Postal Marine 1: Bellicose (2 page)

Bophendze made the most of the week-long jump. Being a junior marine, he was given the top rack—ten meters above the deck. The climb would have been a challenge, but the ship's gravity was reduced during the trip.

The trip to
Temasek
System itself was uneventful. Bophendze had always wanted to see hyperspace. Everything he had seen and heard about hyperspace described it as as a kaleidescope of orange and yellow. The transport lacked viewports in areas where he had access. He resigned himself to the possibility of seeing hyperspace on some other trip. Through the week he did his most to recover from the sleep debt he accumulated in training. During the jump he felt an uncanny anxiety.
How many of these trips until I'm jaded?

Finally the ship's intercom reported the end of the jump. “We've arrived. Cruiser
Spaka
is on station. Some of you scrubs have orders to join her. A shuttle will be along side in a few beats to collect you. That'll give the rest of us a bit more atmo. Unfortunately, if you're not leaving us now, we've got many miles before we arrive at the orbital.”

Bophendze did not need to look at his orders again, he knew he was bound for the
Spaka
. He and eleven others lined up at the airlock to board the shuttle as it arrived. Most of the others were recent trainees. Bophendze had seen them in boot, though none were in his unit.

The barber pole that indicated a safe airlock clicked into place. The dozen shuffled through the airlock and into the shuttle.

“Welcome aboard. This shuttle seats ten comfortably, so things might be a little tight. I'm
Angel
, I'll be your stewardess and pilot. As soon as we separate from the freighter I'll be making a quick trip back to the
Spaka
. She's about get underway to intercept another freighter that's refusing to respond to hails. Grab a seat and do your best to hang on.”

Bophendze managed to beat out a couple other marines to get a decent seat. He started putting on the five-point harness. The shuttle lacked gravity, making his stomach a little more unsettled. While his stomach was unsettled by the lack of gravity it was less rebellious because that also meant there was no fluctuation.

The two who did not have seats wedged themselves near the two doors at the rear of the shuttle. Bophendze thought the two locations were meant to be extra seats, though not comfortable ones.

As soon as Angel looked satisfied with the arrangement, the shuttle broke from the airlock. Bophendze's stomach churned as it accelerated away. The three unharnessed marines managed to hold on. The shuttle flipped upside-down, if there was such a thing in zero gravity.
Angel
wasn't kidding when he said he was in a hurry
.

The shuttle lurched then accelerated steadily for most of the flight.
Angel
then flipped the shuttle over and threw in the afterburners for a crash deceleration. The blue glow of the thruster's radiation faintly visible through a nearby window. Bophendze could hear the metallic scrape as the shuttle entered the landing bay.

“Kiddos, welcome home. They've asked me to show you to your new home.”

As they stepped out of the shuttle, Bophendze looked at the hangar. The ceiling was lower than the orbital, barely twice as high as the shuttle. Maybe it was a joke, but the deck was painted olive drab and the walls and ceiling were blue-gray. Looking around, he could tell several of the other recruits were equally surprised. “What's with the paint?”

One of the nearby crewmen smiled. “We taught the Captain not to make an unqualified order. He told us to paint the hangar after too many skid scrapes. We painted the hangar. He should be thankful. Papayan Pink lost by two votes.”

“Isn't that against regulations or something?”

“The regs don't say anything about the paint color. Captain got a chuckle out of it, too, so he let it stand. You got a problem with the color?”

Bophendze shook his head.
The last thing I need is to start upsetting people on my first day.
He turned to see what the other recruits were thinking and found himself standing alone. The other recruits were filing out of the hangar. He picked up his duffle and jogged to catch up.

For the next few beats, they walked through what Bophendze felt was a maze of passages. Occasionally
Angel
would stop to point out various landmarks. Bophendze stood too far back to hear as
Angel
explained why whatever landmark was important. He decided he would learn the significance sooner or later. After the first dozen such stops, they all started blending together. Bophendze noted that most of the walls were the standard not-quite-white, not-quite-grey of other Imperial Postal Service facilities.
Just not the hangar deck.

They stopped in what appeared to be a weapons pod.

“Here is your home, Kiddos. This berthing space will sleep all twelve of you.”

Bophendze looked around and saw only equipment. “Where are we supposed to sleep?”

Angel
stared at him for a moment, as if taking a measure of the man. He then pointed down. Below
Angel
's knee was a curtain. “You'll see there are fifteen racks in this area. There are only twelve of you, but that's only because three of you somehow failed to arrive on time.”

“How are we supposed to sleep?” Bophendze could not believe the tiny space under the equipment was supposed to be their beds.

Angel
smiled. “Preferably with both eyes closed. You're going to be a little trouble maker, aren't you? You are the newest scrubs on board, so you get the worst rack space. That's a tradition we inherited from our earliest ancestors.” He surveyed the other recruits. “If you live long enough, you'll graduate to the big-kids beds.”

Bophendze tried to contain his frustration. The berthing space was a long row of racks situated under active weapons equipment. Each rack was about a meter wide and tall, the deep part running perpendicular from the passage. On the opposite wall were two rows of lockers and a small, empty recess. A curtain appeared to be all that gave a sleeper privacy. Bophendze's jaw hung open in disbelief.

“Why is it that every new issue of scrubs think they are entitled to better conditions than those who have spent years in the Marines? I have seventeen years serving the Postal Service, and my rack the same size. I just share quarters with three of my fellow pilots, and no weapons stors.”
Angel
put his hands on his hips and his voice got louder. “This is a combat vessel, not a yacht. We skimp on living arrangements so we can survive combat action. We're packed as tight as we can be to keep the ship's profile low. You need a lot less space to die in. Understand?”

Bophendze swallowed. “Sorry, Chief.”
He's been in the Marines almost as long as I've been alive.

“We're under way to a combat operation. The report I read said we have five cycles before we make contact, unless they try to run. I doubt we'll be taking any of you along, but suit up. I was told Gunny
Chrachen
wants you in combat gear in the pretty hangar in a half cycle for training.”

Training? Didn't I just spend months in training?

Angel
seemed to read Bophendze's mind. “We always train. Like a knife's edge, we must stay sharp.”

“But you're a cargo pilot.”

Bophendze cringed.
At least another recruit said it, not me.

Angel
looked sharply the recruit. “My cargo are the likes of you. Perhaps you'd prefer if I couldn't do my job well? Then you'd all be spread out in space with nowhere to go.”

The recruit shook his head.

“Get changed and get to the hangar. You may think a half cycle is a lot of time, but it's not. You are each standard-issue marines. The combat exoskeleton is inside the lockers on this wall that will fit you.”

Bophendze claimed the closest rack.
At least being at the end of the line means I get a rack close to the exit. More like a coffin.
He unpacked part of his duffle to get his combat uniform. He dressed quickly, then opened the locker.
Why didn't they show us the exoskeleton in training?
For the next several beats Bophendze did the best he could to get dressed in the armor. It was not a hard-shelled outfit, but felt gel-filled. It was a bit smaller than he was, but the material stretched sufficiently for him to fit into it.

As he watched a few other marines get into their armor, he noticed the camouflaged pattern. Or rather, he noticed that those who had donned the armor tended to blend in. It surprised him that an odd mix of grey pixels would so easily obscure a body, even against the flat grey bulkhead.

The helmet smelled of sweat. It took some effort to fit it over his head, but once one seemed to just fit snuggly.
I guess there is a standard-issue Marine.

The helmet had a small metal-sheathed cable that he screwed to his armor. He then pulled down the helmet's visor, which provided at most two centimeter's clearance from his nose. A small HUD winked on as he did. A large ‘99’ was in the lower left. As he looked across the berthing area, the other recruits were outlined in green, with information bubbles hovering faintly over each one. He looked at a bubble, which expanded to give more information. “MAR Showerman - 99.” There were some other symbols Bophendze did not understand.

Three of the other recruits started out of the area. Bophendze decided to follow them so he would not get lost. Or at least he would have company. It would not just be him being yelled at for not knowing how to return to the hangar.

The four wandered around a bit, slowly meandering through the ship. Bophendze was amazed that a space so tightly packed would manage to have enough passages to constitute a maze. There were various markings on hatches, abbreviations that he figured in time would tell him what was on the other side. The recruit in the front seemed to understand where he was going, though at one time Bophendze was certain they passed the same hatch twice.

They eventually emerged into the hangar space. Bophendze recognized a few recruits who he knew were still getting suited up when they left. The group had fallen into the characteristic rank and file that had been drilled into them during training. Standing off to one side was a gunnery sergeant in combat armor, who at the same time managed to exude professional sternness and complete at ease. The gunny's helmet visor was down.

Slung over the gunny's shoulder was the standard issue
FACR-29
\Dash Full-Automatic Combat Rifle. Bophendze could recall his drill instructor's mechanical description of the weapon from months before: “the FACR-29A5 is 6.8 millimeter caliber, a size perfected by our ancestors for providing the best accuracy and terminal performance out to 500 meters. We add a two millimeter hardened alloy sabot to our bullets to improve armor penetration. When you want to send the very best, the
FACR
passes the test.”

Why would the Postal Service care to issue a weapon accurate to 500 meters? The MC3 we just traveled in was only 450 meters long.
Bophendze joined the formation.

A few beats later the last two recruits entered the hangar. They had the look Bophendze was all too familiar with—fear drilled into them by their instructors. Bophendze noted on his armor's chronometer that they had a couple more beats.

“Everybody's here and on time. Good. We have at most a cycle until I'll have to start getting prepared for a boarding operation. That gives me enough time to introduce myself and start getting you scrubs into real fighting shape. I'm Gunny
Chrachen
. You're a new stick and we're expecting a corporal who will take you and mold you in the image of a lethal team.

“I don't care what they told you in boot. None of you know how to fight. Boot camp is good at teaching you how to die in combat heroically. I'm the ranking marine on this cruiser. There are ninety marines on board. That's enough tough love for the vagrants who think they can avoid paying the emperor his coin when they travel through his space.

“I know most of you joined to avoid a terrible home life. A few of you look young enough that you either ran away from home or were inducted as auxillaries ahead of schedule. You learned in boot that we marines don't care, a warm body is a warm body. Strength in numbers, and all that. Out here on the line, we do care. Whatever you might have been until now, forget it. You are now responsible for the lives of every marine on this ship. Don't screw up and get a fellow marine killed. That's an order. If you do screw up you'll be in direct violation of a lawful order. Understood?”
Chrachen
waited for head nods. “Remember general order number 13: ‘don't die.’”

There are only 12 general orders.
Bophendze managed remember only one, “quit your station only when properly relieved.”
Are there different set of general orders in the service?

“I only have time today to talk briefly about your armor. You probably can't tell yet, but the ship's vibrating a lot. That means we're probably at full throttle, which only happens when I'm about to lead a boarding party. They spend so much time at boot teaching you how to walk and think. They leave us out here on the fringe to teach you the parts that matter. We're in luck because our admiral cares to ensure we're properly equipped. What each of us is wearing is the Personal Armor, Military, or the
PAM-2
. My last unit was forced to adopt the PAC, the civilian equivalent.”
Chrachen
smurked, “Not quite as resilient as the PAM-2.”

Bophendze chuckled loudly enough for the
Chrachen
to hear.

Crachen's slight smile evaporated. “Something funny, scrub?”

Bophendze felt the color running out of his face.
I didn't laugh that loud, did I?
“Gunny, I've never heard of PAM or PAC before. This armor is stretched pretty tight, and doesn't feel much thicker than a standard EVA suit. I can't believe it's even armor.”

Gunny
Chrachen
stared at Bophendze for a long beat. Then he grunted and raised an eyebrow. “What you're really telling me is you know more about combat than I do. Right?”