by Jay Allan
So I'd be 23 years old before I even started to serve my active duty time, and 33 before I could get my discharge. At 17 that seemed like an eternity. Not that I had a choice. Other than a bullet in the head. Or more accurately, a lungful of poison gas.
After the orientation we went back to the dining hall, with about an hour to go before I had to be on the train. I made a reasonable effort but didn't match my lunchtime performance. I think Captain Jack was a little disappointed.
We stowed our trays, and I got 5 minutes for a quick bathroom break before we walked down to an assembly hall where I finally said my goodbyes to Captain Jack. Watching him walk away I started to feel really alone. I'd only known him for a few days, but he'd been the one thing I could latch on to. Everything around me was unfamiliar, and things were happening quickly. I really had no idea what to expect. A few days ago I was in the Bronx, a member of the Wolfpack who lived by terrorizing a bunch of poor workers. Now, after a close brush with death I was on my way to becoming a marine? To fighting in space? I couldn't get my mind to focus on anything. I was in a state of shock.
The mag-train ride to New Houston was comfortable and quick. Once we cleared the city the train accelerated to 500 kph, so we reached New Houston in less than five hours.
The train car I was in was full of other recruits, all dressed in the same gray fatigues I was wearing. They looked like a pretty motley bunch, but of course I looked that way too. They were mostly men, but about 20% of them were women. We all pretty much kept to ourselves, and there was very little conversation. I don't know how they all ended up here, but most of them looked about as stunned as I was.
It was dark for most of the trip, which was disappointing. I'd never been out of New York, and I would have loved to see some of the scenery. With nothing much to do I slept through most of the ride, and I woke up to the announcement that we would be arriving in fifteen minutes. The trained slowed, and we passed through a large plasti-crete wall and past two security towers before stopping at a long, open platform.
"Alright boys and girls, up! Let's get moving. Now!"
I hadn't even noticed the sergeant enter the car, but there he was, standing in the doorway barking at us in a voice that seemed to be half hostility and half amusement. People started getting up and moving toward the front of the car. I reached up to grab my duffel, as about half the others were doing.
"Don't forget your bags, kiddies! The porters are all busy elsewhere, I'm afraid! Now move your asses. I want everyone out on that platform in three minutes!"
We stumbled out of the crowded car and out onto the platform, milling around aimlessly until the sergeant came over and yelled at us again until we managed to get into a fairly neat line. We marched into one of the buildings where we went through a check in and orientation process that took several hours after which we were led into a large auditorium.
We'd only been sitting a minute when a man walked out onto the stage. He was tall and muscular, with thick black hair speckled gray. He wasn't dressed in the same gray fatigues as we and everyone else we'd seen were wearing. He wore a spotless dark blue coat with polished silver buttons and one platinum star on each shoulder. His neatly creased white pants were tucked into shiny black boots, and a short sword with an intricately carved hilt hung from his waist.
"Hello, and welcome to Camp Puller. My name is Brigadier General Wesley Strummer. As you can see, I've worn my dress blues in honor of your arrival. Take a good look, because you probably won't see another uniform like this unless you graduate. And less than half of you are going to make it that far."
He paused for a few minutes to let that sink in, then continued. "If you don't graduate then you will go back where you came from, and for most of you that wasn't a very pleasant place. Unless of course you die in training. Which will happen to some of you. Maybe a lot of you."
Again, he stopped and let us consider his words. His voice was calm, almost gentle, but without so much as raising his voice he had everyone's complete attention. You could have heard a pin drop in the room.
"Those of you who do graduate will join the most elite combat formation in the history of the world. You will serve wherever you are needed, anywhere in explored space, and you will perform that service with valor and distinction. And after you make your first assault, all of your past crimes and offenses will be wiped clean."
That was the first hopeful thing he'd said. A bit of carrot to go with the stick.
"But first you have to complete training. The regimen is unlike anything soldiers have experienced before, and when you have completed it you will be the deadliest human killing machines that have ever existed.
"But before you even begin your training proper, you are all going to the infirmary. You have had varying health care priority levels, most of them pretty low, so you haven't had much medical care. Well now you are going to have every treatable deficiency corrected. Plus, we're going to make some improvements to the original design. When we're done you will all see and hear better than any civilian, and you will have enhanced reflexes.
"After you are released from medical, you're going to do six months of basic field training. Trust me, whatever you think you've been through before, field training is going to teach you the true meaning of physical fitness. You'll probably all survive the medical procedures, but some of you will die during field training. So take it seriously."
That was the second time he mentioned dying in training. I figured it wouldn't be the last.
"After we get you in decent physical shape you're all going to go through a customized remedial education program. Honestly, you're all ignorant and uneducated - totally unqualified to serve in my marine corps. But we're going to fix that. A marine private has the equivalent of a six-year post primary education, and you're going to get it in less than a third of the time it takes lazy civilians.
"Then, we're going to teach you to kill. I know your backgrounds, and a lot of you think you already know how, but take my word for it, you are all amateurs. We are going to make you professionals. Stone cold death machines that strike terror into the hearts of our enemies.
"You think you're tough because you abused or murdered a few helpless workers? Or even another tough guy gang member?" He laughed derisively for a few seconds, the first sound that came out of his mouth that wasn't flawlessly polite. "I've personally killed at least 75 men and women, and troops under my command have killed over 50,000. And all of them were shooting back. So if I were you, I'd pay very close attention to your training, because all of your instructors are combat veterans who have been where you are going and came back to tell about it.
"Of course, you need to get through your training first before you have to worry about surviving combat, and it's going to take everything you've got to get to graduation. And if you wash out, remember - you go back to wherever we found you. For almost half of you that's death row; for most of the rest it's some miserable cesspool where your life expectancy ranges from a few weeks to a few years.
"We offer all of you a chance at redemption, but our price is high. Your mind, body, soul, and every last measure of effort you can muster. If you fail we will leave you dead and bloody on the training field. Or I will personally sign the order to haul your sorry ass back to whatever hangman we snatched you from."
He stopped for a few seconds and methodically scanned the room. Every eye in the place was trained on him. It wasn't just what he said; it was the way he said it. I'd never seen anyone with such a commanding presence and serene confidence. He hadn't raised his voice or spoken an angry word, yet he'd been as ominous and threatening as anything I'd ever encountered.
I'd been living in a world of angry confrontation. In the gangs, a dispute over a nutrition bar could get loud and ugly, and likely violent as well. General Strummer spoke softly and politely enough to be sitting at a dinner party. Yet I had no doubt he'd sign an order sending a lazy recruit back to the gas chamber without a second thought.
"Ok, I think
I've made my point. I hope you enjoyed my dress blues, because it's the last free show of respect you're going to get. From now on you earn everything. Do your best, listen to your instructors, and one day I will see you again on the graduation field."
He turned, and walked off the stage, the sound of his boots on the floor echoing loudly in the otherwise silent room. As soon as he'd cleared the stage a captain came out and gave us instructions on getting our billet assignments and meeting with our provisional platoon leaders. Then we were dismissed.
I made my way through the line to get my bunk assignment, but I was lost in thought the entire time. The general had made quite an impression on me. I'd never encountered anyone like him before. I loved my father, but he had been a gentle sort of man, and I'd seen what the world did to people like him.
When I was with the gang I'd seen the other side of humanity too, the vicious, animalistic, malicious side. I'd lived that as well, and in my years with the gang I did some terrible things. But I never really felt like one of them. I never understood the needless brutality, the wasteful violence that went beyond the opportunistic.
The authority figures I'd met were mostly corrupt, vindictive bullies. Certainly none of them commanded any respect. The closest they came to respect was fear, and that they extracted with threats and force.
But Strummer was different. He left me wanting to know more, to understand his way of things. I had no doubt he could act just as summarily, just as harshly, but I somehow felt his actions would be fair, or as close to that as things got. I didn't realize it at the time, never having really experienced it before, but these thoughts and feelings were the beginnings of respect for another human being.
Training was an unbelievable experience, and I learned more things than I could have imagined. We started with the medical review. They had all our test results from exams we'd been given on induction, but they still did a lot more checking. Apparently the Corps likes its marines healthy, and we were going to meet that standard no matter what it took.
I didn't have too many problems. As a child my family had a relatively low health care priority rating, but I'd still seen a doctor three or four times. Of course, once we left the Protected Zone there was no real access to medical care. I was generally very healthy, so I finished the battery of treatments in less than ten days, while some of my classmates were in the infirmary for three weeks or longer.
I'd broken my ankle while I was with the gang, and it never healed quite right, so they re-broke it surgically and fused it perfectly. Other than that, they addressed a few minor deficiencies caused by years of poor diet and malnutrition, and they corrected a few small genetic abnormalities.
The improvements were far more noticeable. The retinal enhancements not only increased my vision over long distances, but I found I could see in very dim light as well. My hearing was more acute, and I felt much more active and energetic. Certainly my reflexes were the best they'd ever been, and I could run faster and jump higher than before. A couple weeks later, when I cut myself during basic training exercises, I realized that I also healed faster. Actually, about twice as quickly as before.
Speaking of basic training, the general wasn't kidding when he said it would be the hardest physical exertion we'd ever experienced. It was about getting us into great shape, certainly, but it was also about testing us, pushing us to the limits of our endurance.
Camp Puller was just outside New Houston, not far from the edge of the quarantined zone around the ruins of the old city. For the record, southeastern Texas is hot as hell. And humid. And the worst of our training was thoughtfully scheduled during the height of summer.
A lot of people couldn't take it and washed out, even though the consequences of dismissal were grave for most of us. But the torment was more than just a weeding out process. The rest of us began developing a confidence we hadn't had before as we survived challenges we couldn't have imagined overcoming.
I almost lost my new found confidence when we started the classroom portion of training. Everyone needed some level of remedial work, but I hadn't seen a classroom since I was 8 years old, so I needed a lot. After the initial adjustment, I took to it pretty well, and by the time we wrapped up course work I had an education roughly equivalent to the one my father had, though mine was a bit more generalized.
I hadn't had time to think about anything while they were beating us into the ground in basic, but about halfway through the classroom training it started occurring to me that my life and attitudes had begun to change. I wasn't a gung ho marine yet by any stretch of the imagination. But up until that point I had been living day-to-day, and to the extent I thought about it, I figured I was there because I had no real choice.
Now I started to look ahead, to think about what it would be like to get to graduation and beyond. I knew I would be leaving Earth and everything familiar to me, possibly forever. That I would fight on strange worlds and quite possibly die on one of them. Yet I started to look to the future in a way I never had before.
My performance improved as time went by. I barely made it through the first year of course work without getting washed out, but by the end of the second I finished tenth in the class.
Then it was on to combat training. We learned hand-to-hand fighting and military history. But most of all we learned unit tactics. We started with lectures and demonstrations, but soon we were doing non-stop war games, tramping all over the hot, flat terrain killing each other in various simulated ways.
We took turns acting as squad leaders, but the higher positions were played by actual sergeants and officers. We were learning to be troopers, not commanders, and part of that meant experiencing what it would be like to fight under experienced leaders.
Once we'd mastered small unit tactics we started learning how to fight in armor. Our fighting suits are the most sophisticated and complex weapons ever constructed, and using one well - and not killing yourself with it - took extensive training. The armor is powered by a miniaturized nuclear reactor, which is built onto the back of the suit and looks a little bit like a large backpack. This is what really makes the armor such a powerful weapon. The energy created by the mobile plant is sufficient not only to operate the very heavy armor itself but also to power some very potent weapon systems. The Mark V powered infantry suit, the one in current usage, can accept four modular weapons systems, so a marine's arsenal can be tailored to the specific mission.
The primary infantry weapon for normal fighting is the GD-211 electromagnetic rifle, which fires a tiny projectile at extremely high velocity. Because of the high speed of the dart, the energy transference to the target is extreme, making it a very hard-hitting weapon with a very long effective range.
For fighting in vacuum or near-vacuum we have a variety of lasers and other energy weapons that are extremely effective in such conditions but subject to diffusion in higher atmospheric densities.
We also have grenade launchers, flame throwers, and a wide variety of highly specialized systems. Then, of course, we have the big boys - the nukes. Our armor can support several nuclear weapon delivery systems, delivering warheads of up to 20 kt.
Of course you can kill almost anyone just by punching them. The fighting suit vastly increases the strength of the user, allowing us to literally run through walls and jump 20 meters straight up. A skilled marine can deliver fire from mid-jump, reaching target locations that are blocked from the ground.
We were all anxious to start blasting the countryside with our new weapons, but the first month of training was spent learning how to walk. We'd had a few casualties during our war games and maneuvers, but these were mostly the results of scattered accidents. It was during suit training that the general's prediction that many of us wouldn't survive really came back to haunt us.
We lost 5 on the first day we actually wore the suits, mostly because they didn't listen to the instructors and tried to do too much, too fast. I started suit training with a healthy respect for the danger, and this only incr
eased when I saw the bloody results of recruits who tried to run or jump without the right training.
Jumping wasn't difficult, but landing was another matter, at least landing safely. The suits provided a lot of protection, but you could still mess yourself up falling hard from 15 meters. It took a lot of practice to learn to land safely and even more to do it without losing a beat. After all, when we were in the show we'd be doing this under enemy fire. If you managed not to hurt yourself jumping, but you stumbled and faltered on the battlefield you could end up very dead, very quickly.
Once we were proficient with our suits we redid all the war games, fully armored this time. The final event was a full scale simulated assault against an entrenched defender. Half of us were attackers and half defenders. When we finished, we switched sides and did it all again. Projected casualties for the attacking forces were over 50%. I hoped we'd do better than that when we hit dirt somewhere for real. I knew from my studies that the average assault force in the Second Frontier War lost 18.2% killed and wounded, which was bad enough, but it was a hell of a lot better than 50%+.
At the end of our fourth year we left Camp Puller and boarded a transport for the orbital transfer facility. There we were loaded onto a ship called the Olympia and we headed out toward Sol Warp Gate #2, bound for Van Maanen's Star and the base located on the second planet of the system.
We were ready to start assault landing exercises and begin training for fighting in space. The Sol system was demilitarized by the Treaty of Paris, so all of our bases conducting anything but maintenance and refueling had to be located in other systems.
The trip was hard on a lot of our class. None of us had ever been in space, and the zero gravity and acceleration periods were rough on the digestive system. Cleaning up partially digested rations in a zero gravity environment might have been my least favorite part of training. We did have a number of methods though, and we got quite good at it.
I'd read an account of a sailor from the old wet navy who said that recruits got used to the waves and that their seasickness passed in a couple weeks. Well, I can tell you that it takes longer than two weeks in space, but the principal still holds. By the time we made our third jump and entered the Van Maanen's Star system, most of us had adapted to normal space travel. We'd get another chance to acclimate to the wild maneuvers preceding an orbital insertion, but that pleasure was still a few months away.