by Peter Grant
“I’ll make sure to ask for that, then, Sir. Thank you.”
Captain Innes observed, “PO, yesterday’s action qualified you for the Space Combat Badge, to go with the Planetary Combat Badge you earned last week. We’re awarded only one combat star per campaign or operation, with one exception; if we experience both planetary and space combat during the same operation, we earn a star for each badge. Combat stars aren’t a primary criterion for officer selection, because candidates may not have been assigned to posts where they could earn them. Still, it can’t hurt for you to have two where others may have one or none. You’ll also have expeditionary service on your record after your assignment here, which will definitely help for selection purposes; and, of course, Lieutenant Parasurani and I will endorse your application when the time comes, on the basis of your performance with us.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“Very well.” Innes stood up, and Steve and his skipper rose to their feet in response. “Thank you once again for your splendid performance yesterday, and for all you’ve achieved during your assignment with us. I’ll put out a promotion signal today, including certification of the award of the Space Combat Badge, and cut orders for those training courses and your transport to Lancaster. Start packing your gear. You’ll have your work cut out for you if you’re to be ready in time to catch the frigate.”
“I’ll be ready, Sir.”
~ ~ ~
As they walked down the passage towards the docking bay, Steve couldn’t help shaking his head slowly, almost in disbelief. Parasurani noticed.
“Something wrong, PO?”
“No, Sir — far from wrong! It’s just that… I’m a bit overwhelmed at the moment, I guess. Last week I volunteered to run some ammo out to a patrol and pick up some wounded. I didn’t think much about it at the time — it was just something that needed doing — but I ended up dropping a rock on a bunch of terrorists. Eleven days later, I had another fight with a bunch of smugglers. Now it looks like both incidents have lit a reaction thruster under my Fleet career. If you’d said to me a month ago that all this was going to happen in so short a time, I’d have laughed, Sir.”
His skipper grinned. “It’s like the first two waves of a three–wave set, isn’t it?”
“I don’t understand, Sir.”
“I grew up on a surfboard on my home planet, Andaman. We speak there of a ‘three–wave set’, three waves following each other that are the most challenging for surfers. The first is usually of medium difficulty; the second is pretty tough; and the third is a humdinger, big and strong enough to drop you on the reef and hurt you very badly if you don’t ride it just right. I was thinking that volunteering to take out ammo and collect the wounded, then getting into a firefight and dropping that rock, was like the first wave of a set. Yesterday’s action was like the second wave, much more dangerous for you, and requiring more in the way of combat leadership and effectiveness. You beat that wave, too. The third wave’s still to come — the Selection Board and OCS. If you make it through those obstacles, you’re set fair for the rest of your career, given good luck and hard work.”
Steve’s face cleared. “That makes sense, Sir. I like the analogy of riding a wave. It fits with something else I was thinking about. At school we studied Shakespeare’s play ‘Julius Caesar’. I’ve never forgotten one quote by Brutus from Act Four. It goes like this:
“There is a tide in the affairs of men
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
On such a full sea are we now afloat;
And we must take the current when it serves,
Or lose our ventures.”
“It seems to me the last couple of weeks have been like that, Sir: a rising tide. It’s lifted me up very fast. I can either go on riding the tide upward from here, which I hope will lead me to OCS and a whole new set of challenges; or I can swim to the beach, and walk away, and let the tide recede behind me. It’s a bit scary to contemplate.”
Parasurani nodded. “Another good analogy — and yes, the future can be a bit scary when we look at it, wondering whether we’ll be able to cope with the challenges ahead. I find it helps to remember those I’ve already overcome in the past. Often they looked really nasty before I tackled them; but once I’d gotten stuck into them, they weren’t so bad after all. I’m sure you can say the same about some of your past challenges.”
“Yes, Sir, I can. That’s good advice, thank you. I’ll keep it in mind.”
Parasurani clapped him on the shoulder. “Go take that tide and ride that wave, PO. Make us proud!”
The Chosen
August–December 2843, Galactic Standard Calendar
Steve landed the hulking assault shuttle neatly inside the painted markings on the hardstand. He retracted the reaction thrusters, powered down the fusion micro–reactor, then turned to his students. “You all know the points on which I told each of you to concentrate as I checked you out. Read up about them tonight, and tomorrow morning we’ll practice them in the simulator before trying them out in the air again.”
“Aye aye, PO,” came their muttered responses.
“Very well. Let’s get inside.”
The student pilots followed Steve down the rear ramp and turned towards the Flight Operations Building. As they approached it the double glass doors flew open, banging against their stops. Marine Sergeant Carol Haskins, one of Steve’s fellow instructors, burst through them waving a printout.
“Steve! The signal came! You passed the Selection Board!”
“I did?” He seized the printout as she thrust it at him, indicating a line with her finger, and scanned it eagerly. Sure enough, it was the signal announcing the names of candidates selected for OCS. His name was among them.
“There’s another signal waiting at your terminal,” she said excitedly. “I saw the ‘Priority’ message flag on your display.”
They hurried inside. Steve nodded absently at his students to carry on, then unlocked his terminal, opened the signal and read it hungrily.
“I made the next course cycle! I’m to report to OCS in four weeks!”
He felt an enormous wave of relief wash over him. He’d overcome all the preliminary obstacles. Now it was up to him to work harder and smarter than he’d ever worked before.
“Congratulations, Maxwell.” The Chief Flying Instructor’s voice came from behind him. Master Sergeant Brady thrust out his hand. “Come and visit us when you graduate.”
“That’s if I graduate, Master Sergeant.” He shook his hand awkwardly. “There are all sorts of horror stories about how tough it is to pass OCS.”
“They’re just that — stories. Oh, the course is tough, sure enough, but it’s manageable. Thing is, it’s a different kind of toughness from Boot Camp. There the emphasis is on the team. If a recruit messes up, the whole platoon pays for it. In OCS it’s the individual’s fault, and he takes the consequences. It all comes down to self–motivation. No one’s going to push you to do anything. You’ll either go through the gates already a top performer, and demonstrate that all day, every day, right from the start, or you’ll be dropped. You’re an instructor. You know we require you to demonstrate the highest standards of knowledge, professionalism and smartness every day as an example to your students. That’s precisely what OCS looks for in officer candidates. You’ve met that standard so far here at Small Craft School, so there’s no reason why you can’t meet it there.”
“Thanks, Master Sergeant. That’s encouraging. I’ll do my best.”
“We’d better figure out what you need to do to prepare for OCS. I know you’re already doing a lot of exercise to be in peak condition for the course, but there’s all your kit to get ready. You’d better go through the attachment to that signal and make sure you’ve got everything it specifies. There’s also all the administrative processing to temporarily detach you from the School to attend the
course. We’ll free up enough time in your daily schedule to let you do all you need.”
In his quarters that night Steve went through his closet, checking every item of uniform. He set aside several that showed wear, particularly exercise gear, and made a list of replacements to buy so he would look his best at OCS. He closely examined his Number One and Number Two uniforms, referring to the requirements specified in the selection signal. He could only take one uniform to OCS with his NCO insignia of rank attached, to be worn when reporting in. All others had to have their insignia removed. Students would be issued special Candidate Officer insignia, to be used until they either graduated or were sent down.
He finally decided that, rather than spend hours laboriously removing his badges, it would be simpler to invest in new uniforms that wouldn’t show marks where the old insignia had been. Thankfully, his prize money from the Leona incident had been paid the previous month. In accordance with Fleet regulations, it had been shared between the crews of all the ships involved, which had divided the pot between several hundred Spacers. Even so, his share had come to more than thirty thousand credits, which was a very welcome addition to his bank balance. It made spending money on new uniforms an easy decision.
He went down to the autotailor, laser–checked his measurements, then placed an online order. He specified an expensive synthetic doeskin fabric, ostentatious for an NCO but appropriate for an officer’s uniforms. However, he didn’t order commissioned rank insignia. Even the idea felt too much like tempting Fate! That could wait until he was sure he’d graduate.
~ ~ ~
Steve entered the OCS administration building filled with almost unbearable excitement, mixed with real trepidation. Right now, the whole of his prior Fleet career seemed like nothing more than preparation for this, the final hurdle before commissioned rank. He struggled to remain outwardly impassive as he handed over his orders.
The Petty Officer First Class behind the reception desk slid his order chip into a reader, studied the display, then looked up at him, her eyes running over his immaculate Number Two uniform, resting approvingly for a moment on his award ribbons and the single service stripe on his lower left sleeve. “Welcome to Officer Candidate School. From this moment you may no longer use your rank of PO2. Instead, you will refer to yourself, and you will be referred to, as Candidate Maxwell.”
She handed him a fat envelope. “As soon as you get to your room, change out of your present uniform with its NCO rank insignia. This contains six sets of epaulettes and two sets of collar devices with Candidate Officer insignia. Put them on your uniforms at once. I remind you that as a candidate, your grade is officially O–zero. You will stand to attention when addressing any NCO or Senior NCO member of staff, and salute any officer. Your grade does not confer any authority, or give you any place in the chain of command over other Fleet personnel, unless specifically and temporarily authorized by an instructor for the duration of a training evolution or an exercise problem. Understood?”
“Aye aye, PO.”
“I’ll have an orderly show you to your room. You’ll share it with Marine Candidate Brooks Shelby, who hasn’t arrived yet. Pack your present uniform carefully in one of your suitcases in case of future need, then stow them neatly in the storeroom on your floor. The orderly will show you where it is, along with the cleaning gear locker. You’re required to have your room and personal gear ready in all respects for inspection by reveille tomorrow, which is at zero–six–hundred.
“You’re free until supper in the candidates’ mess at eighteen, for which Number Two uniform is required. At nineteen there’ll be an introduction for the members of the new course cycle from the Senior NCO Instructor in the assembly hall, also requiring Number Two uniform. Use your terminal to locate both venues, and don’t be late to either of them. Here’s your initial login code.” She printed out a slip of paper and handed it to him. “You’ll be prompted to change your password the first time you use it. Your terminal will also provide you with the course timetable and the names of your instructors. Tomorrow will be spent on administrative in–processing, and instruction will commence the following day.”
“Aye aye, PO.”
“Very well. Orderly!”
Half a dozen Spacers were standing at rest against the wall behind the desk. The nearest of them, a young woman, snapped to attention. “Here, PO!”
“Escort Candidate Maxwell to his room.” She handed her another slip of paper.
“Aye aye, PO.”
The orderly led Steve out of the administrative building and along the sidewalk of a long road above the parade–ground, Steve trying hard to look military despite pulling two large wheeled suitcases behind him.
They came to a series of accommodation blocks, and the young woman glanced at the paper in her hand. “This is your building, Candidate Maxwell.” She turned off the pavement and up a pathway leading to a set of double doors.
“I can see I’m going to get awfully tired of being called that,” Steve muttered to himself… but not quite quietly enough.
She laughed. “Not as tired as we get of saying it, Candidate — but it’s only for twelve weeks at most, as far as you’re concerned. We get to repeat it for a new training cycle every quarter.”
“I suppose so.”
His room proved to be a spartan, almost painfully neat and tidy compartment with two single beds jutting out from one wall, each with a trunk at its foot. Two small desks stood side by side between the beds, each bearing a plain tri–dee terminal. The opposite wall supported two tall lockers, separated by a small filing cabinet supporting a printer. The window overlooked the parade–ground. The floor was parquet, rectangular wood blocks laid and sealed in a herringbone pattern, polished to a mirror–like gleam by generations of candidates before him.
Steve inspected everything quickly, finding little that would require intensive cleaning effort. He said as much to the orderly.
“That’s because the class before you usually leaves the rooms in good shape, and we clean up anything major before you arrive, Candidate,” she pointed out. “After all, you’re going to be training and studying at high intensity. You won’t have enough hours in the day to get your room into top shape from scratch — but you’ll have to maintain it that way.”
“Good point. Thanks, Spacer. You can report back to administration.”
He selected the most comfortable bed, then took off his PO2 uniform, folded it and set it out of the way, and donned coveralls. He grimaced as he inspected the cleaning locker down the hall. Not for OCS the labor–saving robotic cleaning machines and equipment used on ships — here everything relied on the candidates’ muscles. He collected rags, window cleaner, furniture and floor polish and a buffer, and set about bringing the room to a state as close to perfection as he could get it. He concentrated first on the furniture, dusting every crevice, nook and cranny, cleaning and polishing every visible surface until it gleamed. When he’d finished, he unpacked his suitcases, arranging his uniforms and gear with micrometer–like precision in his trunk and locker in accordance with the layout charts taped inside them.
He attached the white triangle of Candidate insignia to his Number One, Number Two and working uniforms, point uppermost, then placed his PO2 uniform in a suitcase and stowed his locked luggage in the storeroom. He’d just got back when a knock came at the door.
“Hi. I’m Corporal — sorry, Candidate Brooks Shelby, Marine Corps. You must be Candidate Maxwell.”
The new arrival was about Steve’s height, with a muscular body and friendly, freckled face. Close–cropped brown hair topped very dark, almost black eyes. He wore a row of three award ribbons on his left chest; the Lancastrian Star in Bronze, the Fleet Achievement Medal, and the Fleet Expeditionary Service Medal. On his right chest he wore the Planetary Combat Badge with one star, and, like Steve, Expert badges in rifle, pistol and unarmed combat.
“Yes, I’m Steve Maxwell. I gather we’re roommates.” He held out his hand.
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br /> “So they tell me. I see you’re hard at work already.” They shook hands, then Brooks stepped into the room, towing a large suitcase and carrying another, similar to those Steve had just stowed. “I hope I won’t mess up the floor?”
“No, I haven’t polished it yet. I figured to leave it until last, since I knew you were coming.”
“Great! I see you’ve done all the furniture, so leave the floor and windows to me.”
“That sounds like a fair division of labor. I’ll dust the blinds, then tackle the door.”
“Let me get changed, and I’ll get right to it.”
While Brooks donned utility coveralls, Steve took hangars from his locker and arranged his Number One and Number Two uniforms on them. He carried them over to the locker one at a time, carefully hanging them so that there were no folds in the material that would become creases over time. As he picked up his Number Two uniform, complete with ribbon bars, he became aware of a sudden pause in his companion’s movements. He looked across the room to find Brooks’ eyes on his awards.
“That’s a pretty impressive collection,” the Marine said slowly. “How long have you been in the service?”
“Four and a half years; but the first of them, the Lancastrian Cross in Silver with Combat device, was awarded for a fight with pirates before I enlisted, so it doesn’t count as a service award.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s a Commonwealth award for valor, so the Fleet recognizes it. What about the others?”
“Four of them came from a six-month tour of duty with the United Planets peacekeeping mission to Radetski.”