Marine Cadet (The Human Legion Book 1)

by Tim C. Taylor

  Actually, he reminded himself, although the room layout was identical to the novice school classrooms, he’d finished with classes for good. He was a cadet now. This was a briefing.

  A buzz of anticipation thrilled the cadets. When instructors had taken classes, in the back of your mind you always knew that you would leave them behind when you graduated. This was different: Sergeant Gupta would command their squad in battle. This was serious.

  The door at the back of the room opened, launching a wave of standing and saluting.

  Sergeant Gupta took his place behind the lectern emblazoned with the regimental flag: a black rectangle with the number 412 in silver set over a gold circle. The circle represented that spherical Tactical Unit warboats that put the Tactical into Tactical Marine Regiment.

  Arun tried to get a measure of the man and found he felt disappointed at how unremarkable Gupta appeared. The sergeant was shortish, his shaven head not hiding that he was largely bald. His body looked more rugged than the cadets’, sculpted by life on the frontier. Only Gupta’s eyes revealed him as a force to be reckoned with. He was taking his time to study his squad. Unlike many of the instructors, he wasn’t glaring, wasn’t trying to domineer and scare. But there was a quiet intensity to the man’s scrutiny. Gupta was not a person you would cross without consequences.

  “Sit,” Gupta ordered in a voice Arun remembered from the tunnels.

  As the cadets took their seats, Arun decided he liked Gupta.

  “That was me once,” said the sergeant. “I was sitting there watching my first veteran commander give her first lecture. I wasn’t listening. Not really. Was too busy wondering what kind of woman this was who would one day give me battlefield orders. It was a long while ago. I had yet to learn that your squad NCO is God as far as you lot are concerned. It’s my job to keep you alive and pointing your SA-71 in the right direction long enough to do some damage to the enemy before you get hit. How I do that is my business. It is not my job to be your friend.”

  Gupta stared at every Blue Squad cadet in turn. His earlier scrutiny had been only a reconnaissance and now the cadets were exposed to the full effect. Many of them flinched under the sergeant’s gaze. When he stared at Arun, he seemed to draw out every secret, expose every weakness, leaving Arun a shriveled weakling in awe of this terrifying man.

  “Let me give you a flavor of just how long ago I was sitting in your place,” said Gupta. “I was born on Tranquility and raised by my mother until I was nine. Then I was frozen for thirty years before they sent me to school. In the years before they froze me, a big change was spreading through what we still called Alpha Base. The Jotuns started allowing us to learn about Earth up till the moment of First Contact. When I was born we’d had to rely on race memories and a helluva lot of make believe.

  “That’s why so many of my age group were frozen. If the experiment had corrupted the older cadets and Marines – left them unwilling to fight – then the Jotuns would have exterminated them all and woken my cadre of sleeping kids from sleep to start over. I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions about why you are still forbidden to contact cadets from Beta Base.”

  Arun exchanged glances with Zug. This was news!

  “These days squads are commanded by a sergeant, and fire teams are paired up into sections and led by a corporal,” said Gupta. “Back then we still used the Jotun NCO ranks of ‘old commander’ and ‘young commander’. I have to tell you I’m mighty glad I’m not called an old commander.”

  That brought out a smattering of laughter

  “We had hands instead of companies, fingers rather than squads and sections. As for fire teams of 4 to 6 Marines? Fire teams were the same in my day. But for the rest, they’ve given you a fresh coat of names and drills borrowed from a hotchpotch of ancient Earth armies. Strip all that away and one key detail is unchanged. Old commander or sergeant – that’s as far as a human can ever be promoted. Sure, they invented new ranks: senior sergeant and staff sergeant, but all of them are firmly NCO ranks. Humans can never be officers, can never really be in command.

  “That’s the theory. That’s what you’ve been taught. The truth is that the Jotuns can’t provide officers in sufficient numbers for the Marine Corps. We breed more rapidly than the aliens ever accounted for. That’s why so many Marines are kept in ice, and why the Cull gets even more of you than it did in my day.

  “So they place us in operational command. If you were to read official regimental reports, a human senior staff sergeant is there in the battalion command squad to make the coffee for the Jotun officers, wipe their backsides, and amuse them with his or her performing monkey antics. Let me tell you, that human staff sergeant is actually the battalion executive officer.

  Arun glanced nervously around the room. Was Sergeant Gupta allowed to say that?

  A hand went up.

  “Go on, Hecht. Spit it out.”

  “Sergeant. If the Jotun commander were killed in action–”

  “Would a human take charge? What you really want to ask is this: can a human give orders to a Jotun? Is that it?”

  A hush stifled the briefing room. Arun could taste the danger.

  After a pained silence, Hecht replied: “Sergeant. Yes, sergeant.”

  “No. I don’t want that sergeant sandwich crap. You aren’t novices and I’m not an instructor. You reply ‘yes, sergeant.’ Got it?”

  “Yes, sergeant,” they all responded.

  “Good,” acknowledged Gupta. “That was well done, Hecht. All of you were thinking the same thing, but only this one cadet spoke that thought aloud. I’m going to have to work on this lack of initiative, but first your answer. The very idea of a human telling a Jotun what to do is preposterous. Worse than that, it is against the natural order of things, and we all know some very dangerous people who like to have everything and everyone in just the right place. Don’t we?”

  No one spoke.

  “Don’t we?” barked the sergeant.

  Yes, sergeant. The White Knights,” said Brandt of all people. Arun would have expected him to keep his head down.

  “The White knights. Yes, indeed. I’ve never seen one. Don’t expect to either and I can’t say I understand them. But the Jotuns know them much better. Say they’re obsessed with change, with evolution, and mutation, that sort of drent. They even pollute their world on purpose with a mutating cloud. Flek, people call it. The White Knights change themselves, celebrate their mutants and then – usually – cull them. I told you I don’t understand them. The point you need to get inside your frail skulls is that our masters have a fascination with change, a fascination tainted with fear. They are alert to variation and if we upset the natural order then that is change, and they will notice. I don’t know about you, but I would much prefer to be so insignificant that we’re ignored. Frankly, I think the Jotuns are working flat out to shield us from White Knight attention.”

  What the frakk was Gupta up? They were all so flekked.

  Gupta paused for effect. “And so back to you, Hecht. No human can ever give an order to a Jotun. However…” He grinned. “There may be circumstances where a senior human NCO could make helpful suggestions to Jotun officers. After all, being attached to battalion or regimental HQ, even a dumb human would know what his Jotun superiors have been planning.”

  Gupta let the tension build. Arun began to wonder whether the sergeant was insane. Sometimes it happened when being thawed. Resuscitation attrition they called it.

  “Yeah, I know,” Gupta said. “Treason, eh? I’m going to get you all shot. Well, there’s plenty that your instructors never told you. I’ll teach you what, but all in good time. Here’s your lesson for today. Any talk of dissent, to even raise the question of why you fight, of whether the White Knights are worth fighting for… that is treason. But that rule applies to you cadets. Not to we veterans. We’re expected to question our role because – or so the Jotun theory goes – we have a psychological need to do so. Otherwise stress toxins build up and weaken
us physically. The Jotuns reckon that when humans are in battle and it’s either us or the enemy who are going to wind up dead, that’s plenty enough motivation for us to obey orders. So long as you’re talking with a vet, that treason immunity extends to you cadets too.”

  Gupta stopped talking and started sniffing the air. What the hell was he up to now?

  “Anyone else smell hokum?” asked the sergeant.

  When no one replied, he pointed to Osman. “You, Koraltan. Do you?”

  Osman looked startled to be singled out by this mad veck. “Sorry, sergeant. I don’t know what hokum is.”

  “Sheesh! It’s sixty years since I was sitting in your place. I’ll have to get used to your language, and you to mine. If you merge with another unit out there in space, you always get vocabulary issues. Frakking language won’t sit still. Frakking!” He laughed. “That’s a new one you kids have made up since I was last here, we used to say it a little differently. Hokum. It means bullshit, bollocks, balls, bullcrap – a lie that doesn’t stand up to intensive scrutiny. Some of the petty rules and boundaries that you have lived with up all your lives are hokum.”

  Gupta suddenly pointed across the room at Uma Khurana without bothering to look in her direction.

  “You’ve a face like you’re afflicted with terminal constipation, Khurana. Do you want to ask a question?”

  Arun glanced across. It was plain to see that Khurana would rather hide under her desk, but she judged that wasn’t an option. “Yes, sergeant. Why? Why would we be told… hokum?”

  “Good. Maybe there’s some hope for you worms yet because that is the right question to ask. For an answer, let me share something I’ve learned about Jotuns. They are meticulous planners. They want to know every detail, to consider every possibly strategy and counter-strategy. We all notice they have six limbs, but if you shaved off all that shaggy fur, I reckon you would find six buttholes too, because Jotuns are so frakking anal. They don’t do petty. When I said they set us petty rules and boundaries, they only seem petty to us. There will be a solid reason behind them. We just don’t know what that is and the Jotuns ain’t telling.

  “So we fight. We fight for the sake of our buddies. We fight to protect our fleet and our Marine family here on Tranquility. Some of you see a big picture and imagine you fight in the long run for Earth. If that makes you run a little harder, prepare a little more thoroughly, and duck a little quicker, then that’s fine by me.

  “You’re cadets now. The time for philosophy and theory is almost over. You’ve had 17 years of that useless crap. I’m here so some of my practical experience fighting as a Marine can rub off on you, and when you ship out-system I’ll be with you, making sure you fight where, when, and how the officer expects. Well, here’s a surprise. Just occasionally, sometimes philosophy can be practical too. I’ll leave you with a Marine saying. I’m sure you’ve heard it before, but it’s important and it might be a clue to answering Khurana’s question of why you should fight. Here it is: Life as a Marine is awash with injustice, hardship and reverses. The mark of a good Marine is to suck that all up, keep your head held high, and wait for the advantage to swing your way so you can seize it! Seize that advantage and exploit it ruthlessly with every ounce of strength and without a second’s hesitation. Shout out if you know who first said that?”

  “You?” suggested Springer. Arun agreed, remembering that the sergeant had used almost the same words in the Troggie tunnel, but Gupta shook his head.

  “Napoleon,” said Brandt.

  “I think you need to review your history,” answered Gupta. “Napoleon wasn’t in the Marines on account of he was too short. They wouldn’t let him in. You…” He pointed at Hecht.

  “Howlin’ Mad Smith, sergeant.”

  Gupta nodded approvingly. “Better with the history, Hecht. General Smith was in the US Marine Corps, and maybe he did say something like that, but he isn’t who I heard it from. I said that when the fight turns your way, a good Marine exploits it with every ounce of strength. But when I first heard this saying, the actual words were exploit your moment with all six limbs. Yes, cadets, it’s originally a Jotun saying. Don’t forget that Jotuns are Marines too. Perhaps as our fellow Marines, we should trust them to cover our backs.”

  Gupta appeared to be satisfied with the confusion he’d sown in his squad. “I want you to be very careful in what you say to each other,” he said, “but I also want you to think deeply about what I’ve just said.”

  Given the nervous shuffling rippling through the room, Arun wasn’t the only one thinking hard but understanding little.

  “That is all,” said Sergeant Gupta. “I’ll see you later for EVA drill.”

  Arun saluted Gupta as he left but his mind was on the sergeant’s words, not his back as he walked away.

  What was the sergeant on about? Either he was just insane or… or what? The Jotuns always planned meticulously…there was a reason behind what they did even if they kept it hidden. Even if it was as weird as ordering a cadet to make friends with a Trog. Was Gupta trying to send Arun a message?

  He’d only met the sergeant for five minutes, and already Arun had learned that after 17 years of such intensive training that nearly half the novices hadn’t made it to cadet, he still didn’t know a damned thing.

  —– Urgent Info Message –—

  MESSAGE SUBJECT: Our Cull Zone punishment

  To: 8th cadet battalion, 412th Tactical Marine Regiment

  From: Staff Sergeant E. Bryant.

  Our entire battalion has been punished. For some of you, the hard work of years has been undone in an instant.

  This is disappointing.

  GET OVER IT!

  Life is filled with disappointments, but there are many chances for victory too. Good fortune smiles mostly on those who work the hardest at turning around their luck. Good Marines know this. When bad shit happens, they stick together, outlast the bad times, and go looking for their chance to turn things around.

  Inadequate Marines turn in on themselves, pointing the finger of blame anywhere but at themselves.

  We are in the Cull Zone.

  Deal with it. As a unit.

  The subject of how we were awarded the punishment is not to be discussed. Speculation regarding who might be to blame is forbidden.

  And if I find any member of this battalion threatening a fellow cadet whom they blame for putting us in the Cull Zone, then I will burn out that canker of disunity with the utmost severity.

  For those of you who think they can blackmail their superiors by acting as unified squads, I say this. Our Jotun officers and I are equally convinced that it is far better to have one company of good Marine cadets than eight companies of bad ones.

  All of you can easily be replaced.

  Don’t forget that.

  MESSAGE ENDS

  —— Chapter 16 ——

  384th Detroit Scendence Championships.

  Day 1 – Practice Match

  A cheer exploded through the crush of cadets near the exit to corridor 610. Arun swiveled his smart-plastic chair around to check out the fuss. It wasn’t difficult to work out what was up. A group of cadets from Fox Company were jumping up and down in jubilation, pointing up at one of the sixteen large soft screens mounted on the wall.

  Their player had just won a Scendence contest.

  The fuss died down soon enough and the parade hall returned to the general low level excitement of a Scendence Day.

  “Five minutes!” shouted Del-Marie.

  Arun couldn’t bring himself to cheer. Moscow Express had lost their first three contests of the day, which meant that however well Springer did in her individual match, the team result would be a loss. The Scendence season consisted of two practice matches before the knockout stage began. As the first practice, the result didn’t matter anyway, but the mood from the chairs around Arun was still muted.

  Another wave of excitement crashed over the parade hall. Arun looked up but couldn’t see any cause. It was j
ust your regular burst of Scendence Day excitement.

  Just for a moment, his face fell. They were in one of the battalion’s parade decks on Level 4. It was a dramatic space with a dais for NCOs to give speeches or lead large-scale training classes. Part of the wall behind the dais was built from the carcass of a Muryani attack cruiser, still scorched from the plasma fire that had disabled it before human Marines had boarded. The ship was a proud battle honor, but parade halls were used for many purposes, some not so positive. Arun had witnessed an execution in this room.

  Executions made him think of the Cull. Across all cadet battalions in Detroit – currently there were sixty – the four with the lowest Totalizer score at the end of each year lost a tenth of their cadets to the Cull. If your battalion was one of the four in the Cull Zone then there were only two ways to escape the Cull. One was to die beforehand, the other was to reach the last sixteen in a Scendence championship and win immunity.

  It didn’t look like Moscow Express was going to be a means for anyone to escape the Cull.

  Arun caught himself from slipping into one of his black moods of doom. Today was a Scendence Day. A day’s vacation from such worries. An official day of fun.

  He looked up at the screen the Fox cadets were watching, trying to borrow some of their jubilation. The screen replayed the moment of victory. This had been an Obedience-Stoicism contest. The players were each subjected to a random horror. If neither of them flinched, they would face a new horror, and another one until one of them gave way.

  The match was running late because of an epic contest that morning between a human player and a Jotun opponent. That contest had gone an incredible twelve rounds before the Jotun had given way when they faced the horror of being buried deep underground in a tunnel collapse.

  Not many Jotuns played Scendence and it was rarer too for them to lose to a human. Arun had taken a recording of the frenzied reaction in the room when the human had triumphed. A treasured moment to savor at moments of despair.