"What about her?"
McNeal leaned his head closer and whispered, "Does she shuck?"
"Huh? What?"
"You know." McNeal arched his shoulders and made an open gesture with his hands. Seeing Dean still didn't catch his meaning, he pounded one fist gently into a palm.
"Oh," Dean said. Redness instantly crept up to his hairline from under his collar. The survivor's benefit from his father's pension wasn't very much and he'd had to work most of the way through high school and college to supplement it, and didn't have much time or energy left over for ar active social life. So he was particularly inexperienced with women, and in fact had never done anything more daring with a girl than hold her hand. The only woman with any meaning in his life up to then had been his mother, whom he loved, and he saw all other women in the same light.
Seeing Dean's embarrassment, McNeal apologized quickly. "I've got a big mouth."
"That's okay," Dean said. He was relieved that McNeal wasn't going to rib him about his inexperience. "Where you from, Fred?" he asked, changing the subject.
"Churchville," Fred answered quickly, then launched into his favorite topic: "They named me after a saint," he began, and enthusiastically told Dean all about himself. Dean reciprocated. By the time they were finished with what they could eat of their breakfast, the two had become friends. They were an incongruous pair, Fred McNeal, short and wiry and very black, and Joe Dean, tall and fair with reddish-brown hair and a face full of freckles. After a while Dean leaned over and asked McNeal,
"Say, have you ever, you know, did it, uh, with a girl, Fred?"
"Hell no." McNeal laughed, covering his own embarrassment at the directness of the question. "Who needs a woman when you got these," and he held up the fingers of his right hand.
Breakfast over—the recruits were still too raw to think of the meal as "morning chow"—they cleared their trays and sat at their tables, waiting for the escort NCO to show up. And wait they did, sitting and standing around the way enlisted men of all armies at all times in all places have always waited.
"Why'd they make us come in at eight?" McNeal asked after more than an hour of sitting at the cleared breakfast table.
Dean shook his head. "I don't know. My dad was in the army, and he always complained about 'Hurry up and wait.' I guess this is what he was talking about."
"Didn't that officer say we were going to the ship at ten?" another recruit, who overheard him, asked.
"I think so."
"So it's half past now."
Dean shrugged. His father had been a career army man, and he didn't really know any more about the Marines than his companions, probably less since he'd made the decision to join the Marines only the day before.
Clearly annoyed that the recruits were lingering so long after breakfast, but unable to do anything about it, the civilian cafeteria workers tried as best they could to prepare for the noon meal.
At 10:45 a voice cracked over the hubbub. "Attention on deck!" About half of the new recruits continued their conversations.
The man who had called for attention was a sharp-looking corporal who'd entered the cafeteria quietly and unnoticed. When he saw he didn't have the room's full attention, he sighed and jumped onto a chair and from there onto an empty tabletop. "SILENCE!" he bellowed in a voice that carried more than two hundred years of parade-ground authority. Startled, the recruits turned their attention to him. The civilian workers had all heard this routine before and, since it wasn't directed at them, ignored it.
"That's better," the corporal said in a voice still powerful and penetrating but several decibels lower. He was of average height and build, with a dark complexion. His main distinguishing feature was a fierce, sweeping, black mustache. But with all eyes in the room fastened upon him, he seemed somehow larger than his actual physical size. Dean recognized the voice he'd used. His father had often projected his own that way and he called it his "command voice." He also realized that this corporal was a man used to commanding and being obeyed.
"I am Corporal Singh, and you are in my charge. From this moment until you finish your training on Arsenault—those of you who survive it—I will be with you, day and night."
"Oooh, one powerful, take-charge bozek, that corporal!" McNeal whispered into Dean's ear.
Somehow Singh heard. "Who said that?" he shouted. Again the recruits jumped at the sound of the corporal's parade-ground voice. The cafeteria workers continued about their business. "Now you people listen up," Singh shouted. "Two things I do not want to hear from any of you while I'm talking: your chow hole and your asshole!" The "hole" of "asshole" echoed in the corners of the room and out in the hallway, and people passing along the corridor on the floor above wondered idly who was doing all the shouting about holes. The silence that now descended upon the recruits was profound.
"Now listen up! You people may think you're about to embark on some kind of camping trip or big adventure. Well, I'm here to set you straight. My Marine Corps has been around for 225 years and we proudly trace our lineage all the way back to the United States Marine Corps, and through them to the Royal Marines of the United Kingdom—two of the fiercest bands of warriors ever to grace humanity. My job is to see that none of you screws up my Corps, and by all the prophets, I will see to it! We are warriors! That's our sole reason for existence. We fight and we kill. Believe me, that is no kind of camping trip or big adventure. For more than two centuries we have fought in campaigns and wars everywhere there has been fighting." As he spoke he paced back and forth on the tabletop. The recruits slowly edged closer to each other for protection from this suddenly very fearsome man. "Not once in our history have we been bested on the battlefield. Some of the fiercest fighters in Human Space have surrendered by the thousands without a shot being fired rather than risk being defeated by an eleven-man squad of Confederation Marines.
"People, you are about to be tested," Singh continued. "Shake all the civilian dust from your shoes. We are a proud force. We can go anywhere in Human Space and do more with less than anyone else. We go to places no one else has ever been. Beginning right now, we are going to find out which of you are good enough to qualify for membership in my Marine Corps."
All eyes were intently trained on Singh. Dean stood aghast with his mouth hanging open. For the first time he thought that maybe he should have stayed with the army's female recruiter instead of following Riley-Kwami and Bildong down the corridor.
Carefully, very carefully, McNeal nudged his new friend and, braving the wrath of Corporal Singh, whispered ever so quietly into his ear, "You trying to catch flies, your mouth open like that?" Dean's face turned beet-red for the second time that morning.
"You!" Singh shouted, and pointed his finger directly at McNeal.
McNeal's eyes widened, and he looked around. "Me?" he asked.
"Yes, you, recruit! Get over here! Now!"
McNeal stood at attention before the table.
"What is your problem, recruit?"
"I have a big mouth, Corporal!" McNeal answered immediately.
"Yes, you do, young man," Singh replied in a fatherly tone of voice. "Now assume the position!" he shouted, pointing at the floor. McNeal just stood there, uncomprehending. "Get down on the floor, on your belly, hands flat on the floor under your shoulders," Singh said in a patient, schoolmasterly tone of voice, "and do push-ups. Count each one off as you do it. Now begin. That's right, that's right. Good."
To the sound of McNeal's steady "One, two, three, four," Singh addressed the remaining recruits. "You will form up in ranks there." He pointed to the side of the large room, where there was a bare space, bereft of tables and chairs. "From here I will march you to the bus that will take you to the shuttle that will lift us to the CNSS Private Thomas Purdom in docking orbit. Do you understand?"
A few voices said, "Yes, Corporal." A few more voices quickly chimed in. Singh looked at the group expectantly. Someone got the hint and shouted, "Yes, Corporal." This time more than half of the asse
mbled recruits echoed the reply.
"Let's try it again. Do you understand?"
This time nearly all of them yelled out, "Yes, Corporal."
"The Purdom is in a stable orbit. It can wait up there for a long time if it has to. Now let me hear it. Do you understand?"
Everybody shouted back, "Yes, Corporal."
"All right, then, do it. Over there, four ranks. Tallest to my left, shortest to my right."
The cafeteria erupted into a chaos of movement as all fifty-five recruits scrambled to get to the open space Singh ordered them to.
"Not you," Singh snapped to McNeal, who had joined the scramble. "You're doing push-ups." McNeal groaned and rubbed his already aching arms before dropping back into position.
Many of them knew how to line up in ranks, but the concept of lining up by height wasn't familiar to all of them, and that caused confusion in getting lined up. More important, though, nobody wanted to be in the front row, where they'd be close to the corporal with the fearsome voice. Instead of getting into something resembling a military formation, they wound up huddled in a mass against the wall.
Singh looked at them with an expression of amazed pain and lightly dropped off the table. He stalked toward them with slow, deliberate paces, stopped a few feet in front of the middle of the mass and drew himself up erect, facing them. "What are you trying to do to my Marine Corps?" he began softly. "Are you all political appointees? Is that it?" He began moving with brisk steps and sharp movements, bent forward at the hips, head jutted forward, sticking his face into the faces of the unfortunates in the front of the mass of recruits. His voice rose in volume as he paced and spoke. "Are your daddies and mommies influential? Influential enough to get around the law and have you enlisted into my Marine Corps even though you aren't qualified? Did they even manage to get some politician to promise that you'd get commissions, even though the law requires that no one be commissioned an officer of Marines until and unless he's proved himself as an enlisted Marine? Well?" He stopped in front of one edgy recruit and almost shouted that last word directly into his face.
The recruit looked nervously side to side, tried to press himself farther back into the bodies to his rear, but they were too tightly packed for him to squeeze through.
"N-n-no, Corporal," he finally stuttered. "My parents didn't do that. They don't have any political friends."
Singh pulled back from him, looked disdainfully at the others. "Any of you? I want to know who the political appointees are so you can be washed out of my Marine Corps now, before you have a chance to become a blight that will rot this Corps at its core!"
Nobody spoke up.
"You're sure," Corporal Singh said. "None of you are political appointees. We'll see. I guarantee you, anyone in this room who isn't fit to be a Marine won't last out the training on Arsenault. Now, form up on me. Four ranks. By height. Move!"
The recruits milled and shuffled about, but came no closer to getting into formation—nobody wanted to be in that front rank.
"Aargh!" Singh finally cried out. "You, you, you, and you." He pointed to the four tallest. "Over here."
The four reluctantly went to where he pointed and clustered against the wall.
"You." Singh pointed to one of the four. "Stay where you are. You," he pointed to a second, "stand three feet in front of him. You," he pointed at the third, "three feet in front of him. You," the last, pale recruit, "three feet in front of him. Now," he said when the four were lined up as he directed, "that didn't hurt, did it?"
Singh returned his attention to the others. "You, you, you, and you." He pointed to the next tallest. "Line up next to them, an arm's length away."
One of the four sprinted to stand next to the one against the wall. The others saw him and ran as well. The slowest looked aghast as he realized he was going to be in the front row.
Singh turned back to the remaining recruits. "See, it's easy. Now, look around you, see who you're taller than, who you're shorter than, and line up accordingly. If you don't see anyone shorter than you, get to the end of the line." He moved back several paces to give them as much room as they needed and stood easy with his arms folded over his chest. It took longer than it might have, but less than it could have, before they were standing in formation. It was a sloppy formation. Hardly anybody was directly behind anybody else, and their left-to-right dress was as crooked as a broken-backed snake. But it was a formation.
"I'm not going to give you proper marching orders," Singh said when the recruits stopped milling about and were all standing still, facing him. "You wouldn't understand them and I'd only have to repeat myself." He still used his parade-ground voice, but it held no trace of anger or frustration. "You will do what I say, when I say, and how I say, and we will all be on the bus in a few minutes and on our way to the shuttle port. Once we are aboard the Purdom, the next stop will be Confederation Marine Recruit Depot, Arsenault. Welcome aboard, people. Start walking through the door. You too, bigmouth." McNeal scrambled to his feet and joined the rear of the formation. On the way out of the cafeteria, Dean realized that Corporal Singh had walked into a room full of noisy, energetic young men—none of whom knew him, and most of whom were bigger than he was—and gotten them all to be quiet, listen to him, and do what he said. Singh had not hit anyone nor threatened violence—he had done it all strictly with the force of his voice. Suddenly, he knew this was something he wanted to be able to do himself, he wanted that parade-ground voice—and everything that went with it.
Chapter Three
When the fifty-five recruits finally boarded the shuttle and the flight attendants checked that the restrainers holding them into the acceleration seats were fully deployed, the recruits' anxiety about Corporal Singh changed to excited anticipation. Many of them had been off Earth before, visiting one of the orbiting recreation parks. Some had been to the moon. A few had toured Marshome on the fourth planet, or Amoropolis, on Venus. One claimed he'd been to Ceres Station in the asteroid belt, but not everybody believed him.
Joe Dean had never been higher above the surface of the Earth than a short-hop in an atmospheric flier on a class trip that took him from the shores of Lake Ontario to New Columbia District. McNeal claimed never to have flown in anything, but that was harder to believe than the kid who claimed to have been to Ceres Station. Just one day earlier, when he'd decided to sign up, Dean had taken the biggest step of his life; then he'd taken another when he swore his oath of enlistment; now he was aboard a nearspace shuttle to take the longest trip he'd ever been on, three hundred kilometers straight up and halfway around the world to a waiting starship.
A starship that would take him on a journey so far that, even though the trip would last only a month, the light he saw from the star at his destination wouldn't be seen on Earth for nearly two centuries. Later, as a Marine, he expected to journey even farther, probably to stars so distant his great-grandchildren might not live long enough to see the light that would shine on him. The thought made him feel cosmically insignificant.
Joe Dean desperately needed to believe that at least one of the recruits he was embarking on this journey with had been at least as far as Ceres Station, even if none of them had ever been on a starship. None of the recruits had even visited a real starship before, and soon they would be boarding one.
Without warning, the shuttle began to shake as its jets whirred up. Dean looked out the nearest porthole. The air was shimmering around one of the atmosphere-jets that would lift the shuttle to the top of the stratosphere, where its ram jet would take over to lift it the rest of the way to docking orbit.
The public address system clicked, and the recruits stopped to listen—no matter what any of them claimed about familiarity with space flight, none of them had been lifted into orbit enough times to have become jaded about it.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen—" The P.A. voice laughed, then said, "Well, I guess it's just gentlemen on this flight. This is Captain Wu Chalmers. It's my pleasure to welcome you aboard
United Atmosphere's orbital shuttle, Flight 402. We'll be lifting off in a few moments." His well-modulated voice exuded confidence and calm. "Our flight plan today calls for us to take off on a southeasterly heading and climb to Launch Point, which at this hour is a few hundred kilometers east of Bermuda. Don't bother looking out the portholes to see that island paradise, because we'll be close to fifty kilometers up and it'll just be a speck in the ocean. At Launch Point you'll experience a moment of weightlessness, but don't let that disturb you. It's normal to go into momentary free fall when the shuttle switches over from atmosphere-jet to ram. When we reach orbital altitude, which is way up there in the thermosphere, and the engine cuts off, we'll be in null-g for the rest of the trip. Along the way we'll pass within visual range of the interplanetary shipping docks. I'll let you know when we do so you can take a look. One third farther around the Earth we'll reach the interstellar docks. Flight time from takeoff to docking should be approximately seventy-five minutes.
"Take a nap, read, whatever. Just, please, remember, the Confederation Aviation and Orbital Administration rules require that you remain in your seats for the duration of the flight. If you must relieve yourself during this time, draw the privacy curtain around your seat and use the convenience console in the seat. Your flight attendants will demonstrate how to use them when they show you the emergency procedures. Thank you for flying United."
There was another click and the senior flight attendant came on to give the emergency instructions, which were almost the same as those on an atmosphere liner; hardly anybody paid any attention.
"There it is!" someone gasped.
First To Fight Page 4