper.  “What’s the matter?”

“Just a nightmare,” he said, rubbing the side of his neck.  “I’m sorry.”

I frowned.  “Are you in pain?”

Professor shook his head.  I thought it was genuine, although I didn't think any of us would admit to suffering if there was any alternative.  The last thing we wanted was a reputation for being unable to handle pain, even if we were visibly injured.  And yet, there were ways to cope with pain.  He could make a visit to the medics, they could check him out ...

“It was just a nightmare,” he said, keeping his voice low.  “Probably that slop we were eating for lunch.”

I had to smile, although I didn't believe him.  We joked that the cooks served us crap to save time, but the truth was that it was better than anything I’d eaten for the last ten years on Earth.  And it did help us to build up our muscles.  Besides, we were always too tired for nightmares.  I honestly couldn't recall dreaming, even once, since entering Boot Camp.

“You have to be tougher than you look,” I said, with a smile.  “I just go out like a light when my head hits the pillow.”

Professor gave me a wan smile.  “Just don’t tell the Drills.”

“I won't,” I promised.  I probably should have asked what he was dreaming about, but I didn't want to know.  “Go back to sleep.  I’ll see you in the morning.”

I watched him close his eyes, then walked back to the seat at the front.  Nordstrom was standing there, his eyes expressionless.  I waited for a moment, wondering if he was going to either compliment me - unlikely - or tell me I’d overstepped my bonds.  Instead, he pointed a finger at the chair, ordering me to sit.  I saluted - we’d spent weeks mastering how to salute - and sat.  By the time he woke up the second watch officer, I was engrossed in the book.

“Get some sleep, Stalker,” Nordstrom growled.  “Morning will come soon enough.”

He was right, of course.

Chapter Nine

The use of tracking implants was - and remains - one of the most controversial aspects of social control in the Empire, particularly in the years leading up to its fall.  There were strong movements to give everyone an implant, in the name of public safety, that would make it impossible for anyone to develop a political movement without being tracked, monitored and eventually arrested.  Indeed, a number of CityBlocks trialled mass implantation programs that helped to accelerate their social breakdown.
-Professor Leo Caesius

“Well,” Nordstrom said, as soon as we had marched through the camp and into a whole new section.   A large circle was drawn on the ground, with the Drill Instructor standing in the middle of it.  “This is the day you’ve been dreaming of since you first arrived.  This is the day you get to actually hit a Drill Instructor without repercussion.”

I shared a glance with Joker.  Hitting a superior officer - which was effectively everyone in the camp - was one of the headshots.  I’d seen a couple of recruits throw the first punch, then get dragged off to the commandant for immediate dismissal.  The idea of actually being allowed to take a swing at one of them was tempting, yet we knew them too well by now.  I doubted I could beat any of them on my best day.

“There is no such thing as a dangerous weapon,” Nordstrom continued, calmly.  “There are only dangerous men.  A man carrying the most deadly weapon in the universe is harmless, if he lacks the will and skill to use his weapon.  But an unarmed man who knows how to use his body to best advantage is very dangerous.  You, if you still want to complete the course, will be expected to become very dangerous men.”

He smiled, coldly.  “The Marine Corps has its own particular fighting style - the disrespectful call it Semper Fu - which draws from a hundred other fighting styles.  By the time you graduate, you will hold a tan belt - at the very least - in Semper Fu.  If you go to the Slaughterhouse, you will require a black belt to graduate.  We will hold you back as long as necessary to make sure you have the right qualifications before you go onto active service.”

There was a long chilling pause.  “Before we go any further,” he added, “does anyone want to take a crack at me?  A free shot at a Drill Instructor - and an automatic pass if you actually manage to knock me down.  Anyone want to take me up on it?”

I shook my head firmly.  Nothing in Boot Camp was easy ... and while I trusted the Drill Instructors to honour their offer of an automatic pass, I doubted anyone could actually win the prize.  Nordstrom was the toughest man I’d ever met.

“Come on,” Nordstrom said.  His gaze swept our ranks, challengingly.  “You can't get kicked out here, if you slam a fist into my jaw.”

Thug lumbered forward, looking pleased.  Nordstrom smiled at him, then waved him into the circle.  “I should add, for the benefit of everyone else, that it’s an automatic fifty push-ups for anyone who steps into the circle without being invited,” he said.  “Only the contestants are allowed inside until the match is over.”

He nodded to Thug, who lunged forward and threw a punch.  Nordstrom, moving so quickly I could barely follow his movements, caught his arm, yanked it forward and sent him falling to the ground.  I heard Thug grunt in pain as he landed on the hard surface, then gasp as Nordstrom sat on his back and smirked at us.

“Aggressive enough, but a complete lack of proper training,” Nordstrom said, addressing Thug.  “Not too hard a combination to beat.”

He looked up.  “Anyone else?”

I was still reeling, mentally.  It had happened so quickly.  Someone like Thug would have been intimidating as hell, in the Undercity; he'd been taken down so fast I hadn't even seen what had happened.  Nordstrom stood, helped Thug to his feet and muttered something I couldn’t hear in his ear, before pushing him back towards the rest of us.  I silently gave him some respect, if only for having the guts to try.  No one else had dared take the Drill Instructor up on his offer.

“You should always focus on taking the offensive,” Nordstrom said, as Johnston stepped forward and halted at the edge of the circle.  “Trying to go on the defensive is asking for trouble, unless you are very certain of your own supremacy.”

He didn't say it out loud, but the implication was easy to see.  He’d been confident he could best Thug without doing him a serious injury.  And he hadn't even thrown a single blow at his enemy.

“We will now demonstrate something more complex,” Nordstrom said.  He waved Johnston into the circle, then smiled savagely.  “Watch carefully.”

Johnston lunged forward; Nordstrom ducked back, then feinted himself with a handful of quick jabs.  Johnston threw a punch of his own, then followed it up with a kick aimed right at Nordstrom’s balls.  Nordstrom hopped backwards quickly, but Johnston followed up with a blow aimed right at his throat.  No matter what Nordstrom did, he couldn't take the offensive again.  Johnston landed a blow that sent Nordstrom reeling back and falling to the ground.  It wasn't until later that I realised just how carefully the entire thing had been choreographed.

“I lost the chance to take the offensive,” Nordstrom said, as he picked himself up.  I’d known people who would be completely humiliated by such a public loss, but Nordstrom took it in stride.  “As long as my opponent was beating on me, I had no opportunity to strike back and take the offensive for myself.  To tamely accept such a loss is to accept eventual defeat!  You will learn to reverse such a disaster as quickly as possible.”

He paused, then blew a whistle.  A line of recruits - all from the platoon above us - walked into the section, looking tough.  We’d improved a great deal, I knew, but they were still heads and shoulders above us.  Their Drill Instructors didn't look any tougher ... I looked at the older recruits and frowned, inwardly, at the nasty expressions on their faces.  They knew what was coming, even if we didn’t.  And they were looking forward to it.

Joker elbowed me.  “We have to fight them?”

“Line up, single file,” Nordstrom bellowed.  “I want one recruit from my platoon facing one recruit from the other platoon!”

I exchanged looks with Joker as two tough-looking men marched over to stand in front of us, resting their hands on their hips.  They had the same sense of easy confidence I’d seen in the older marines, although it was ruined by the air of grim anticipation I could sense pulsing off them in waves.  They were definitely looking forward to what was coming.

“My platoon,” Nordstrom said.  “Lock your hands behind your heads!  Tense your muscles!  Keep them there until ordered otherwise!”

“YES, SIR,” we bellowed.

“Today’s lesson is on how to take blows,” Nordstrom said.  “Strike!”

I had no time to react - as if there was anything I could have done - before the recruit facing me lunged forward and stabbed a fist into my gut.  Pain.  Lots of pain.  It was all I could do to keep my hands locked as he drew back and struck me again, this time in the upper chest.  I gagged, almost losing my lunch; somehow - and I have no idea how - I kept my hands in place.  Judging from Nordstrom’s snapped orders, others hadn’t.

“I believe I told you to keep your hands in place,” he thundered.  Despite the pain, I turned my head and realised that Viper was in deep shit.  “You were not permitted to block the blow.”

“Yes, sir,” Viper said, tonelessly.  “This recruit allowed his training to guide him.”

Nordstrom gave him a nasty look.  “Drop and give me fifty,” he ordered.  “Everyone else who moved their hands can join him.”

“You too, Harris,” the unfamiliar Drill Instructor said.  “This isn't a place to work out old grudges.”

“That must be his old platoon,” Joker muttered to me.

I nodded.  The pain was fading, but slowly; very slowly.  I couldn't help wondering if I’d cracked a rib, something that might well be a death sentence in the Undercity.  Jenna had told me that almost everything could be fixed, but why would anyone spend money on saving my life?  It wasn't as if anyone really gave a damn about Undercity rats ...

“Change your partners,” Nordstrom ordered, once the punishments were over.  “And prepare to do it again.”

We were all aching and sore by the time the first session was over and, unfortunately, burning with hatred for the other platoon.  Luckily, the second session covered how to block punches; Nordstrom and Johnston demonstrated them, one by one, before calling in the second platoon once again.  We still couldn't hit them back, but at least we could try and deflect their blows before we were hit.  None of them gave us any mercy; later, I realised they hadn't been shown mercy either, back when they’d been in the first phase.  It was a great relief when we were taught how to punch, kick and take the offensive, even though it took weeks before any of us managed to beat them in open combat.

“It is time to introduce you to one of our favourite games,” Nordstrom said, two weeks after we started unarmed combat training.  “You’ll notice the circle on the ground?”

We nodded in unison.  Nordstrom had called our attention to it regularly, both for demonstrating moves to us and reminding us - time and time again - that we weren't allowed to cross the line without permission.  I assumed it was something more than merely a line delineating the combat zone, but he hadn't elaborated.  Now ...

“The rules of Circle are quite simple,” Nordstrom said.  “Two marines enter; the victor is the one who either flattens his opponent or forces him out of the circle.  Would anyone try to hazard a guess as to why we have that victory condition?”

I decided to gamble and raised my hand.  “Sir,” I said, when he nodded.  “This recruit thinks that it exists to keep us aware of our surroundings.”

“Correct, recruit,” Nordstrom said.  “It is quite possible for someone who is winning to accidentally cross the circle and lose the match.  You can be beaten in the game by your own carelessness ... and, alas, you can be beaten in real life that way too.  Would you care to take a guess how?”

There was a pause.  None of us dared to try to answer.

“There have been incidents where someone has accidentally put a hole through a habitation dome on an asteroid,” Nordstrom said.  “Or somehow managed to vent the shuttlebay, throwing themselves and their comrades into space.  One very elaborate trap for marines involved filling the air with explosive gas, then waiting for some idiot to pull a trigger.  You must remain aware of your surroundings at all times.”

He beckoned to Johnston, who strode back into the circle and nodded, curtly, to his opponent.  Nordstrom ran forward; Johnston stepped to one side and stuck out a foot, sending Nordstrom flying forward and out of the circle.  He picked himself off the ground and turned to face us, his expression unreadable.  

“That was a depressingly easy victory for him,” he said, shortly.  “I expect you to do better.”

The Drill Instructors ran through two more demonstrations before we were allowed a chance to enter the circle.  The first time, Nordstrom allowed Johnston to literally push him out of the circle; the second time, Nordstrom did something and threw Johnston over the line, dropping him to the ground just past it.  As soon as Johnston picked himself up again, they divided us back up into pairs.  I was not best pleased to find myself paired with Viper.

“Go,” Nordstrom ordered.

I watched Viper closely for a second - Nordstrom had talked about learning to read one’s opponent, but I hadn't managed it - before advancing forward, carefully.  Viper had had two months of extra training, after all; I knew I shouldn't take him lightly.  But the moment I crashed into him, he jumped backwards and over the line.  It was so blatant it took me a moment to understand what he’d done.

Nordstrom blew the whistle, angrily.  “Do you actually intend to learn how to fight or are you just being stupid, recruit?”

I felt a hot flush of rage.  I’d won - but he’d practically handed me the victory on a silver platter.  Didn't he give a damn?  I wanted to hurt him ... somehow, I managed to keep myself calm as Joker was ordered into the circle beside me.  Friend or no friend, I knew Joker wouldn’t go easy on me.  And I was right.  I was a little stronger than him, but he was fast and managed to land a number of punches before I knocked him to the ground and landed on top of him.  He kept struggling right up until I put my hand on his throat and the whistle blew.

“You should have ended that quicker,” Nordstrom snapped.  He jabbed a finger at Professor and Posh.  “You’re up.”

It was an interesting match, I decided, as the two oddballs squared off.  Posh seemed to be more aggressive, but Professor was definitely more of a thinker.  They both sparred carefully, rather than risk over-committing themselves; it was only when Nordstrom cleared his throat loudly that Posh jumped forward and slammed right into Professor.  The ensuring struggle sent them both rolling over the line.

“Draw,” Nordstrom said.  “Learn to focus your anger and beat the crap out of your enemy.”

I scowled.  I’d hated the first part of the training, but if I hadn't been taught how to take a punch Joker would have had me on the ground within seconds.  I watched several other matches, then scowled inwardly as I was urged back into the circle.  Viper was facing me again, his face impassive.  I glared at him - what the fuck was his problem? - and lunged forward.  This time, Viper blocked my punch and threw one back of his own.  I realised, too late, that I’d underestimated him; his fist slammed into my jaw, knocking me over backwards.  He lunged forward; I brought up my legs and kicked him in the chest as hard as I could.  I pulled myself upright as he staggered back, then slammed a fist into his chest, sending him falling down.  It would have been easy to shove him over the line, but I wanted him to hurt.

The whistle blew.  I threw another punch ....

... And a hand caught mine.

“Stop,” Nordstrom ordered.  He jerked a hand towards the edge of the training ground.  “One hundred push-ups, now.”

I flushed, embarrassed.  I’d allowed my anger and hate to overwhelm me, instead of stopping the second the whistle blew.  Nordstrom could have given me a far worse punishment and we both knew it.  I stumbled out of the circle, did my push-ups despite the pain, and thought dire thoughts about Viper and his attitude problem.  Maybe the beating I’d given him would force him to quit.

The training grew harder as the weeks turned into months.  We had already been introduced to sticks; now, we were introduced to knives - the feared KA-BAR - and a dozen other weapons, including some I hadn't seen outside bad martial arts movies.  I hadn't known there were actual uses for swords, throwing stars and whips, but the Drill Instructors were insistent that we needed to know the basics.  We were advancing, slowly but surely, towards weapons mastery.  Anything could be a weapon ...

... And we were meant to be able to use it as one, without thinking.

It was Joker who asked the question that was on all of our minds.  “Sir,” he said, “this recruit would like to know why we train with swords when we’ll have guns and our enemies will have guns too.”

I expected Nordstrom to demand a hundred push-ups.  Instead, he gave the question serious consideration.

“There are two answers to that question, recruit,” Nordstrom said.  “The first is that we are training you to be dangerous men and for that you need to develop an instinctive understanding of all manner of weapons.  To become dependent on one weapon, even one as dangerous as a gun, can undermine you when you lose that weapon.  

“But the second answer is that you may not always have a gun,” he added.  “Or you may find a gun a hindrance rather than a help.  There are plenty of situations - hostage rescue, for example - when you may not want to start firing off guns at random.  Killing an unwary man on watch is so much easier if you use a knife, because then there’s no noise to wake up his comrades.”

He shrugged.  “And shooting someone to wound only works in the flicks.  It's a lot easier to interrogate someone you’ve beaten into a pulp than shot, even if you thought you weren't shooting to kill.  Is that answer satisfactory?”

“Yes, sir,” Joker said.

I took Nordstrom’s words to heart; indeed, I think we all did.  Our weapons were tools, nothing more or less; it was our attitudes and training that made us dangerous.  I’d wondered why were weren't started on guns earlier, but now I thought I understood.  We needed the right attitude before we handled guns for the first time or we’d become convinced that our weapons made us invincible.

And that, I learned later, explained a great deal about the Civil Guard.  They thought their weapons made them gods ...

... And they were always wrong.