First To Fight (The Empire's Corps Book 11)

by Christopher Nuttall

  -Professor Leo Caesius

  “Well,” Nordstrom said, as soon as we had marched through the camp and into a whole new section. A large circle was drawn on the ground, with the Drill Instructor standing in the middle of it. “This is the day you’ve been dreaming of since you first arrived. This is the day you get to actually hit a Drill Instructor without repercussion.”

  I shared a glance with Joker. Hitting a superior officer - which was effectively everyone in the camp - was one of the headshots. I’d seen a couple of recruits throw the first punch, then get dragged off to the commandant for immediate dismissal. The idea of actually being allowed to take a swing at one of them was tempting, yet we knew them too well by now. I doubted I could beat any of them on my best day.

  “There is no such thing as a dangerous weapon,” Nordstrom continued, calmly. “There are only dangerous men. A man carrying the most deadly weapon in the universe is harmless, if he lacks the will and skill to use his weapon. But an unarmed man who knows how to use his body to best advantage is very dangerous. You, if you still want to complete the course, will be expected to become very dangerous men.”

  He smiled, coldly. “The Marine Corps has its own particular fighting style - the disrespectful call it Semper Fu - which draws from a hundred other fighting styles. By the time you graduate, you will hold a tan belt - at the very least - in Semper Fu. If you go to the Slaughterhouse, you will require a black belt to graduate. We will hold you back as long as necessary to make sure you have the right qualifications before you go onto active service.”

  There was a long chilling pause. “Before we go any further,” he added, “does anyone want to take a crack at me? A free shot at a Drill Instructor - and an automatic pass if you actually manage to knock me down. Anyone want to take me up on it?”

  I shook my head firmly. Nothing in Boot Camp was easy ... and while I trusted the Drill Instructors to honour their offer of an automatic pass, I doubted anyone could actually win the prize. Nordstrom was the toughest man I’d ever met.

  “Come on,” Nordstrom said. His gaze swept our ranks, challengingly. “You can't get kicked out here, if you slam a fist into my jaw.”

  Thug lumbered forward, looking pleased. Nordstrom smiled at him, then waved him into the circle. “I should add, for the benefit of everyone else, that it’s an automatic fifty push-ups for anyone who steps into the circle without being invited,” he said. “Only the contestants are allowed inside until the match is over.”

  He nodded to Thug, who lunged forward and threw a punch. Nordstrom, moving so quickly I could barely follow his movements, caught his arm, yanked it forward and sent him falling to the ground. I heard Thug grunt in pain as he landed on the hard surface, then gasp as Nordstrom sat on his back and smirked at us.

  “Aggressive enough, but a complete lack of proper training,” Nordstrom said, addressing Thug. “Not too hard a combination to beat.”

  He looked up. “Anyone else?”

  I was still reeling, mentally. It had happened so quickly. Someone like Thug would have been intimidating as hell, in the Undercity; he'd been taken down so fast I hadn't even seen what had happened. Nordstrom stood, helped Thug to his feet and muttered something I couldn’t hear in his ear, before pushing him back towards the rest of us. I silently gave him some respect, if only for having the guts to try. No one else had dared take the Drill Instructor up on his offer.

  “You should always focus on taking the offensive,” Nordstrom said, as Johnston stepped forward and halted at the edge of the circle. “Trying to go on the defensive is asking for trouble, unless you are very certain of your own supremacy.”

  He didn't say it out loud, but the implication was easy to see. He’d been confident he could best Thug without doing him a serious injury. And he hadn't even thrown a single blow at his enemy.

  “We will now demonstrate something more complex,” Nordstrom said. He waved Johnston into the circle, then smiled savagely. “Watch carefully.”

  Johnston lunged forward; Nordstrom ducked back, then feinted himself with a handful of quick jabs. Johnston threw a punch of his own, then followed it up with a kick aimed right at Nordstrom’s balls. Nordstrom hopped backwards quickly, but Johnston followed up with a blow aimed right at his throat. No matter what Nordstrom did, he couldn't take the offensive again. Johnston landed a blow that sent Nordstrom reeling back and falling to the ground. It wasn't until later that I realised just how carefully the entire thing had been choreographed.

  “I lost the chance to take the offensive,” Nordstrom said, as he picked himself up. I’d known people who would be completely humiliated by such a public loss, but Nordstrom took it in stride. “As long as my opponent was beating on me, I had no opportunity to strike back and take the offensive for myself. To tamely accept such a loss is to accept eventual defeat! You will learn to reverse such a disaster as quickly as possible.”

  He paused, then blew a whistle. A line of recruits - all from the platoon above us - walked into the section, looking tough. We’d improved a great deal, I knew, but they were still heads and shoulders above us. Their Drill Instructors didn't look any tougher ... I looked at the older recruits and frowned, inwardly, at the nasty expressions on their faces. They knew what was coming, even if we didn’t. And they were looking forward to it.

  Joker elbowed me. “We have to fight them?”

  “Line up, single file,” Nordstrom bellowed. “I want one recruit from my platoon facing one recruit from the other platoon!”

  I exchanged looks with Joker as two tough-looking men marched over to stand in front of us, resting their hands on their hips. They had the same sense of easy confidence I’d seen in the older marines, although it was ruined by the air of grim anticipation I could sense pulsing off them in waves. They were definitely looking forward to what was coming.

  “My platoon,” Nordstrom said. “Lock your hands behind your heads! Tense your muscles! Keep them there until ordered otherwise!”

  “YES, SIR,” we bellowed.

  “Today’s lesson is on how to take blows,” Nordstrom said. “Strike!”

  I had no time to react - as if there was anything I could have done - before the recruit facing me lunged forward and stabbed a fist into my gut. Pain. Lots of pain. It was all I could do to keep my hands locked as he drew back and struck me again, this time in the upper chest. I gagged, almost losing my lunch; somehow - and I have no idea how - I kept my hands in place. Judging from Nordstrom’s snapped orders, others hadn’t.

  “I believe I told you to keep your hands in place,” he thundered. Despite the pain, I turned my head and realised that Viper was in deep shit. “You were not permitted to block the blow.”

  “Yes, sir,” Viper said, tonelessly. “This recruit allowed his training to guide him.”

  Nordstrom gave him a nasty look. “Drop and give me fifty,” he ordered. “Everyone else who moved their hands can join him.”

  “You too, Harris,” the unfamiliar Drill Instructor said. “This isn't a place to work out old grudges.”

  “That must be his old platoon,” Joker muttered to me.

  I nodded. The pain was fading, but slowly; very slowly. I couldn't help wondering if I’d cracked a rib, something that might well be a death sentence in the Undercity. Jenna had told me that almost everything could be fixed, but why would anyone spend money on saving my life? It wasn't as if anyone really gave a damn about Undercity rats ...

  “Change your partners,” Nordstrom ordered, once the punishments were over. “And prepare to do it again.”

  We were all aching and sore by the time the first session was over and, unfortunately, burning with hatred for the other platoon. Luckily, the second session covered how to block punches; Nordstrom and Johnston demonstrated them, one by one, before calling in the second platoon once again. We still couldn't hit them back, but at least we could try and deflect their blows before we were hit. None of them gave us any mercy; later, I realised they hadn't been shown mercy eithe
r, back when they’d been in the first phase. It was a great relief when we were taught how to punch, kick and take the offensive, even though it took weeks before any of us managed to beat them in open combat.

  “It is time to introduce you to one of our favourite games,” Nordstrom said, two weeks after we started unarmed combat training. “You’ll notice the circle on the ground?”

  We nodded in unison. Nordstrom had called our attention to it regularly, both for demonstrating moves to us and reminding us - time and time again - that we weren't allowed to cross the line without permission. I assumed it was something more than merely a line delineating the combat zone, but he hadn't elaborated. Now ...

  “The rules of Circle are quite simple,” Nordstrom said. “Two marines enter; the victor is the one who either flattens his opponent or forces him out of the circle. Would anyone try to hazard a guess as to why we have that victory condition?”

  I decided to gamble and raised my hand. “Sir,” I said, when he nodded. “This recruit thinks that it exists to keep us aware of our surroundings.”

  “Correct, recruit,” Nordstrom said. “It is quite possible for someone who is winning to accidentally cross the circle and lose the match. You can be beaten in the game by your own carelessness ... and, alas, you can be beaten in real life that way too. Would you care to take a guess how?”

  There was a pause. None of us dared to try to answer.

  “There have been incidents where someone has accidentally put a hole through a habitation dome on an asteroid,” Nordstrom said. “Or somehow managed to vent the shuttlebay, throwing themselves and their comrades into space. One very elaborate trap for marines involved filling the air with explosive gas, then waiting for some idiot to pull a trigger. You must remain aware of your surroundings at all times.”

  He beckoned to Johnston, who strode back into the circle and nodded, curtly, to his opponent. Nordstrom ran forward; Johnston stepped to one side and stuck out a foot, sending Nordstrom flying forward and out of the circle. He picked himself off the ground and turned to face us, his expression unreadable.

  “That was a depressingly easy victory for him,” he said, shortly. “I expect you to do better.”

  The Drill Instructors ran through two more demonstrations before we were allowed a chance to enter the circle. The first time, Nordstrom allowed Johnston to literally push him out of the circle; the second time, Nordstrom did something and threw Johnston over the line, dropping him to the ground just past it. As soon as Johnston picked himself up again, they divided us back up into pairs. I was not best pleased to find myself paired with Viper.

  “Go,” Nordstrom ordered.

  I watched Viper closely for a second - Nordstrom had talked about learning to read one’s opponent, but I hadn't managed it - before advancing forward, carefully. Viper had had two months of extra training, after all; I knew I shouldn't take him lightly. But the moment I crashed into him, he jumped backwards and over the line. It was so blatant it took me a moment to understand what he’d done.

  Nordstrom blew the whistle, angrily. “Do you actually intend to learn how to fight or are you just being stupid, recruit?”

  I felt a hot flush of rage. I’d won - but he’d practically handed me the victory on a silver platter. Didn't he give a damn? I wanted to hurt him ... somehow, I managed to keep myself calm as Joker was ordered into the circle beside me. Friend or no friend, I knew Joker wouldn’t go easy on me. And I was right. I was a little stronger than him, but he was fast and managed to land a number of punches before I knocked him to the ground and landed on top of him. He kept struggling right up until I put my hand on his throat and the whistle blew.

  “You should have ended that quicker,” Nordstrom snapped. He jabbed a finger at Professor and Posh. “You’re up.”

  It was an interesting match, I decided, as the two oddballs squared off. Posh seemed to be more aggressive, but Professor was definitely more of a thinker. They both sparred carefully, rather than risk over-committing themselves; it was only when Nordstrom cleared his throat loudly that Posh jumped forward and slammed right into Professor. The ensuring struggle sent them both rolling over the line.

  “Draw,” Nordstrom said. “Learn to focus your anger and beat the crap out of your enemy.”

  I scowled. I’d hated the first part of the training, but if I hadn't been taught how to take a punch Joker would have had me on the ground within seconds. I watched several other matches, then scowled inwardly as I was urged back into the circle. Viper was facing me again, his face impassive. I glared at him - what the fuck was his problem? - and lunged forward. This time, Viper blocked my punch and threw one back of his own. I realised, too late, that I’d underestimated him; his fist slammed into my jaw, knocking me over backwards. He lunged forward; I brought up my legs and kicked him in the chest as hard as I could. I pulled myself upright as he staggered back, then slammed a fist into his chest, sending him falling down. It would have been easy to shove him over the line, but I wanted him to hurt.

  The whistle blew. I threw another punch ....

  ... And a hand caught mine.

  “Stop,” Nordstrom ordered. He jerked a hand towards the edge of the training ground. “One hundred push-ups, now.”

  I flushed, embarrassed. I’d allowed my anger and hate to overwhelm me, instead of stopping the second the whistle blew. Nordstrom could have given me a far worse punishment and we both knew it. I stumbled out of the circle, did my push-ups despite the pain, and thought dire thoughts about Viper and his attitude problem. Maybe the beating I’d given him would force him to quit.

  The training grew harder as the weeks turned into months. We had already been introduced to sticks; now, we were introduced to knives - the feared KA-BAR - and a dozen other weapons, including some I hadn't seen outside bad martial arts movies. I hadn't known there were actual uses for swords, throwing stars and whips, but the Drill Instructors were insistent that we needed to know the basics. We were advancing, slowly but surely, towards weapons mastery. Anything could be a weapon ...

  ... And we were meant to be able to use it as one, without thinking.

  It was Joker who asked the question that was on all of our minds. “Sir,” he said, “this recruit would like to know why we train with swords when we’ll have guns and our enemies will have guns too.”

  I expected Nordstrom to demand a hundred push-ups. Instead, he gave the question serious consideration.

  “There are two answers to that question, recruit,” Nordstrom said. “The first is that we are training you to be dangerous men and for that you need to develop an instinctive understanding of all manner of weapons. To become dependent on one weapon, even one as dangerous as a gun, can undermine you when you lose that weapon.

  “But the second answer is that you may not always have a gun,” he added. “Or you may find a gun a hindrance rather than a help. There are plenty of situations - hostage rescue, for example - when you may not want to start firing off guns at random. Killing an unwary man on watch is so much easier if you use a knife, because then there’s no noise to wake up his comrades.”

  He shrugged. “And shooting someone to wound only works in the flicks. It's a lot easier to interrogate someone you’ve beaten into a pulp than shot, even if you thought you weren't shooting to kill. Is that answer satisfactory?”

  “Yes, sir,” Joker said.

  I took Nordstrom’s words to heart; indeed, I think we all did. Our weapons were tools, nothing more or less; it was our attitudes and training that made us dangerous. I’d wondered why were weren't started on guns earlier, but now I thought I understood. We needed the right attitude before we handled guns for the first time or we’d become convinced that our weapons made us invincible.

  And that, I learned later, explained a great deal about the Civil Guard. They thought their weapons made them gods ...

  ... And they were always wrong.

  Chapter Ten

  The Empire had an unthinking horror of guns in private
hands. There was no shortage of justifications - guns were dangerous, guns enabled crime, guns brought out the worst in people - but they all boiled down to a simple desire to keep power out of the hands of commoners. Guns might be turned against criminals, yet they could also be turned against tax men, corrupt policemen and the bureaucracy. It was vanishingly rare for anyone from the Core Worlds to see a gun, let alone use it ...

  ... This did absolutely nothing for social safety, of course. By the time I left Earth, violent crime was still on the increase.

  -Professor Leo Caesius

  Our first visit to the Shooting Range was the first time we encountered another training officer, outside the trio of Drill Instructors. Firearms Instructor Dexter Guptill was a tough-looking man, wearing a set of light body armour and webbing rather than the normal instructor uniform. We stopped outside the building long enough to let him inspect us, then followed him into the building. Inside, there were a set of tables, with a metal case resting on each one. Our names were already written on top of the cases.