Marine Cadet (The Human Legion Book 1)

by Tim C. Taylor

  At any other time, a display of such disrespect toward the Jotuns would be unthinkable, but the officers expected rowdy behavior on a Scendence Day. It was just one more reason for Arun to think aliens would never make any sense.

  The wall-screen now replayed a split view showing both competitors in the Obedience-Stoicism match. Each had their heads clamped and positioned in front of a perforated, black screen. A spike emerged from one of the holes turning slowly but relentlessly, aimed at the left eye of each player.

  In real time the advance of the spike had been agonizingly slow. The replay sped up the action until the tip stopped a hand’s-breadth from the eye. Then a needle emerged from the tip of the spike, pushing on toward the eye. Closer. Closer. Then it pierced the cornea. Neither player showed any reaction.

  The spike had advanced in silence but now a motor purred as it pushed the needle deeper into the eye. Arun couldn’t help but blink in sympathy.

  A depressurization alert blasted out its twin tones. Depressurization drill was so ingrained in all of them that Arun nearly leaped from his seat. Just in time, he realized the sound was coming from the Scendence replay, a cruel trick to distract the players. They didn’t react at all.

  Then the clamps holding their heads in place fell away in a burst of compressed air.

  Each player now had a needle inside their eyeball with only willpower keeping their head steady enough for it to do no damage.

  Arun shook his head in wonder. He’d be blubbing like a baby long before this stage.

  The loser lasted another four seconds before screaming and shutting his eyes. The scream turned to a wail of agony as the needle gouged a path of pain through his retina.

  The Fox supporters jeered.

  “Look at those foxies,” said Arun. “I’d like to see them take a needle in the eye without blinking.”

  “I for one couldn’t,” said Osman who was standing just behind Arun, there not being enough seats for everyone.

  “Cristina did,” said Del-Marie.

  Slumped in her chair across from Arun, Cristina gave a halfhearted smile.

  “Yeah, we’re proud of you,” added Arun.

  There was a grunt of agreement, which made Arun feel relief that his squadmates were beginning to act as if her were one of them again.

  Cristina ignored them all.

  In the morning session, she had taken the needle without flinching, but so too had her opponent. On the second round, she had screamed in pain when the poisonous scorpion in her mouth stung her. Her opponent had shown no reaction.

  Osman’s Deception-Planning had involved a card game, never a good scenario for Osman. His opponent hadn’t even hesitated before he called Osman’s bluff. Arun felt bad about that. Osman still wanted Arun to take his place in the team, but Springer had advised him to wait for now. Madge was still too mad at him after the battalion’s Cull Zone punishment.

  As for Madge, she was still on her way down from orbit after her Gunnery contest. She had done well but her opponent had done better still, which seemed to sum up Moscow Express’s day.

  Arun looked back at the wall-screen, which was now showing fluid being pumped back into the competitors’ eyes.

  The Scendence tortures had been virtual, but they had felt real to the competitors because they had been wearing total immersion suits. The irony was that in order to shoot images directly at the retina while bypassing the lensing effect of the eyes, the liquid inside each eyeball was drained when the suit was put on, and reinserted before removal.

  Arun felt a kick against his chair leg.

  “Springer’s in position,” said Del-Marie gruffly.

  Flicking through the several hundred Scendence feeds offered on his softscreen, Arun quickly found several for Springer’s contest. He picked one that showed his friend’s viewpoint and offered audio commentary too.

  Scendence players wore caps that strapped over the forehead rather like the training caps cadets wore during second sleep. You could tap into the player’s mind, to see what they saw; hear what they heard. Some of the highest rated ACE-3 battlesuits, allowed you to do this too, tapping into the view from your squadmates. There weren’t many of these advanced suits to go around and they were reserved for NCOs. They struck Arun as a very good idea.

  “Here she goes,” said Del-Marie, rather pointlessly as they were all watching Springer from various feeds as she walked out into a transparent box a dozen meters over the chilly water of Lake Tavistock.

  The thin ice crust underneath had been melted for the contest. The commentary said the water temperature was only 4 degrees above freezing.

  Each player was dressed in fatigues: boots, camo pants, and a thin shirt. Springer’s viewpoint was shaking: she was shivering already.

  Arun switched to a wider angle view. The two players were in a see-through box with a dividing wall between them. At the bottom of each compartment was sump filled with water. The objective was to fill the bucket they had been given, climb up a spiral staircase which ended in a hole at the top of the dividing wall. You had to throw the water through the hole to fill your opponent’s compartment. The volume of water in each compartment started off the same. Once one player’s compartment contained two thirds of the combined water volume, its floor would open up, dumping the loser into the lake below.

  From his feed, Arun could see in the distance that a duplicate setup was positioned a short distance farther into the lake. A contest was already underway in the other setup.

  Something about one of the figures in the other contest drew him in, making him zoom the view onto the other match as best he could.

  It was Xin!

  Springer’s match wouldn’t start for a minute or two, so he quickly found a feed that showed a closer view of Xin.

  At the top of each compartment was an opaque box. Xin’s match had progressed enough for it to open. It looked like it had deposited biting insects and a slimy goop over the competitors. Xin and her competitor looked like they had been half digested and then vomited up by some hideous monster, but Arun would kiss Xin in an instant.

  Despite all the drent that had happened recently, he still felt exactly the same about that girl.

  He wasn’t watching Xin just to stare at her figure, he told himself. He selected another feed, one that showed a close-up of her face. Arun looked beyond her physical beauty at the determination that blazed from her eyes, the steadiness of her stride as she ascended the slippery steps. Her every movement was calculated, efficient, strong.

  Xin put him in mind of a common saying about Scendence: To take part is but a passing diversion. It is winning that matters.

  Her determination to win was almost machinelike. For all that he admired her, Xin scared Arun a little too.

  The commentary feed was showing the score: 58% of the water was in Xin’s compartment. She was losing!

  “Come on,” Arun whispered under his breath.

  He delved through the commentary stats for the trends. Xin was losing but she was clawing back. She had been on 62% at one point, just 4% away from a long drop into the lake. Xin poured a bucketful into her opponent’s compartment. Now she was on 57%. Keep going! Xin leaped down into the sump and began refilling.

  Meanwhile her opponent slipped from the stairs, spilling out half the contents of her bucket. She took a moment to catch her breath before dipping her bucket in the sump again.

  “Yes!”

  With a grin, Arun realized that Xin wasn’t losing, she was winning! She had paced herself. Her opponent had started off in a frantic burst of energy but had tired so much that she was visibly exhausted. Xin would carry on like a robot until she won.

  Minute by minute, bucket by bucket, Xin came back from the brink to draw level with her opponent. And then claw her way into the lead.

  “Thank Horden.”

  Arun looked up. That had been Zug’s voice.

  Following Zug’s gaze to the wall-screens, Arun saw Springer splash up and down with glee in her comp
artment. She was grinning so wildly that her dimples were dark pits.

  “Yes!” Arun punched the air in triumph.

  Instantly, he realized something was wrong. A stony silence had replaced the jubilation around him. The guys were all staring at him

  Del-Marie was out of his seat advancing toward Arun.

  It was like a bad dream. Arun couldn’t quite believe this was happening

  “Give me that!” snapped Del-Marie.

  He snatched the softscreen out from Arun’s hands, the screen that showed Xin battling her opponent. Del paraded the screen around the squad, holding it aloft like a trophy.

  Arun blushed with shame.

  Del-Marie pointed up at the screen where Springer was bouncing up and down in delight. “There,” he said. “There! That’s Springer. You should be paying her attention. She is ours. You are hers. Frakking imbecile! You look at this cheap vulley-flit instead?”

  “She’s not a…” Arun stopped. Defending Xin wasn’t going to help.

  “Arun, it’s not all right.” Zug spoke calmly. Everyone listened. “This is not a small mistake of rudeness. You have let us down. No bulletin from Staff Sergeant Bryant is going to let you off this hook.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” echoed Del-Marie sarcastically. “Sorry isn’t good enough.”

  “I swear, lance corporal,” insisted Arun. “I promise I’ll always put my squad mates first, in front of any… distractions outside of the section.”

  Del-Marie held Arun’s gaze, but then he looked away, probably thinking of Bernard, his boyfriend from Beta Section. Where would Del’s loyalties lie if pushed?

  Osman joined in. “If you and Xin were an item,” he said, “then it would be different. Slightly. But you aren’t. She’s just a vulley-dream. Come on, man, she’s way out of your league. Time to grow up a little. Swear you’ll put us before her.”

  “I already did.”

  “Then do it again.”

  “I will put my squad before Xin. I do so swear. On my honor and the honor of the Marine Corps.”

  The icy tension melted a little.

  Zug got out of his chair and came over to Arun. He shook his hand, bent over and kissed him on both cheeks.

  Zug sometimes claimed doing this was his cultural imperative because he was French. At other times, he admitted he did this to wind people up.

  This time he kissed Arun to whisper a message in his ear. “I am still your friend. Make sure it stays that way.”

  —— Chapter 17 ——

  At 13:00 hours, after a session at the firing range where he’d scored second best in the squad, Arun grabbed a bike from the Spineway B on Level 4 and cycled on his way to another meeting with the alien scribe.

  At Helix 6 a thought struck him as he started coasting down to Detroit’s lowest depths. This was their sixth talkie-talkie session and the Troggie scribe was showing no signs of growing bored. The opposite, if anything. And that meant they weren’t going to end any time soon.

  Referring to the creature as ‘The Trog’ was getting really old.

  It was time Arun named his alien.

  Arun laughed. He had no doubt that his Trog already had a name, but it was bound to come in the form of a smell or chemical signal. Asking for the scribe’s name would have been met with one of those condescending speeches about how humans were stunted little creatures with no sense of smell, and such a limited concept of the world around them that it was a wonder they could get from one day to the next without accidentally killing themselves.

  Arun was so lost in lists of candidate names that he’d picked up more speed than he realized. When the ramp curled round into the top of Level 8, he had to swerve suddenly to avoid hitting an assault tank on its side with the grav sleds off. The team of Hardits repairing the tank hurled abuse at Arun as he sped past, narrowly avoiding hitting one of the stupid monkey-creatures who was too engrossed in an engine diagnostic screen to look up.

  Before he disappeared around the bend, Arun lifted up out of the saddle and mimed farting at the Hardits. Like the Trogs, the primary sense of this other alien species was smell, so he reckoned that was the best way to communicate his feelings to the Hardits in their own language.

  It was only being polite really.

  Judging by the roars of rage, Arun’s message was received and understood.

  Arun whistled cheerfully as he followed the tunnel round and round getting deeper with every turn. The helixes were the only route down for heavy equipment. If there was a major logistics operation going on in Helix 6, then Arun would be warned by the status map mounted on the walls at regular intervals. But today the helix was almost deserted. Being by himself for a short while was such a luxury that he decided it made up for missing the chow time that his comrades would be tucking into right now. By the time he got back, he’d only have the chance to grab a few scraps. And by then his squad would be going up the orbital elevator for an afternoon session of dropboat training. Another training session missed.

  But Arun wasn’t going to let that bother him today. This was the first time he’d ever cycled to these depths. Normally he met the Trog via one of the main surface entrances of the nest, in the forest to the southeast of Detroit. Today he was going to meet through the connection between the lowest level of Detroit and the nest.

  Until last week he had no idea that the human base joined up with the nest. How many more secrets were waiting to be revealed?

  Arun turned his mind back to his naming task. How about Whistler? Arun rolled the name around his mind, trying it out. He liked the idea: whistling was something only humans could do. It didn’t sound right, though.

  How about Bike? No. Peddler?

  People said that bicycles were an entirely human invention, one that annoyed the Hardits in particular, given their specialism in technology and engineering. Mining human creativity was the reason Earth had been nurtured for millennia before begin fought over and eventually forced into the Trans-Species Union under the sponsorship of the White Knights. Technologically speaking, humanity was a million years or more behind the most advanced of their neighbors, but that also meant they didn’t have a million years of precedent saying what works and what does not, stifling the ability to view old problems from an entirely new angle. Or so people said. But people said a lot of things that might be complete hokum, as Gupta might say. Still, it made for a good story.

  But Peddler didn’t sound right either. The name sounded like a guy he knew from Dog Company: Pedro.

  Peddler. Pedro.

  The connection was obscure and it was dumb. But it was dumb in a human way and that was what Arun was after. Pedro it would be.

  ——

  “What did you call me?” The scribe spiraled both antennae, thrusting one forward and the other back. Arun recognized this as an expression of bemusement.

  “I called you Pedro.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that is your new name.”

  “But why? Why Pedro? What does it mean?”

  Arun shrugged. “Why does it have to mean anything? It’s just a name. Your name.”

  “You mean that Pedro is neither descriptive nor has a functional purpose, such as to denote rank or role? The name is a product of pure whimsy?”

  Arun rolled his eyes. Pedro could over-complicate the simplest things. “Yeah, that’s what I just said, Pedro. It’s a frakking name. Don’t any of you overgrown bugs have names?”

  Pedro touched one antenna to Arun’s shoulder. “No one in our nest has a name. We only have… designations, I guess you would call them. Just as you name and number the passageways and chambers of your tunnels. I cannot express how pleased this makes me. To be given a name is a great honor.”

  “Hold on. If none of you guys have names. How come it’s a great honor to be given one?”

  Pedro did that annoying gesture where he folded over his antennae in a loose approximation of human shoulders and then shrugged them. “Becau
se I have decided that this is so. My house. My frakking rules.”

  “You what? Are you quoting me?”

  “I often repeat your phrases, though do not seem to recognize this.”

  “Figures.”

  Pedro rose on all six legs and skittered around in a circle making sudden little leaps in the air as he did. He’d explained once that this was his way of burning off dangerously high levels of excitement.

  Even armed with that explanation, Arun couldn’t help but be very conscious of the excitable creature’s bulk even if it was bounding around playfully. Pedro must weigh upwards of 300 pounds. If he slipped and fell on top of Arun there would be badly broken bones, and broken Marine cadets were not worth the trouble of fixing.

  Arun fiddled with the pheromone emitter dangling around his neck. Pedro had organized delivery of the emitter to Arun’s hab-disk, with a note explaining that this made him smell like a nest sibling. Without the device, the Trogs defending their nest entrance would have killed him.

  He needn’t have worried. Despite the chaotic appearance of Pedro’s little dance, the alien never once lost his footing. Arun suspected that the tiniest detail of his over-excitement dance was perfectly choreographed in advance, a pattern stored in its memory ready for use. They were obsessive about the details of life these Trogs.

  Pedro halted abruptly and turned to stare at Arun. “With this name, you have assigned a gender to me. Do you believe that has significance?”

  “I know it has no significance. It’s you who are obsessed with sex.”

  “I see.”

  “I see? What in Horden’s name is that supposed to mean?”

  “You say more than you know, friend McEwan. Sometimes your subconscious tells me more than you consciously say. That’s how I learn so much from you.”

  “Sure. Well I’m glad to be so transparent. Tell me, Pedro, what do you want me to reveal subconsciously today?”

  “Today I want to hear about a day in the life of a human Marine cadet.”

  “A day in the life. You’ve been reading human books again, haven’t you?”

  Again with the shrugging antennae.