by Ben Wilson
“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-29Dash 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 f
elt 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?”
“No, Gunny. I—”
“What you just said is you can't believe something I just said. That means you're calling me a liar. This is a training session, Bophendze. I don't lie in training.”
How did he know who I was? Then he noticed that Gunny Chrachen's visor was down. Bophendze scarcely had time to respond, let alone figure out how the gunny's voice carried through the gunny's visor. “I don't mean to call you a liar. I just—.”
“Stow it.” The command of the gunny's voice froze him in place. He paused long enough for the echo to finish bouncing around the compartment. “Marines, this is what we like to call a teachable moment. You might have said it, but I'm pretty certain your eleven peers are thinking it. I'm going to put this to bed right now. What I want you to do is stand over there.” Chrachen pointed toward the hangar's main exterior hatch.
Bophendze felt like a complete idiot, but he knew any protest would only serve to upset Chrachen more. He slowly walked in the direction he was told to, looking at a few of his peers. Most of them had were pretending the altercation was not happening. Once he got in the general area of where he was told to stand, Bophendze turned to face Chrachen.
Bophendze scanned the hangar. Most of the hangar crew was gone, or standing in the passage leading to the rest of the ship. Why are they smiling? Is that guy taking bets?
Chrachen unslung his rifle. “I told you what this is, right? The FACR-29. The PAC would help resist the standard civilian bullet, but we carry the sabot here.” Chrachen turned to face Bophendze.
What is he about to do? Reflexively, Bophendze pulled down his visor with the hope that the visor might offer some protection.
Chrachen shouldered the weapon, aiming the rifle at Bophendze. The fluidity of his motion spoke of the years of combat experience.
Having a weapon pointed at him terrified Bophendze. Chrachen's cool professionalism only enhanced the panic. Aren't we allowed so many unexamined fatalities? Hundreds of thoughts flooded his brain, each signaling that he would not outlive the encounter. He tried to fight the thoughts off, hoping that he could not be murdered in front of the other recruits. His survival instincts beat down his rational thoughts. While his mind raced, only a couple seconds had elapsed since Chrachen aimed at him.
Bophendze threw his hands up to shield him. He yelled, “No!”
Chrachen fired a long burst, each bullet striking Bophendze in the chest.
Bophendze watched the HUD's “99” decrease. Instinct took over and his bowels released. He fell to the floor and curled into a ball to shield himself. When the display got down to 24, Chrachen stopped.
The rifle's report reverberated off the hangar walls. Bophendze realized Chrachen had stopped. He started uncurling himself, feeling that he was unscathed. He did not even experience the pain of being hit. He looked at Chrachen in horror.
Chrachen dropped the magazine from the rifle and loaded a second magazine. He then recharged the rifle, the bullet in the chamber ejecting out. He slung the rifle on his shoulder. He then lifted his visor.
“Men, if you pull your visors down you'll see that Marine Bophendze here has suffered no breach in his armor. Armor integrity is at 24 percent, down to eight percent in the chest. I hit him 29 times, almost fully expending my magazine. They helmet is actually harder than the suit itself. I've never seen a helmet breach in all my years of service. Had he been wearing the PAC, Bophendze here would be dead.”
Chrachen walked over to him and put his hand on Bophendze's shoulder. He then curled his nose. “What the PAM does not do is shield odors. Bophendze here managed to crap his pants.”
Someone in the hangar crew let out a whoop. Most of them looked upset, but a few started pushing through to a crewman who had all the money. They bet on whether I would crap myself?
“Go get yourself cleaned up. Take the rest of the day off. And don't you ever doubt me again. I tell you the PAM is good armor, you storm into the breach to prove it. You got it?”
Bophendze nodded. Inside, he despised Chrachen.
* * *
Bophendze walked out of the hangar and down the passage. He was slightly lost, but he did not care. “What have I gotten myself into?” he muttered. I'm barely 18, orphaned and got myself recruited into the marines. Just because the Navy wouldn't take me because I was too young. I could have found something on the planet. Instead, I chose to try to get as far away as I could. Only one system away and I'm already a failure. How am I going to recover from this?
As Bophendze wandered aimlessly through the ship, he kept his eyes on the deck. Eventually, he arrived at his berthing area. He ran his fingers through his hair, which had grown slightly from the bald head he had in boot. He started to cry.
“I'm pretty sure Marines aren't authorized to cry.”
Bophendze jerked his head up. Angel was sitting in the berthing area.
“Don't let that little scene get the better of you. There's always somebody that gets singled out. Short of combat, It's the only way we have of demonstrating confidence in the armor,” Angel said. “It's nothing personal. I didn't expect my little trouble maker to be the one that got lit up, though.”
Angel's apology did little to soothe Bophendze's wounded ego. “Why single anybody out? It's not fair. Why not shoot an empty uniform?”
Angel chuckled. “Bophendze, empty uniforms don't feel. Marines feel, though act like we're ordered not to. What you might not realize is subjecting you to a little ridicule confirmed to the other eleven that that armor will extend their combat survival rate. It's low enough with the armor. Without it we wouldn't even survive the first hatch breach. Besides, combat is just like life—not fair. The sooner you accept that the longer you'll live.”
“You're telling me that I should be thankful?”
“Yes. Actually, you should. You aren't now, which would not be a first. Despite how you feel now, eventually you will thank Chrachen. At least you got the rest of the day off.” Angel stood and walked past him. He started fanning his nose. “It might take you the rest of the day to clean out that suit, though. Just hose it down and return it to supply for replacement.”
Setting an example or not, I don't care. That wasn't right. Bophendze did not see the rest of his team for the next two cycles.
Bophendze settle into the ship's routine of cleaning and training. After a month on the Spaka, Corporal Makaan was assigned the team leader, a position normally reserved for a sergeant. They did a few training exercises where Bophendze found himself dead more often than not. Not long after, Bophendze's cleaning duties increased. The weeks passed Bophendze unnoticed as his days blurred together in tedium.
One morning, Angel walked passed the hatch, then came back. “Bophendze, Why are you on your hands and knees?”
Bophendze looked up. “Corporal Makaan wants ours to be the cleanest berthing area on the ship, and he said the best way was with scrub brush and elbow grease.”
Angel shook his head. “You'll never have the cleanest area. Team Four hired a civilian to clean their berthing area. I think she used to work for one of the system's wealthier citizens before she ‘aged out.’” He paused briefly. “She looks like she might be one of the team's mother, now that I think of it.”
“How does that work? Civilians on a combat vessel?”
“Haven't you noticed? The Marines always manage to have a few civilian contractors on board. She probably uses a spare rack in the contractor's area. If they're not complaining, then she's probably trading their silence for her cleaning skills as well. Command hasn't complained about the arrangement.”
“If she's wo
rking for a couple teams, then she's probably getting paid more than I am, and this is not my day job.” Why hasn't Makaan not heard of her? She can't be overworked.
Angel chuckled. “Boph, this is your day job. You do all the odd assignments that need to be done to keep you from getting bored. But, this is the life of a marine. Months of boredom followed by moments of panic. Somebody did a good job lying to you if you signed up for the money.”
Bophendze stopped scrubbing. He sat straightened up, sitting on his ankles, and dropped the scrub brush into the bucket. “I do this all day, every day.”
“Then you're the team chogi. If I were you I'd talk to Makaan about getting back into a training rotation. You're not much of a marine if you spend all your time on your knees.”
Angel's concern continued to amaze him. I can't believe he's a marine. “Why are you in the Marines?” Bophendze said.
“Because the Navy kicked me out.” Angel fixed his gaze on Bophendze. Angel's usual jovial demeanor ebbed.
The gaze and the pause started to unnerve Bophendze. He's like a predator. How could he be an angel?
Angel kept his gaze. “I was a fighter pilot, but they did not like my style so they mustered me out. I felt I still had a few years of service to give the Emperor so I went looking for the next military employer.”
“A fighter pilot who flies a meat wagon for seventeen years?” Bophendze felt a bit of pride in using the marine slang. Most weapons systems in the Postal arsenal were projectiles anywhere from the frigates 220 millimeter to the battleship's 720 millimeter. Though there were few battleships in the the Postal Service. Missiles were merely self-propelled projectiles. Some of them were “brilliant bombs”—piloted remotely from the mother ship by human pilots. To the typical marine, the troop transports were yet-another-weapon-system, delivering a team of pissed-off marines sent to subdue the bellicose. They called their transports ‘meat wagons’ or ‘meat missiles,’ but not around officers.