First To Fight (The Empire's Corps Book 11) (4 page)

“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.”