Marine Cadet (The Human Legion Book 1)

Marine Cadet

Book1 of The Human Legion

Copyright © Tim C. Taylor 2014

Cover image © Hot Property / shutterstock.com

Square logo image © Algol / shutterstock.com

Published by Human Legion Publications

Also available in paperback (ISBN: 978-1502519658)

All Rights Reserved

HumanLegion.com

The author wishes to thank all those who work-shopped, proof read, or otherwise supported the making of this book. In particular, Paul Melhuish for allowing me to raid his vault of filthy Skyfirean vernacular, the Northampton Science Fiction Writers Group, James D. Kelker, Melissa Bryan, and Nigel Edwards, for help and encouragement. And Ian Watson for persuading me to turn a short story into a book series.

Extract from the
NEW ENGLISH DICTIONARY
, Patriot Publishing, Human Autonomous Region, 2671CE

human
.

n
. 1.
An individual of the species
Homo sapiens
, possibly also of derivative species.
See also:
augmented-human.

adj
. 2.
Characterizing mankind, as opposed to aliens, animals, and machines (including AIs).

adj
.
3.
[
meaning derived from common alien usage
] oppressed, the ultimate underclass, the hopeless ones, unwashed :
as in
The Human Legion.

Alien Lover

Arun glanced into the darkness of the side tunnel as he thundered past with the rest of Delta Section. His eyes could see nothing in the branch, and his helmet visor didn’t ping up any threats. No one said a thing. Arun was sure he wasn’t the only one to feel the deep shadows of the side tunnel burning with threat, but what could they do other than ignore them?

Keep running. That was all they could do.

The rest of Blue Squad was pinned down by a Troggie redoubt. Delta Section had been tasked with pushing ahead and left to outflank the enemy position. Every time they passed a branch in the tunnel, Arun felt even more isolated, but there were only eight Marine cadets in the section. To peel off a pair to check out each fork in the tunnel network would be beyond madness. In this crazy twisting warren, there could be no such thing as a front line, not unless they had an entire regiment down here. The enemy could strike from behind at any moment.

He glanced across at Springer, her mottled gray battlesuit pumping her along at a steady 15mph, her SA-71 carbine just one safety away from spitting railgun death. The sight stirred his pride, and buttressed his courage. Together they were strong.

“Halt!” called Cadet Corporal Brandt.

Delta Section braked. What was Brandt thinking of now?

As Brandt pondered his move, Arun’s resolve began to drain into the dirt floor.

A moment ago, he’d been buoyed by the momentum of his armored unit. Seeing them stationary had the opposite effect. There was an old Marine saying, drummed into them since the start of novice school:
stay still and die
.

Arun scanned the walls and ceiling for signs of ambush.

Scuttlebutt had it that Trogs could swim through the soil as easily as a human diver through water. He shivered, imagining alien eyes observing him through the dirt walls. If that rumor were true, they were utterly flekked.

No point worrying about what you can’t change,
he told himself, but only half believed it.

Whether or not the Trogs were watching, Arun was certain that his superiors were. None of the humans had ever met a White Knight. Never would, either, but through their vast network of nano-spies, the White Knights knew everything that happened within their empire, and they had no room for disloyalty or incompetence, even when the source was as irrelevant as a seventeen-year-old human dumbchuck. Like Brandt, for instance.

“I don’t like it, because…” Brandt’s words died away as he tried to organize the dust motes floating around his brain into a plan.

Brandt was indecisive rather than stupid, but hesitation could get you killed just as readily as dumb orders. Brandt had only been made cadet corporal less than an hour before, a temporary promotion that didn’t entitle him to be addressed by the rank, only as ‘sir’. Cadet Lance Corporal Majanita, Arun’s fire team leader, would’ve made a much better section commander.

“We’ve penetrated too far without resistance,” spoke Brandt in his best semblance of authority. “You heard the briefing. The Troggie guardians we’re facing have regressed mentally to the borders of sentience, but we mustn’t mistake that for stupidity.”

“Do you think they’re creeping up behind us?” asked Del-Marie.

“Err, yes,” agreed Brandt. “That’s exactly what I mean. Osman, go three hundred meters back the way we’ve come. Check our rear is still clear.”

“Sir!” Osman raced off to obey. He wasn’t going to give any cause for complaint now, but give him a cup of grok in a rec-chamber, and Osman would cheerfully tell you exactly what he thought of Brandt’s order. For starters, sending a lone cadet to check a position was against their training. They should go in a pair. Buddied up Marines could cover each other. They were more than twice as strong as two Marines on their own.

Everyone knew that.

“McEwan!”

Arun only allowed himself to hesitate for an instant before answering: “Sir!”

“Recce that side tunnel we’ve just passed.”

“Yes, sir.”

And so Arun McEwan, a seventeen-year-old Marine cadet, chilled with foreboding, entered the shadows alone.

If the tunnels had been constructed by human engineers they would have been wider, well-lit, and level, but Trogs weren’t human. As Arun cautiously penetrated the tunnel, he felt the wrap of alienness tighten around him with every step. He flicked his visor display to survey mode and confirmed one of his suspicions: the tunnel was rising and falling in its depth below the surface of the hill above. The change wasn’t obvious as you walked, given the frequent twists and turns. Half-expecting an alien warrior to spring at him from out of the shadows, he quickly switched back to tactical mode, and breathed out when no threats were displayed, though it also told him that he was out of comms contact with his comrades.

Suddenly he was gasping, fighting to control his breath. Why hadn’t Brandt sent Springer with him?

He calmed his breathing, but his instincts still told him he was in danger. With his visor tac-display showing no movement, no EM activity, and no inexplicable heat signatures, those instincts were indistinguishable from cowardice. To be afraid was inevitable, even for a Marine. To succumb to fear, though… that was punishable by death.

So Arun pressed on around a tight left bend and immediately came to a halt when he saw the tunnel narrow ahead. He would have to turn sideways to squeeze through the gap. Even if he were dressed in fatigues, it would be tight. The bulky battlesuit he wore meant he would have to force his way through.

Or try to. He could easily get stuck in there, deep inside enemy territory with no one to call for help.

He felt the crushing weight of earth envelop him, driving the breath from his lungs. He bent over, hands on knees, and fought to even out his short, rasping gasps. The walls ahead seem to tremble, all the more eerie in the blue glow of his enhanced low-light display. That had to be his mind playing tricks.

Didn’t it?

The tunnel was constructed from nothing more than trampled soil mixed with alien spit. The incalculable weight of soil overhead was not held up by some product of advanced materials technology, as with the human and Jotun Marine base. Just spit. Perhaps the shock waves from heavy weapons fire was bringing the hill down on top of him.

Arun wanted to go back. The fear was so intense he was on the brink of sobbing. If he triggered an ambush, then he’d die. If the ceiling collapsed he’d die. He’d been a cadet for just two weeks. What dungering use would dying be to anyone?

Flushing these tunnels of Trogs was supposed to be a training exercise, but the enemy didn’t know that. The danger was very real. He took a deep breath. And another. To push his fears away was beyond him, but he rose above them enough to find sufficient air and calm for his brain to kick in and think!

Brandt wanted a recce. To advance five hundred meters down the tunnel sounded acceptable. Even though Arun had lost his Battle Net connection, he daren’t lie about how far he’d gone down the tunnel. The chance that the Jotun officers were recording everything was too great. He would get to the five hundred meter mark, count out ten seconds, and then run back.

Now that he had a plan, a little confidence returned.

Pace by faltering pace, Arun squeezed sideways through the gap, using his power-assisted musculature like hydraulic rams to force his way through.

The earth was darker here. Damper too. Bubbles of foam oozed from the soil and stuck to his battlesuit; loosened soil tumbled to the floor, piling up almost to his knees.

It felt like climbing into the throat of an immense and hungry beast.

After a final series of twists, the constriction opened up again. He began to breathe more normally until the very walls began to tremble in a freakishly organic movement, as if the tunnel itself were breathing. Perhaps that was exactly what the tunnel was doing. He’d seen no obvious sign of ventilation and who knew what these aliens were capable of? His battlesuit AI, Barney, confirmed the motion: whatever was happening to the walls wasn’t a figment of his imagination. This was for real.