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

by Christopher Nuttall

  We shook our heads. We'd spent nearly a year on the Slaughterhouse and any quitters had been lost long ago. None of us wanted to back out now, even though we were guaranteed careers in the auxiliaries. It would have wasted a year of suffering, bleeding and experiences that most civilians would unhesitatingly have termed cruel and unusual punishment. I still had nightmares - when I wasn't too tired to dream - about the last set of Conduct After Capture drills. They’d been truly unpleasant.

  “Good,” Southard said. “You have had ample opportunity to read about the Crucible, so you know what to expect - apart, of course, from the tests that aren't written down.” He smirked as our faces dropped. “I won’t bother to go into details. If you’re too stupid to read the briefing notes, that’s your problem not mine. All that matters is that you will emerge as marines, or quitters, or in a body bag. We’ll graduate any dead troopers as marines and grant them burial on the Slaughterhouse.”

  There was a long pause. “You each have your emergency beacons,” he added, darkly. “As always, there are no accidents. You trigger them; you get hauled out. Any of you can leave at any moment, but bear in mind that every one of you who leaves weakens the overall team and may make completing the assault course impossible. Your weakness may doom everyone.”

  I scowled, inwardly. We’d talked, more than once, about refusing to carry the emergency beacons, but the one time we’d asked if we could leave the beacons behind we’d been told that carrying them was yet another test. The corps had no room for quitters; if we had the grit and determination to complete the course, we’d resist the temptation and complete it even while carrying the beacon. And he was right. If I quit - if any of us quit - we’d weaken everyone else’s chances of graduating. We might break, if we were the only ones on the course, but it was harder to quit knowing that everyone else would be brought down, too.

  We don’t fight for the Empire, I recalled Bainbridge saying, months ago. We fight for the jarheads on either side of us.

  “Good luck,” Southard finished. He pointed to the gate. “When you’re ready, you may enter.”

  I met Joker’s eyes, just for a second. None of us had been designated as leader; as far as we knew, we were all equals. Who should go first? I hesitated, just for a second, then hefted my pack and strode forward through the gate. Everyone else fell into line behind me. Nothing happened as we passed the line, but I couldn't help feeling a tingle of excitement. We'd complete the course or die trying.

  I’d like to give you a blow-by-blow account of the Crucible, but the memories just blur together. I know what I did - I know what I must have done - yet everything is a hazy blur in my mind. We marched for hours, following a path laid down for us, then assaulted an ‘enemy’ position without even a second to catch our breath. As soon as we captured it, we were split up and told to make our own way to the RV point before the enemy caught up with us. We made it there, somehow, only to be told that we had to carry on; the helicopter that was meant to pick us up had been cancelled by someone in high command. I thought about quitting there and then, but I couldn't let the others down. We marched onwards, the enemy snapping at our heels ...

  We reached the next testing station, which seemed a normal shooting range right up until we stepped inside. Holographic enemies, all incredibly hard to see even with night-vision gear, appeared all around us; we shot our way through them, trying hard not to hit the civilians they were using as human shields. There was a casualty allowance, an unspoken understanding that there would be civilian deaths in a point-blank gunfight, but we knew we would be marked down for every non-combatant we hit. We completed the shooting range, only to discover that three of us had been ‘injured.’ And so we carried them umpteen miles to the next waypoint, whereupon they ‘recovered’ in time to help us storm another building, rescue several hostages and kill a dozen terrorists.

  There were roughly four hours of sleep - if that - and then we were on the move again, this time advancing towards an enemy target. We climbed a mountain, crossed a fast-flowing river using a makeshift rope bridge, then crawled through a disgusting swamp, holding our weapons above our heads, before reaching the target. None of us were in any state for a prolonged offensive, so we just charged forward the moment it came into view. The enemy must have been surprised, because they wilted almost at once and never recovered before we took the complex and wiped them out. It turned out to be a trap; the moment we thought we’d won, several large enemy formations counterattacked. We were forced to use enemy weapons and ammunition to hold the line long enough for our relief to arrive.

  And then we were launched into space, put through a whole series of nasty decompression exercises, then dropped back into the atmosphere. Warned that the enemy was on the prowl, we struggled - again - to the waypoint, whereupon we were told to set up camp for the night and prepare ourselves for the following morning. We were so tired that we almost set up there and then, but when we considered the location it became clear that a half-assed enemy force could wipe us out with ease. Somehow, drawing on reserves we hadn't known we had, we moved the tents to a safer location, then organised a watch schedule. Staying awake for even a single hour was very - very - difficult. I found myself dozing off twice before I heard the faint hints that someone was poking their way towards us., Cursing, I woke the others - what they called me was so thoroughly unprintable it would make a Drill Sergeant blanch - and we stood to, ready to defend our position. The enemy launched a flare into the air, casting an eerie light over the surroundings, then sniped at us until the sun started to appear over the distant hills. Their shooting wasn't very good - none of us were hit - but it was quite enough to keep us from getting much sleep. Who knew when we might have to move again?

  It was a tired and utterly shattered platoon that finally made it to Drill Instructor Bridge, on the far side of the Crucible. The bridge probably looked thoroughly unsafe, at least to the handful of civilians who had set foot on the Slaughterhouse, but to us it looked like the gateway to paradise. We stumbled forwards, our arms and legs aching in places we hadn't known we had, then stopped dead as Southard appeared on the far side and walked across the bridge.

  “There’s a final forced march to undertake,” he said, casually. Too casually. At that moment, I think he was the most hated man on the Slaughterhouse. “Turn to the right and follow the marked path for ten kilometres.”

  I stared at him. There was a part of me, a very large part of me, that wanted to tell him to shove his orders somewhere unmentionable and stalk past him onto the bridge. I wasn't sure I had the energy to keep going, not when the bridge was in sight. We could just push him aside; sure, he was a Drill Instructor, but there were ten of us ...

  ... And it would mean failing.

  I turned, somehow, and started to walk. Behind me, everyone else followed.

  “Belay that order,” Southard said. “About face and cross the bridge.”

  If I’d thought I’d hated him before ... a test, another damned test. And one so simple that it had damn near overwhelmed us. Did we have the guts to keep going even when the end was in sight? I turned, stumbled across the bridge automatically - and crossed the finish line. A statue of a dozen marines, holding weapons at parade rest, peered down at me. My legs buckled, but somehow I kept going until I reached the medical centre. The medics barked orders, practically cut off our uniforms and went to work. Many of my aches and pains faded away under their tender ministrations ...

  ... And the overwhelming sensation that I had succeeded, that I had completed the final requirement to become a marine.

  Naked, we stumbled out of the medical centre and into a lobby. Southard stood there, waiting for us; ten small piles of clothes rested on the table behind him. He was wearing his dress uniform, I realised; he must have changed while we were being poked and prodded by the medics. His gaze flickered over us - I’d been through too much to give a damn about my nakedness - and then he waved to the clothes.

  “Find yours, then get dressed,”
he said. He sounded more friendly now - although that wasn't hard. He’d never been as aggressive as Bainbridge and his comrades, but he had always maintained a reserve. “And congratulations.”

  I found my clothes and pulled them on, one by one. We’d been told that only full marines could wear dress blacks - the black uniform we wore during parades, or whenever protocol demanded we dress formally - and the fact they’d given it to us, now, was a sign we’d made it. I turned, looked at myself in the mirror, then reached for the cap and placed it firmly on my head. Perhaps trying to fight in dress blacks would be a pain in the ass - actually, there was no doubt about it - but for the moment I just felt tired delight. I was a marine.

  “Follow me,” Southard ordered, after we were all dressed. “The chefs have laid on a special buffet.”

  There’s a joke about military cooks that dates back to somewhere long lost in the mists of time. They’re the most lethal part of the military; they’ve killed thousands of men, mostly by poisoning them. I didn't think it was actually true - I learned later that there were quite a few cooks in the Civil Guards who were responsible for outbreaks of disease, mostly by using substandard meat - and it definitely wasn't true of the marine cooks. The food was normally bland, but it was edible and filled us up. This time, however, they’d laid on a dinner of steak and eggs. If Southard hadn't reminded us to use napkins, we would have ruined our new uniforms within seconds. As it was, it was a pretty close shave.

  Once we were finished, Southard led us into the armoury. “You’ll find your dress swords in the drawers,” he said, once we were all inside. “Strap them on, then collect your weapons from the desk outside. The Commandant wants to see you in the parade ground.”

  Swords had struck me as old-fashioned when they’d first started teaching us how to use them in combat, but I had to admit they were snazzy as hell. (And besides, swords, knives and batons didn't make a sound or emit any betraying radiation.) I pulled mine from the drawer and examined it, carefully. They’d written a serial number on the blade, but my name wasn't visible. It didn’t matter, not really; the serial number was good enough for the marines, while having your name on your weapon is a serious security problem. Who knew what the enemy could pick up from your droppings?

  Well, we did. We’d watched as post-battle assessment teams and sensitive site exploitation teams worked over our campsites, learning far too much about us from what we’d left behind when we’d departed. Sherlock Holmes - a detective from an era few outside the corps knew had ever existed - would have been astonished at just how much they’d deduced about us. It hadn't taken us long to learn how to sanitize our campsites, but even so it was hard to prevent them from learning something.

  “It's a great weapon,” Joker said, giving his sword an experimental swing. “I could use this in combat.”

  I nodded in agreement. The weapons were far from ceremonial. There were no shortage of stories about marines who’d used their swords in combat, when the bullets ran out - or when they’d been barred from bringing firearms into the building. Most people, used to the fancy soldiers in fancier uniforms they see during parades, assume that their weapons are plastic fakes. It’s worked in our favour more than once.

  “Put it away,” Southard ordered. “Draw your weapons from the desk and then prepare for the parade.”

  My rifle didn't feel right when I picked it up, although it took me several minutes to work out precisely what was wrong. They’d removed the nametag I’d been so proud of, a year ago, leaving only the serial number in place. I felt a pang I couldn't quite explain. My name on a rifle, just like my name on a sword, could be far too revealing, yet I felt as if I’d lost something very dear to me. I stared down at it for a long moment, then checked the pistol instinctively. My name was gone from its butt too.

  “Draw ammunition,” Southard reminded us. “You’re marines now. We trust you with live ammunition.”

  I nodded. We'd fired off thousands upon thousands of rounds as we’d made our way through the Slaughterhouse, but we’d never been allowed to keep our weapons loaded when we weren't expected to use them. Now ... now, I could carry my weapons locked and loaded, ready to fire, whenever I pleased. Once I had the permit, I could even carry a weapon on Earth, although I knew it would be best to keep it out of sight. Civilians would start screaming if they saw a real weapon, while the police might assume the worst and engage with deadly force. They were not particularly well trained.

  “There isn't long before the parade,” Southard said, once we were assembled in the antechamber. “I want you to know I’m proud of you. You didn't lose a single member to the Crucible.”

  They’d hammered the statistics into us, time and time again. Only one in ten Boot Camp attendees went to the Slaughterhouse, while half of the troopers would quit, or claim a medical discharge, or die. The best of platoons sometimes came apart when faced with the Crucible, perhaps through sheer bad luck. A handful of early injuries could ruin the entire platoon. The thought of having to go through it all again was horrific.

  “What you forged, over the last year, will not last,” he added. “Some of you will start advanced training, others will be classed as Combat Replacement Of War - CROWs - and slotted into units in need of new marines. But you will remember each other as more than just buddies. None of you would have made it through without all of you.”

  We’d been lucky, I knew. There were platoons that just failed to get any traction at all, even though all of their members had passed Boot Camp. And others that had dissolved into mutual recriminations that had forced the Drill Instructors to break them up and start again, perhaps even discharging the worst of the offenders ...

  But we’d made it. And that was all that mattered.

  Chapter Thirty

  The Slaughterhouse is the event that binds marines - and even their auxiliaries - together and the bonds it forges can last for life. Ed told me that he stayed in touch with his platoon mates until his final assignment to Avalon. For older marines, their training platoon can serve as the building block of a chain that works its way through the entire corps. It isn't uncommon for platoon mates to help each other out after their graduation ...

  -Professor Leo Caesius

  I’d never seen the parade ground before, not even when we were practicing marching up and down - or prancing around looking pretty, as Southard had put it. Troopers simply weren't allowed into sections of the complex reserved for marines, not until we’d earned the right to enter. Now, we marched through a gate and into a parade ground dominated by a reviewing stand, a large set of seats for the witnesses and the two ‘enemy’ companies that had harried us throughout our training. I would later command one of them, at Officer Candidate School, but for the moment all I could do was admire them. They’d been formidable foes.

  Commandant Jeremy Damiani himself, surrounded by a handful of older men in dress uniforms, gazed down at us as we marched past him, while the crowds cheered. They were mainly dependents - it was a point of honour for the marine dependents to attend each graduation parade - although there were a handful of retired marines amongst them. There were no auxiliaries, as far as I knew; they rarely cared to attend graduation ceremonies. They were reminders of what they’d been unable to achieve. Very few people made a fuss about it.

  “Present arms,” Southard bellowed, as we marched once around the field and then stopped in front of the stand. “And ... relax!”

  We relaxed slightly, very slightly. I don’t think anyone could have told we were doing anything, but standing fully to attention. The Commandant, who presumably could tell what we were doing, smiled as he stepped forward. I couldn't help noticing that he was holding a small leather bag in one hand.

  “Let me start by saying,” he said, “that it is a very great honour to be here, watching as these troopers take the final step to become marines. They have undergone the most feared training course in the history of warfare, shedding all those who could not make it along the way. I offer you my mo
st sincere congratulations on your success. Please join with me” - he looked up at the watching crowd - “in giving a hearty round of applause for these new marines.”

  There was a roar of applause. I felt ... odd. I’d felt jealous, somewhat, at Boot Camp, when families and friends had been welcome to attend. Here, there was no one who didn't have a strong link to the corps. I felt almost as if I had a new family ... no, I did have a new family, one that would always be there for me. Joker and the others were my brethren now, but so were the rest of the marines.

  “These are hard times for the Empire,” Damiani said. “The established order that we have fought so hard to defend, over the last three thousand years, has been badly weakened. New challenges are springing up everywhere, while recruiting for the armed forces is at an all-time low. Our society is decaying in front of us. You have embarked upon a career that will be marked by hundreds, perhaps thousands, of thankless tasks. You will be, at best, perpetually misunderstood by those you defend. There will be times when you will ask yourselves if it is worth it. All I can tell you is that your work, your determination - and, at times, your sacrifices - is geared towards protecting the civilians of the Empire. It is to them that we owe our allegiance. “