War's Edge- Dead Heroes

by Ryan W. Aslesen

  “Drop your logs now! Side-straddle hops, ready… exercise!”

  The platoon began performing side-straddle hops, known everywhere else in the galaxy as jumping jacks. Mack and her recruits counted them out until they reached 100. Rizer—dizzy, his knees quaking—didn’t know how much more he could take. Hang on… Let it be someone else! He couldn’t face the ignominy of cooking or cleaning toilets for the next five years, nor the snide comments his parents would make if he failed. I’m not going to fail!

  “Run in place now! Let’s go! Get those knees up high!”

  Boots splashed, kicking up mud as the recruits sprinted toward nowhere. Rizer glimpsed the med bots carrying Maddox away on the stretcher. Lucky bastard. He guessed that Maddox would be returned to the platoon or perhaps recycled to another after further acclimatization. Apparently Mack didn’t consider him a dropout, otherwise they wouldn’t be out here still. Or would we? Rizer had already noticed that lies and false motivation were as much a part of Marine Corps training as PT.

  “Get your fucking knees up, Rizer!” Mack pulled her stun baton and whacked him once across his left thigh, though she didn’t depress the shock button. “You ready to quit, big balls?”

  “No ma’am!”

  “So you want more? Then shout for it! Shout out for more!”

  “I want more!” He somehow got his knees pumping at the proper altitude despite the lactic acid burning in his legs.

  Mack moved on to bitch out someone else.

  “Higher, scumbag! Faster! Faster!” Alpha shouted. He stood down the rank a ways; Rizer couldn’t see whom he was yelling at. The bot jabbed his stun baton into the unfortunate recruit’s ribs, eliciting a small dog’s whimper of pain. “Is that the best you can do? Move it, shitstain, faster!” The stun baton again, followed this time by full-out sobbing.

  “I think we have a winner!” Mack shouted gleefully. “Oh, looky here, it’s suckdick Sylvis. Imagine that!” Sylvis had already earned a nickname by volunteering each time Mack needed a recruit to help demonstrate something. “You ready to tap out, Sylvis; go suck some dicks elsewhere?”

  “No, ma’am,” he said, the words barely intelligible through his bawling.

  “Then get your fucking legs moving! Get those knees in the air!” She depressed the trigger on her stun baton, showed him the spark for motivation.

  Yet it did no good. Sylvis’ legs buckled. He fell sobbing into the mud.

  “Get the fuck up now!” Alpha shouted as he shocked him in the neck.

  “Are you done?” Mack demanded to know. “Are you fucking done yet?”

  “No, ma’am!”

  “Then get up!”

  “I can’t!”

  “Can’t lives in a house on Won’t Street, motherfucker!” She battered him once across the knee with her baton so hard Sylvis bellowed in agony. “Get up or quit! Stop wasting my time!”

  Sylvis rose to hands and knees and stared at the ground. “I can’t… I… I quit!”

  “See? That’s all you had to do.” Her voice sounded almost conversational. “Get him up, Alpha.” Mack returned the baton to her black duty belt as she marched to face the platoon. She called them to attention. “You pussies who somehow survived all owe a debt of gratitude to Sylvis, a weak piece of shit with the fortitude of a tin can. Say, ‘Thank you, Recruit Sylvis!’ ”

  “Thank you, Recruit Sylvis!” The platoon hadn’t yet sounded off with such relieved vigor. See you later, honor recruit.

  “I suggest you survivors don’t get comfy because tomorrow it’s gonna be you leaving in disgrace. Now at my command you will fall out and return to your squad bay. Every swingin’ dick and stinkin’ snatch better be online when I get there, or we’ll play games until another idiot taps out for the janitor corps. Fall out!”

  The platoon—a jogging, disorganized horde of muddy, stinking bodies—bolted for the barracks. The training day might have been finished, yet they faced one more daunting challenge: the stair climb to their squad bay on the sixth floor.

  As he ran, Rizer watched Alpha walk by with Sylvis, who had a blanket draped over his shoulders and a bottle of electrolyte fluid in his hand. The would-be honor recruit averted his eyes as the platoon ran by. Will that be me tomorrow? The ominous thought kept him from gloating over Sylvis’ fate.

  ***

  Shivering, naked but for a pair of synthetic underwear briefs, Rizer stood online in the squad bay, a lengthy rectangular room with a row of footlockers fronting two-tiered bunks—known as racks in Marine Corps parlance—on either side of the room. Two arrow-straight lines of yellow paint ran the length of the floor before each row of racks; getting online meant standing just behind the yellow lines. Recruits were forbidden from walking down the center of the squad bay, an area reserved exclusively for the DIs. When summoned to the duty hut, a small room where the DI-on-duty spent the night, recruits had to move behind the racks.

  With the fluid gait of a panther, SSgt Mack strolled the area between the lines with her tablet in hand. “You maggots thought the training was tough today? Ha! You have no idea how bad shit can get! Tomorrow’s training will make today seem like a pleasant memory!”

  Mack continued to speak, but Rizer didn’t catch it—Sgt Burrmaster had appeared under his nose. He stood shorter than Rizer’s 1.8 meters but compensated for his height with shoulders that belonged on an ox. “Hold still.” His black eyes bore into Rizer’s. He raised a finger, moved it toward Rizer’s right eye.

  What the fuck? But Rizer didn’t flinch as Burrmaster flicked a splatter of mud from his nose.

  “Nasty fuckin’ pig,” he growled, staring him down a moment longer before moving on.

  Whatever. Maybe let us actually shower next time.

  The last hour had been a blur of wet stampeding bodies, the games kicking off when SSgt Mack ordered the recruits to strip naked and attack the showers. Eighty recruits pushed and elbowed their way in, the DI’s right behind them, only for Mack to order them out in under a minute, their bodies still covered in a mixture of soap and gritty muck. Supposedly they had moved too slowly, which seemed to be the reason behind most of their punishments. She made them repeat the process, and the shower floor soon ran red with blood from many recruits slipping and falling.

  Rizer quickly realized that no one would get a proper shower. Muddy heads and hands, along with many bloody scrapes, adorned those not fortunate enough to get under the water for a few seconds. The squad bay reeked of wet earth and malodorous bodies.

  “Rizer!” Mack barked. “Get in uniform, you and your big balls have first fire watch. Abek, second watch. You’ll sound reveille at 0400. If you fuck it up—and I’m certain you will—I’ll eat your heart for morning chow. The rest of you chumps get in your racks now!”

  “Aye aye, ma’am!”

  What the fuck! How did I wind up on her shit list? It seemed a thousand years ago that he’d stepped out of formation to help Stubneski. In the meantime, dozens of others had committed infractions equally bad or worse. Mack shut off the lights and retreated into the duty hut. Rizer clad his dirty yet soapy body in a fresh uniform from his footlocker.

  “Sorry, man,” Stubneski whispered from the rack above Rizer’s. “It’s my fault you got watch.”

  “Don’t sweat it. I’ll get you in trouble tomorrow.”

  “You better. You owe me now.”

  “Why the fuck did you fart, anyway?”

  “I dunno. The food here is different than what I’m used to; it just slipped out.” Though a tattooed hulk of a man, his contrition regarding the whole stinking affair made him sound almost childish.

  “Get some sleep, fart box.” Rizer could only wish for sleep, his rack calling for him like a Siren. He walked behind the racks with a flashlight in hand as the other recruits enjoyed blissful slumber after the grueling day. I’ll get mine in three hours. Then three hours after that I’ll get up and do it again. And woe be to Abek if that surfing golden boy refused t
o get out of bed when the time came.

  Though his legs ached from fatigue, Rizer didn’t dare sit down; he knew he would instantly fall asleep. His thoughts returned to the brutal reality of his situation and the chain of events that ended in this huge room on this godforsaken planet.

  Sylvis may have been a bragging pussy, but his opinion of Rizer’s home world wasn’t completely inaccurate. A high-tech planet, Arcadia boasted some of the most prestigious universities in the Alliance as well as scientific facilities making constant breakthroughs in robotics, aeronautics, genetic engineering, and a host of other fields.

  Rizer had been working on a biology degree in preparation for eventually earning a master’s in genetic engineering. He was born into it; both of his parents worked in scientific research and expected him to carry on the family tradition as his older brother had done.

  Rizer literally skated through his first two years of college, yet he struggled with the daily routine of monotonous studies during junior year, due largely to boredom. He felt as if his future had been mapped out from birth. His parents expected him to excel, and he had done just that, until it started to get old. Feeling burned out, he started missing classes, first from oversleeping and later because he didn’t wish to attend.

  He spent most of his time playing violent military holo sims. But he’d never considered actually joining the military until the day he heard a Marine officer giving a presentation on campus to attract well-qualified officer candidates. Bored as ever, Rizer attended just to do something different for a change.

  The Marine captain made a powerful impression on Rizer. Juxtaposed to his professors—most of them old, disheveled, detached from the world outside of academics—the captain looked polished, confident, and worldly in his dress blues. He’d forsaken a sheltered and comfortable existence to undertake a life of discipline and service. Rizer’s interest piqued. The presentation left him eager to chart a new destiny on his own.

  “I’m sorry, son,” the captain informed Rizer when he inquired about becoming an officer. “But unless you’re a senior, there’s not much I can do for you. You need a degree to become an officer, and even when you’ve earned it, the waiting list for OCS is long and competitive.” He gave Rizer his card. “Look me up in a couple of years, and we’ll talk again.”

  “I really want to join, sir,” Rizer said, crestfallen. “Isn’t there a faster way to become an officer?”

  The captain nodded, the corners of his mouth upturned just short of a smile. “I didn’t want to wait either. You can do what I did: enlist for a tour. If your service record is up to snuff after three years, then you can apply for the enlisted commissioning program.”

  Rizer thanked him, then proceeded immediately to the local recruiting office to sign his enlistment contract. He would depart in a couple of days.

  His father tried to talk him out of joining, while his mother paced the floor and asked him over and over again, “Why? Why would you do something like this?”

  “Grandpa was in the Marines,” Rizer reminded them. “Why can’t you accept my decision?”

  “He was drafted for the war; he never had an option,” his mother said. “You do.”

  “Ever notice he never talked about it?” said his father. “I wonder why?” His glare grew more ominous; his mother’s more fearful.

  “I want to make a difference for once in my life!”

  “Make a difference…? By becoming a trained killer?” his father demanded.

  “By serving the Alliance.”

  “It’s not what you think it is. You’ll understand that soon enough.”

  That moment seemed like an eternity ago, and despite his wanting to join, he suddenly felt a bit homesick. Maybe they were right. I don’t know if I can hack this. He cursed himself for even thinking it. You wanted a challenge, right? You got it; now own up to it.

  Rizer walked into a small area of open concrete before the duty hut known as the quarterdeck, where DIs meted out individual physical punishments for those who fucked up in barracks. The ancient terminology dated to when Marines served on wooden ships sailing the oceans of Terra. The glowing numerals on the wall clock above the duty hut door read 23:23. It was customary on most worlds to adapt local time to coincide with the planet’s rotation, when practical. On Forge, the twenty-four-hour Terran cycle was maintained despite the 25.4 hours it took the planet to rotate, causing day and night to shift on the clock over time. He realized it would still be dark long after 0400 revelry.

  Rizer turned his attention to the window of SSgt Mack’s tiny room. Two icy eyes of unblinking blue stared right at him through narrowly parted privacy shades. He gulped, and immediately turned away to begin another tour around the squad bay.

  CHAPTER 3

  Platoon 2084 had been standing at attention on the Grinder for over ten minutes before SSgt Mack appeared, with Sgt Burrmaster right behind her as always. She came to attention. “Count on deck!” she barked.

  Garwood, the platoon’s current guide after three other recruits had been fired from the position, sounded off: “Ma’am, the count on deck is sixty-eight United Systems Marine Corps recruits, ma’am!”

  “Oh fuck no, Garwood, that can’t be right! Do it over, give me another count now!”

  Garwood broke from his spot beneath the red guidon, the number 2084 stitched across it in gold. The two-pointed pennant fluttered in the damp breeze at the head of the platoon. He counted their heads again. Rizer rather liked Garwood, one of the few in the platoon with a background similar to his own. Yet unlike Rizer, Garwood had left school after running out of tuition funds. Marines who completed an enlistment were guaranteed fifty-thousand credits toward university or guild training. Garwood also served as the platoon scribe, for which Rizer was grateful. He’d learned over the past two weeks not to draw attention by taking on extra duties. Staying invisible, out of Mack’s sight and mind, appeared to be the only way to avoid her wrath and survive this hell.

  Garwood returned to formation and repeated the same count as before. And before that and before that. SSgt Mack demanded the count every morning and before beginning each training evolution.

  “Huh…” Mack grunted after receiving the second count. “So nobody’s dropped out in two days. Is that what you’re telling me, Garwood?”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  She shook her head, looking deeply perturbed. “Two days…” She looked crestfallen as she paced. “Am I losing my touch, Eighty-Four? Being too easy on you clowns?”

  “No, ma’am!” they replied.

  “How touching of you to say so. But that’s all bullshit, isn’t it? Just another fucking lie, like everything else that comes outta those filthy cocksuckers of yours.”

  “No, ma’am,” cried Coltin, first squad leader. He sounded like a desperate child who had displeased his mother. Fucking suckdick.

  “Oh, you wanna interrupt me, Coltin? Get on your face and push!” She strutted some more as Alpha moved in to stand over Coltin and occasionally prod him with a stun baton as he pumped them out. “I won’t stomach your lies, Eighty-Four. I’ve been too soft on you, but that all changes today.”

  Here we go again. Rizer recognized the theatrics, the scripted DI performances meant to fuck with their heads, always keeping them guessing and aiming to please. And to his frustration, a lot of recruits seemed to fall for them.

  “Mmm-hmm,” hummed Sgt Burrmaster. “Time we singled out the gray men, staff sergeant.” He rubbed his hands together in sadistic anticipation.

  “That’s what I’m thinking, Sergeant Burrmaster. You dipshits know what a gray man is?”

  “No, ma’am!”

  “It’s a recruit who blends in, never tries to excel, just skates along and hopes not to be noticed. I know at least a dozen of you freaks that wanna go through the motions and not train at your full potential.” She held up a pad of silver reflective stickers. “Well, we’re gonna weed out a few of you shitbirds today. Station
training: you fuck off, you get one of these stickers on your back. But first we need to get in a good warm-up.”

  Mack ran them to the far side of the Grinder, where she led them through an hour of non-stop, muscle-melting calisthenics, a flurry of pushups, squats, dips, flutter kicks, pull-ups, lunges, and sit-ups. Pools of sweat formed under Rizer and his fellow recruits. As he held a plank position for what felt like ten minutes, his back and stomach muscles spasming painfully, he looked up at SSgt Mack, who had barely broken a sweat. Her eyes caught his; Rizer quickly averted his gaze back to the deck.

  Just when Rizer was about to collapse, she jumped to her feet. “Recover! Now, when I call out your squad you will fall out and proceed to the ordered station. First squad, weights, go!”

  Rizer and his squad bolted for the weight benches and barbells. “I got a bad feeling about this gray man shit,” Stubs said to Rizer as they ran together. All but the DIs now referred to Stubneski by his shortened moniker. He and Rizer had developed a friendship, which seemed appropriate enough considering they bunked together and stood side by side in formation.

  “Sounds like you two are pretty much fucked!” Belzer said as she sprinted past them.

  Rizer couldn’t deny that he and Stubs fit the description of gray men.

  “Suck a dick, you dumb cunt.” Stubs waved his hand as though swatting at a pesky insect.

  “Not yours, Stubs. Never yours!”

  Coltin grumbled. “Shut the fuck up! Let’s go!”

  “Fuck off and die,” Rizer said.

  “You wanna talk back?” Coltin asked as he appeared before Rizer, running backward.

  “You wanna stop me, suckdick?” Rizer responded.

  Squad leaders came and went, and thus received little respect from their charges. But they enjoyed their power trips for as long as they could.

  “Yeah, we’ll see today, shitbag,” Coltin sullenly uttered before he ran on.

  They reached the row of a dozen weight benches. “After you, I insist,” Rizer said to Stubs as he moved behind the bench to spot him. Each barbell weighed a hundred kilos. During the early days of training, Rizer had struggled to pump out more than three or four reps per set, and some recruits, especially those from low grav worlds, initially couldn’t do any reps and had to use light dumbbells. These days he was good for three sets of twelve at the very least.