by Kal Spriggs
Her friendship seemed suddenly suspect, as did her words on the bus. How could I trust her? She mentioned using me to get a higher score, I thought, what if some part of that is aimed at making me look bad, maybe even to embarrass the Admiral?
I couldn't share what I'd heard with her, if that was the case. It would let her know I was onto her, for one thing, and even if she didn't have some grudge with me, it might make her suspect me of the same. “Sorry,” I said, “Karmazin was in the way, seemed like he took his time.”
She snorted at that, “He probably just doesn't know how to use a mop.” Her tone of derision had a sharp edge, I noticed. Did she hate Alexander Karmazin because of his background or was there something else? They'd mentioned some rivalry between Champion and both our families... was this related somehow? I've got to figure some of this out, I thought, or I'm going to drive myself mad.
“All right, Candidates!” I heard Cadet Instructor Salter call out. “Get out here, get out here now!”
As I rushed out of my room and braced to attention, Salter was almost right in front of me. The tall, blonde woman looked down at me and I saw something flash across her face, almost suspicion, I thought. I kept my face expressionless, though, despite the anger I felt at her words earlier and my current treatment. Anger would keep me going, I knew, but I had to figure this all out. My one advantage here was my intelligence. I could adapt, I could figure this all out, I could show them that I wasn't a failure...
I just had to get the information I needed first.
***
Chapter Eight: Then They Gave Me A Gun
“Candidates, this is the section's shrine,” Cadet Marris said. There was a tone of respect in his voice, not for us, obviously, but for the place. “You are now on sacred ground. Sacred not from God or Church, sacred from blood and sacrifice.”
We stood in front of the ornate brass door, and I stared at the large stone in front of it, encased in some kind of glass or plastic. The surface of the stone was pitted and stained. It looked like the same basalt commonly found back in Black Mesa, though ravaged in ways that even Century's weather couldn't accomplish.
“This stone, taken from the battle of New Zion, was the last hold out of Sand Dragon Company, during the Culmor's Second Sweep,” Cadet Marris said. “Who can tell me who the Sand Dragons were?”
I saw a hand go up out of the corner of my eye, I didn't need to look to know it would be Sashi. Know it all, I thought darkly.
“Sir, Candidate Drien, the Sand Dragons were a support company based in New Zion who, after the defeat of the main militia elements, conducted a fighting withdrawal while the civilians evacuated the city.”
“Correct,” Cadet Marris said. “But that understates their accomplishments.” He shook his head, “The Culmor forces on the planet were more numerous than our own ground forces. They came here with the purpose of eradicating our colony. With some help from Dalite and Fresco, we managed to stop them in space, but only with the loss of every military ship we had.”
He pointed at the battered basalt block, “Ninety men and women who were trained as medics, truck drivers, and mechanics, held off over two thousand Culmor troops for over two weeks. They did so with the help of civilian volunteers and through hit and run tactics where they exacted an extreme cost onto their enemies. During those two weeks, the entire population of New Zion managed to escape to bunkers and the rest of our militia managed to organize and stage a counter-attack... but not in time to save the Sand Dragons.”
I felt my throat constrict a bit at that. I couldn't imagine how desperate a fight that would be. I didn't know why they did what they did or if I could have done the same thing. Yet, as I imagined the faces of my parents on the people they defended, I felt myself stand a bit taller. They would have defended their friends and their families against the aliens who had come from other stars to exterminate them. They were real heroes, I thought.
“In memory of them and their final stand, this section, the section you are assigned to, is named for them. Each of you will be assigned one of their rifles to carry, to bear in their memory, for your stay here.” He gazed around at us and his eyes seemed to pause on me as he spoke next, “You are not worthy of that honor, not yet, but you will do this in both memory of them and to maintain the tradition.”
“Candidate Karmazin, step forward,” Salter said.
I saw Karmazin step up. He came to attention in front of Salter and she held up a rifle. I could see it was archaic, the metal polished and worn by many hands. “Candidate Karmazin, this is the weapon of Corporal Sean Albertson, serial number five five seven three eight five. He was a cook who died in the third day of the battle, while engaging a Culmor battlesuit. He was a hero... do not disappoint his memory.” She passed him the weapon and I saw him step back, the rifle held reverently in his hands.
I saw Cadet Marris's eyes focus on me. Oh no, I thought, he's looking at me, which means that I'm...
“Candidate Armstrong,” Marris said, “step forward.” I could hear a rough edge to his voice, though if it was disapproval or something else I wasn't sure. I felt my ears heat as I stepped forward. Don't screw this up, I thought. Who was I to carry the memory of a hero? I don't even want to be here, I thought, how can I be worthy of this? I braced to attention in front of Cadet Instructor Marris, who stared at me with intent eyes. “Candidate Armstrong, this is the weapon of Private First Class Santiago Ballanco, serial number five five eight four two. He was a mechanic who died on the twelfth day of the battle, when he led a Culmor patrol off as a distraction so that fifty three civilians and two fellow Sand Dragons escaped. He was a hero... do not disappoint his memory.” He passed me the rifle and the metal seemed cold in my hands. I felt a roaring in my ears and my stomach roil. Who am I to carry this weapon? I thought, even as I hoped that I wouldn't embarrass the spirit of this hero too much.
I stepped back and clutched the rifle, afraid to do anything. I was afraid I'd drop it, afraid I would embarrass myself, afraid that I would somehow disgrace the memory of this man I'd never met and who had died when my grandmother was still young. I listened, in a daze, as the other members of my section stepped forward, one after the other, to receive weapons of the fallen heroes.
As I stood there, I found myself struggling with the entire event. On the one hand, I felt a sense of awe and reverence for the process. I knew, on some level, that it was manipulation. This was a tradition designed around making us feel the importance of someone standing up against those who would harm our world. A cynical part of me wanted to say more power to the people who answered that call. At the same time, I felt a sense of horror, not at the event, but at the resonance I felt within myself. I don't want this, I thought desperately, I never asked for it, I don't want to serve... I want to live a comfortable life, have a great job, get rich, and maybe even have a family someday. It was selfish of me, I knew, but I was fine with that. I wasn't looking for some deeper meaning or profound realization. My parents hadn't served and the little I knew of the Admiral suggested that military service had cost her almost everything. She'd lost her husband, alienated her family, and she lived in her big house all alone. Why would I want that?
Yet the cold, solid metal clutched in my fingers told a different story. Private First Class Santiago Ballanco hadn't wanted to be a hero. He was a mechanic. Yet faced with the extinction of everything he knew, he had stepped forward. He had sacrificed himself to save the lives of others. What were his last thoughts as he led the Culmor away from his friends and the civilians they protected, I wondered.
And, as they led us back to our barracks, I wondered if he had any second thoughts as he died.
***
We spent the next hours learning how to clean and care for our weapons. Not all of them were the same, I learned. Some of us had what the Cadets called “Alpha Elevens” while others had “Ti-Coms” and the Cadet Instructors split us into different groups to learn how to service each set of weapons. The weapons were almost pa
infully simple to take apart and examine, yet the Instructors led us through the process over and over again, often punctuated by diatribes when someone messed something up.
I found myself slipping into a sort of haze. It was easier to just react to what the instructors said than to try to process anything. I didn't try to think, didn't really hear what they said, it was too much, too overwhelming. I could react and follow the Cadet Instructor's directions without thinking.
After cleaning weapons, we went to breakfast and then moved right out to the parade ground and where they began to drill us. The previous day's training had blurred in my mind and since this training was meant to build upon it, I received a lot more of the attention I didn't want. I felt the haze grow thicker on my brain, to the point that I felt like a robot. I had never felt so out of my depth, so utterly worthless... and even through my haze I could tell that the others in the group were angry at my failures.
The rest of the day passed in a blur. We finally got lunch after drill, which was followed by more physical training, which was followed by cleaning. Then it was dinner time. After that we did more drilling. At the end of that, they released us for an hour to clean our rooms.
Sashi didn't look at me, “The inspection will be harder tomorrow, since they've given us time to clean. We need to dust, sweep, and mop. We need to get every surface, they'll check for dust everywhere.”
“Okay,” I said. Against my better judgment, I had to ask, “When does it get easier?”
She looked over at me and I saw a mixture of pity and disgust, “This is just in-processing week. We go into combat training at the end of the week. That's when it gets hard.”
***
Cleaning done, the Cadet Instructors gathered us together. There were a couple I hadn't seen before, but they stood at ease. There was almost a feeling of relaxation. “Candidates,” one of them said, “I'm Cadet Instructor Mackenzie.” I recognized his voice from the overheard conversation before. “Now, the first two days are winding to a close. As most of you know, we'll select squad leaders at this point. Before we tell you who we've selected, we want to talk to you all as Cadets, rather than as your trainers.” I remembered his seemingly gentle voice and he spoke with a friendly smile. I wondered why we hadn't seen much of him so far.
“We've all been where you all are now,” Cadet Marris said. The stocky man's eyes ranged them all. He still looked stern and imposing, almost as if he didn't really know how to relax. “You're tired, you are stressed, and most of you understand that this is only going to get harder.” Something about his tone suggested that he knew that some of us, probably me, wouldn't make it. Right then, I felt too exhausted to even feel anger at the implication.
“The thing to remember,” Cadet Mackenzie said quickly, with a glance at Marris, “is that this is something that all of us have accomplished. We're standing before you to show that you can make it.” His words might have been meant to sound reassuring... but they were targeted to the people who actually wanted to be here. I didn't. I didn't care about doing well, about being a squad leader, or even getting through this beyond making sure that I could go on to my internship and wipe the dust of this place off of me.
“Now,” Cadet Hilton said, his nasal voice harsh against the more relaxed tones of the others, “some of you have heard that the drills and inspections are just to occupy your time before you go to the Grinder. That's not true. This drilling is important, it forms the basis of your training. Some of you might think that you can forget this stuff, but you'll need it later on, both as a Candidate and later as a Cadet. You'll also need this if you want to get your commission upon graduation. I've seen lots of people that discounted it and have paid for it in the long term.”
“Yes, thanks, Hilton,” Mackenzie said as he rolled his eyes. His smirk brought a round of chuckles from us all, though with how Hilton's face flushed, I knew we'd pay for it later. I didn't care, it was the first laugh I'd had in what felt like years. “Now, do any of you have any questions?”
Sashi's hand went up, “Sir, Candidate Drien, how can we best prepare ourselves for leadership positions, early on, sir?”
I rolled my eyes at that. She didn't know she was already on the list to be a squad leader, but she obviously saw herself as a natural leader. From the way several of the other candidates perked up, they felt the same way.
Cadet Salter spoke up, her voice gruff, “Leadership is something you'll all have opportunities to apply yourselves towards. The best way to prepare yourself to lead is to put yourself in position to follow. Right now, you're at the bottom. Learn from that. Take away what you can about how you are treated, the leadership styles that work in different situations.” I felt shock at that. What were we supposed to take away from our treatment? This wasn't leadership, it was terror and punishment. I felt my roiling anger return at her words.
“Another technique, which I'm certain all of you have done,” Cadet Marris said, “is to study historic military leaders and to follow in their footsteps. Going back to old Earth and even pre-space days, you can learn a lot, both about professional behavior, treatment of your people, and even tactics and strategy.”
“Not that you all will have much free time to read over the next few days,” Cadet Mackenzie chuckled. Several of the candidates laughed at the dry humor and despite myself, I snorted as well. “But lest you think we are terrible ogres... remember, we are doing this for you. The military is not a place for individuals... everyone has to act and react within certain parameters... because lives depend upon it. We are teaching you attention to detail and discipline. While lives may not depend upon the cleanliness of your rooms or the precision of your folded socks, they will depend upon your ability to notice tiny details and to do things the right way the first time, despite stress, lack of sleep, and whatever else is going on.”
I ground my teeth at that. It seemed absurd... yet as I thought about it, it made a kind of sick sense. I was sure there must be some other way to do what they were doing, but I couldn't think of one off hand. Maybe they could do some kind of auto-hypnosis training, I thought, but that would require a lot of time and money. The mental trauma I felt right now made me angry. I didn't want to do this, I didn't want to be here.
Worst of all, I thought to myself, I don't think that I can do this.
Rakewood put her hand up, “Sir, Candidate Rakewood, how do you suggest we bring some of our fellow candidates up to our level of capabilities, so that they don't bring the rest of us down?” I didn't miss her glance at me and I felt my face flush. I could feel the eyes of most of the section on me and I felt my stomach sink even lower.
“None of you have been particularly impressive, so far,” Cadet Salter said, her voice dry. “So I wouldn't worry too much about someone else 'bringing you down.' Instead, if I were you, I would try to find a way to work together and build upon your strengths... not try to single someone out for their perceived weaknesses.”
Her answer was a slap in the face to Rakewood and everyone knew it. The silence that followed was profound. For a moment, I thought that maybe Salter wasn't so bad. Still the glare she leveled at us all made me wonder if she had said it for my benefit or just as a general rebuke. Nah, I thought, no way was she sticking up for me, she hates all of us, me included.
“Well, that's enough for the evening,” Cadet Mackenzie said. “We'll announce squad leaders in the morning. Now, remember, if you aren't selected for it, it's not a judgment of your abilities. We'll only select three.”
“But remember if you fail to perform as squad leader we'll pull you out and replace you,” Hilton said, his nasal voice almost gloating. It seemed like he was looking at me as he said it. Please, I thought, change your mind, pick someone else, don't pick me.
“Now, on that happy note,” Mackenzie said, “You can return to your rooms. Good night, candidates, sweet dreams.”
***
Chapter Nine: I'm Not Sleeping
I'd looked forward to sleep, just for the obliv
ion that it would bring, the time I wouldn't need to think, to be yelled at, or judged. I still didn't know how many hours they let us sleep, only that it was dark when they woke us up and dark when I finally crawled into my bunk.
I didn't wake up to shouting, just to a tap on my shoulder. I rolled over instantly, and saw Sashi standing nearby. “We've got fire guard.”
“Fire what?” I asked blearily.
“We've got to stand guard, two hour shift, make sure the barracks doesn't catch fire or anything like that,” Sashi said in a low voice. Clearly it was perfectly logical to her that the concrete bunker might spontaneously burst into flames if someone wasn’t awake to monitor things. “Grainger and Evans are just coming off, they're waiting on us so that they can get some sleep. Hurry up and get ready.”
I sat up and jumped out of bed. I'd begun sleeping in the clothing I'd need for the next morning. It saved me the time spent getting dressed and that meant a little less yelling. I'd also preplaced my shoes, socks and other sundries, so I was dressed in and ready in under thirty seconds. I followed Sashi out into the hallway and then down the corridor to the only lit room.
Grainger and Evans looked up from where they were talking quietly. I saw that they had been polishing their boots. We weren't allowed to wear them yet, instead we had running shoes until we 'earned' that privilege.
Evans gave me a nod but Grainger seemed to ignore my presence. Clearly she wasn't a fan. Then again, she had seemed pretty friendly with Rakewood, so the social pecking order was probably putting me at the bottom. Oh well, I could live with that. It wasn't like I wanted to be popular here or anything. Four months and seven days, I thought to myself.