Marine Cadet (The Human Legion Book 1) (10 page)

Arun flung his arms out against the walls of the tube, bracing himself against the seductive thoughts in his head.

Jump…

No!

He wouldn’t! Not while there was hope. And there
was
a slender hope. Nhlappo had said so.

Or had she planted false hope, in case of just such a moment as this?

“Keep moving, McEwan! Have you no dignity?”

Arun felt his jaw tighten.
No I haven’t, you stupid veck!
For days, Arun had struggled to keep wild mood swings in check, and now Rekka’s admonishment was like a flamethrower, coating Arun with incandescent fury.

He fantasized about grabbing the skangat of an instructor and throwing them both off the stairway tube.
But there was still hope.
He
had
to believe that. So instead Arun launched his final mental defense, the one marked: ‘Do not use except in case of emergency’. He folded his conscious mind away and relinquished control to the unconscious parts of his brain. He had been engineered to do this during sentry duty, or when deployed for ambushes, waiting for hours or days with his finger on the trigger, waiting for an enemy to appear.

But this wasn’t sentry duty. Would he wake up when he needed to?

That sense of unease stretched, infusing his mind for an eternity until–

Rekka slapped him… “That was a coward’s escape,” she sneered. “But at least it got you here.”

Arun found he’d arrived on a transparent walkway, about to follow the rest of the group through a glass door that was sliding open. Of the journey here he had no memory.

He glanced down, but the ground was too far away to see.

Then he passed through the door and into the colonel’s domain.

The humans were in the lower of two circular rooms built with the same transparent material as the walkway. They looked like two identical glass bowls stacked one atop the other but offset by a quarter of their diameter.

On the upper level, sitting at a double-banked work station, was the colonel of the 412th Tactical Marine Regiment. His name translated as Little Scar.

Only his head was showing over the back of his chair, but the nick in his left ear was enough for Arun to recognize the colonel from parade ground inspections.

From the tilt of his head, Little Scar was staring up at the clouds gamboling across the gleaming blue sky, his dangling bronze earrings in the shape of hammers brushing the back of his neck.

Sky?

The only view through these windows should have been shadowed mountainside. But that had been replaced by a sunny vista. Arun could even hear imaginary birds calling to each other as they flew through the spiraling walkway that led up through the roof.

Curved sofas covered in emerald green velour ran along the walls of the lower room, the huge size of these sofas making him feel like a small child sent to see the grown-ups, or a mortal approaching the gods. They could have been built for eight-foot tall humans if not for the additional armrests at shoulder level. Of course! Jotuns were hexapeds.

Zug would love this.

The thought of his alien-obsessed friend gave Arun a pang of loss. He tried smothering himself with numbness. Around him, he could sense fear begin to come off Hortez and Alistair, the mental defenses that had kept up their spirits on the journey had been stormed and breached by the presence of their officer. He couldn’t blame them because they had everything to lose. Arun didn’t.

However much he tried to believe in Nhlappo’s slender thread of hope, Arun was certain he’d already lost.

Arun stared at Little Scar.
Whatever you’re going to do, get on with it!

As if the Jotun had heard his thoughts, Little Scar finally acknowledged the humans. Still with his back to them, he growled: “Study the softscreens.”

Little Scar spoke with his own voice. Most Jotuns used the same voicebox translator technology as the Trogs, but those most skilled in human language could speak in a voice that sounded as if they had swallowed a box of razor blades.

To use his own voice emphasized that Little Scar had issued a critical command to be obeyed instantly.

But what did he mean? What softscreens?

Hortez saw them first, picking up a stack of transparent rectangles. Softscreen material was tough but years of use meant that the ones the cadets normally handled were scuffed enough to be seen even when inactive. These were pristine. Even when Hortez handed him one, Arun could barely see the device until his touch activated it and an image appeared of the Totalizer. He could see every cadet battalion in Detroit listed in merit point order. Arun’s 8-412/TAC was two places and a little over seven thousand points clear of the Cull Zone. The image was real-time, with each score flicking up or down slightly, but the gap between each battalion was much too large for the positions to change while he watched.

After about ten seconds, the image changed. It still showed the Totalizer, but this time listing the live killscores for the past month. There he was, Arun McEwan, top of the leader board by a long margin, the result of blasting the insect horde in the tunnels.

The view switched to live plus simulated killscores. Arun was still ranked top, though by a lower margin.

The colonel must consider my killscore rankings to be important
, thought Arun,
or else why is he showing them? If all Little Scar cares about are results, then I’m winning his heart.

The more Arun considered this, the more it made sense. Zug was always saying it was a mistake to assign human emotions to aliens. It felt as if everyone on the planet has pointed out that Arun had made the regiment the laughing stock of Detroit, but now he thought of it, he’d only heard the jeers from other humans. Maybe Little Scar didn’t care. Arun had won top killscore and a bundle of merit points for one of the Jotun’s battalions. Perhaps Arun had been summoned to be personally commended by his commanding officer?

Suck on that, Shlappo!

The softscreen display shifted again and all his hope vaporized. Arun felt as if he were falling, plummeting farther even than if he had jumped off the Jotunville heights. If he’d suspected he was doomed before, he
knew
it now.

He peered at the screen. It showed a camera shot of Arun naked with the scribe, an image enhanced to simulate a spotlight focused on the source of his humiliation.

Someone had added the caption:
412th Marines. Always ready for ACTION!

Arun willed the display to change again. It did, but he wished it hadn’t. What it showed was so bad that the breath froze in his throat.

Cadets were lined up with their backs to the parade ground dais. This was the main parade ground, the one cut into the Gjende Mountains above Detroit. The camera took a close-up view of their faces. Most wore blank expressions, some were angry, a few trembled with fear.

Human text at the bottom identified the footage, as if it needed an explanation. This was the final reason for coming to the planet’s surface that Arun had hidden from his mind. This was the fate that haunted every cadet.

This was the Cull.

The display looped around the moment of execution, but changed camera views from wide shots to close ups of individual twenty-year old cadet faces at the moment they were put to death.

The humans in his quarters had no choice but to watch. Little Scar had ordered that they should.

The Culled cadets died again and again, and Little Scar said nothing, sitting there up the steps in his upper room, not even deigning to glance in the humans’ direction.

Minutes went past.

An hour.

While his subordinates watched endless variations on the same slaughter, Little Scar sat motionless in his chair, looking up into a sky that wasn’t even real.

Then, at last, the time had come.

Little Scar turned and faced them.

Little Scar levered himself out of his deeply reclined seat and advanced a few paces toward the humans. His shaggy white fur, shot through with gray, jounced as he moved.

The size and power of the Jotuns was enough to scare the crap out of Arun at the best of times.

And this was not the best of times.

Arun’s gaze was fixed on the digits of the alien’s upper limbs. At present they were rubbery extrusions through the flat, horn-ridged pads that terminated his arms. But they could be retracted in an instant and replaced by claws like combat knives. With one blow, those claws could decapitate a human.

There was precedent.

The colonel halted at the top of the steps leading down from the upper part of the room, and delivered a roar that liquefied Arun’s spine. Somehow Arun remained at attention, distracting himself with the way the colonel’s earrings jangled as he folded his ear trumpets flat against his head.

Little Scar’s mouth gaped wide. He did not speak, but the sounds of a male human came from his throat speaker. “You have seen footage from 32 years ago, from the last time my regiment suffered the dishonor of the Cull.” He held up one upper limb. A single rubbery finger shot outward stretching as long as a human arm. And it was pointing straight at Arun. “I have had to explain to Supreme Commander Menglod why your image is posted throughout Detroit.”

The colonel growled again. “Do I need to draw a connection between the two facts?”

Arun’s sight glazed over. He couldn’t breathe. He daren’t.

The colonel retracted his finger. “The human cadets in the tunnel exercise are less than three years from graduation, from fighting in the war. Losing is a valuable lesson. It is best to lose at some point in your training. A warrior who has never been bested has never tasted the ash and tarnished mouth-feel of defeat. They remain untested and I do not wish for untested warriors in my regiment.”

Arun breathed.

But then the Jotun extended his claws. They were serrated and so very sharp. “But to lose badly is unforgivable,” he continued. “The stink of incompetence can linger forever. I must correct this now or execute the entire battalion. It wouldn’t be the first time we had to discard a unit gone rotten. You humans have created this crisis and you are forever grumbling that you should run more of your own affairs. So you advise me. What should I do?”

Little Scar fixed his glare on Nhlappo. “You first.”

She didn’t hesitate. “Sir. Cadet McEwan is the source of the embarrassment. He should be executed immediately.”

Nhlappo looked as if she had more to say but Little Scar pointed to Rekka. “You!”

“Sir. I agree with the senior instructor, sir.”

The Jotun narrowed his eyes, glaring at Rekka. Arun allowed himself a little inward smile when he imagined how Rekka must feel under that attention.

Alistair and Hortez were next. Each took full responsibility upon himself, but evaded suggesting what punishment they should suffer.

Then it was Arun’s turn. What could he say? He was trapped by his predatory superiors. So he spun the line that Nhlappo had ordered him to back in her office, dragging out the toxic words with as much dignity as he could manage. “Sir, you should remove the source of our shame by executing me.”

He tensed his neck, expecting Little Scar to leap down the stairs and slash with those claws.

But the alien appeared satisfied and settled his attention on the sergeant whose name Arun still didn’t know. “You are senior human sergeant for ‘C’ Company, 8th battalion. What would you do?”

If he was the senior veteran then he must be Staff Sergeant Bryant. He answered calmly. “Sir. It is the leader’s responsibility to preserve the honor of his or her unit. To have lost a unit’s honor is a catastrophic loss of authority after which no leader can function. So if a unit has dishonored itself, then its leader should be punished as an example. Even if the punishment isn’t fatal, before the leader can return to the same position he or she must not only wait for a suitable period of atonement, but must also earn that position to the satisfaction of the unit.”

“Quite so,” said Little Scar. He nodded, a gesture of agreement, although with his pronounced brow ridge and bony skull crest the motion looked very much like an armored headbutt. “Of all of us, Staff Sergeant Bryant has most recently been tested in battle. It shows.”

He pointed to Alistair and Hortez. “You are no longer Marine cadets.”

A third finger extruded from his hand toward Nhlappo. “You! Ensure these failures are out of my regiment by the end of the day. Then hand over your remaining duties to your junior instructors. From midnight you are demoted to the rank of Marine private. Gold Squad has lost its veteran to resuscitation attrition. You will fill the gap. Pray that you are never presented to me again. I shall not be so lenient next time.”

The merest hint of a protest sounded in Nhlappo’s throat, but she cut it dead just in time.

“I have…” started Little Scar but stopped suddenly. He growled, flicking his ears wildly. “I have discussed your company’s performance with Commander Menglod and we have agreed a unit-wide punishment for the 8th battalion. Examine your screens.”

Arun looked down at the image of the Totalizer showing the leaderboard of battalions vying with each other to keep out of the Cull Zone. 8-412/TAC was 7,000 points ahead of the cut off. Arun steeled himself to see that safety margin diminish.

The screen refreshed.

8-412/TAC had disappeared. No it hadn’t. It had shifted position. They were bottom!

“We have deducted 25,000 points from 8-412/TAC. This year’s graduates
will
be Culled.”

The colonel looked from one human face to another, daring them to protest. They were too stunned to speak.

“There is to be no further punishment of the cadets over this issue. Dismissed.”

A mix of horror and relief flooded through Arun as he about-heeled to leave. He’d escaped but his friends had not. It should have been the other way around.

“No, not you, McEwan,” said the Jotun. “You shall remain here.”

Little Scar waited until the other humans had marched away before switching from his thought-to-voice system to speak in his own gravelly words.