by Tripp Ellis
The slave recruits were led out of the birthing compartment to the mess hall. It was a cavernous space full of Soturi. Silverware clanked against trays as platoons of warriors shoveled food into their mouths. The air was filled with chatter and boasts of their recent conquest. Nolan watched as the Soturi laughed and congratulated one another, full of pride and camaraderie. These were the warriors that had just conquered Nolan's home world.
Adrenaline coursed through Nolan’s veins. His heart felt like it was going to punch through his chest. His whole body tensed. He knew these warriors were not much different than he was—conquered and enslaved, forced to fight—but Nolan couldn't help but feel a deep hatred for them. It was all he could do not to go ballistic. If he would have had a spell rifle, or even a sword, he probably would have started trouble.
Caleb put a hand Nolan's shoulder, sensing his distress. "Take it easy, buddy. Now is not the time.”
“Is there ever going to be a time?”
Caleb shrugged. “Someday.”
“For most people, someday means never."
“Don't be one of those people."
Nolan looked at Caleb with curiosity. "How can you remain so calm? I don't know about you, but I've just lost everything. My family, my friends, almost everyone I know and loved is dead.”
“That sums up my situation as well,” Caleb said, his voice full of grim resignation. “But there's nothing I can do to change that fact. The only thing I can do is to move forward, and focus on the things that I can control.”
“There’s not much we can control, at the moment.”
“Your attitude. That's probably the only thing you can ever control."
Nolan couldn’t argue with what Caleb had to say, but accepting the events of the past was easier said than done. Nolan tried to make peace with what happened. But it didn't take away the lump in his throat, or the sickening feeling in his stomach—the immense emotional pain that had gripped his entire body and didn't want to let go. As he searched his mind, Nolan found he did have a few things to be thankful for—he was alive, and maybe he would live long enough to see his family avenged.
Nolan and Caleb stood in the serving line with the rest of the recruits. There were several platoons ahead of them. The line moved slow, but steady. From where he was standing, Nolan couldn't see what type of food the ship was serving. But the air was filled with a mix of smells that stirred his appetite. If his senses weren’t deceiving him, he smelled grilled beef and roasted chicken. As he drew closer to the serving area, he caught sight of various cuts of succulent meat, a plethora of cooked vegetables, and fresh fruit. He had never seen a spread of food quite like this. For an instant, he wondered if his eyes were deceiving him. Perhaps it was some type of magic or trickery?
Nolan grabbed a tray and was about to dish up, when a big brute in battle armor pushed him aside.
“Piss off, slave,” the ogre grumbled. “Real warriors are served first.” He let his entire platoon move in front of the recruits.
Rage boiled inside Nolan. He gritted his teeth and stared at the pompous warrior. The guy was big and thick and had a face that looked like it had been beaten with a stick one too many times. His nose was crooked from multiple fractures. There were scars along his cheeks and brow.
“Quit eyeballing me, or you're going to be in a world of hurt,” the brute grumbled.
Nolan didn't break his gaze with the big ogre.
“I gave you a direct order, dirt ball.” The brute displayed the chevron's on his sleeve. “I’m a sergeant. You don't even have a rank. It's called chain of command. You've got to do everything a superior says."
“I don't know if you really qualify as my superior,” Nolan muttered.
The ogre’s eyes narrowed at him. Anger reddened his face.
"Go easy on the recruit, Tanc,” another Soturi said. “After all, we just slaughtered his entire community.”
Sergeant Tanc Krom chuckled with his buddy. Then his grin turned to a scowl. “I'm going to let your insubordination slide, this time.” His menacing face drew closer to Nolan. “But don't ever disrespect me again, do you understand me?” His hateful eyes surveyed Nolan with disdain as he waited for a response.
Nolan said nothing. His eyes continued to blaze into the ogre.
“Do you understand me?"
“I understand,” Nolan muttered.
“I understand, Sergeant!” Tanc instructed.
“I understand, Sergeant!” Nolan repeated.
The two continued to stare each other down for a moment.
Caleb patted Nolan on the shoulder and forced a jovial tone. "Well, now that's settled, can we all eat?”
Tanc let a devious grin curl up on his rugged face. “I'm famished.” His eyes flared, and his tone was almost gloating. “Killing innocent civilians always works up my appetite."
That was all Nolan could take. He erupted with rage and shoved the sergeant.
It was just what Tanc had wanted. He cocked back his massive fist and swung for Nolan's jaw.
12
Nolan ducked as Tanc’s fist careened overhead. This was going to end badly for Nolan, and he knew it. The ogre was still in battle armor, and Nolan wasn't going to be able to cause much damage with his bare fists.
Nolan stepped aside and countered with a left hook that connected with Tanc’s jaw. The impact wrenched the brute’s neck to the side. Tanc shrugged it off like it was nothing. All it did was piss him off further.
His angry gaze returned to Nolan. He growled and charged the recruit who was almost a foot shorter than the hulking behemoth. Tanc was like a demonic freight train charging him down.
Nolan’s eyes widened as he tried to evade the big beast, but Tanc’s long arms grabbed him, slamming him to the deck. In an instant Tanc was atop Nolan, pummeling him into submission. His heavy fist reared back repeatedly, crashing down on Nolan's face like a sledgehammer. Each punch sandwiched Nolan's head between Tanc’s fist and the deck.
BAM!
Nolan’s lip split. The tinny metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.
BAM!
A laceration opened up on his cheek, and warm blood trickled down into his ear.
BAM!
Pain shot through Nolan's nose and eyes. The disconcerting crackle of crunching bones filled his ears. He watched the sledgehammer fist rear back again, ready to strike.
It didn't take long for the rest of the platoon to jump into the fray. The mess hall came alive with hoots and hollers. Those who weren't involved in the ruckus gathered around to watch the spectacle. Fists flew through the air. Blood spatter and saliva sprayed from lips and cheeks as heavy fists did their damage.
Against the armored platoon, the recruits were getting mauled.
“What the hell is going on in here?” Nyvor yelled in a voice so threatening and ominous he could stop a wild bear in its tracks. He stormed into the compartment with a scowl on his face, his narrow eyes searching for the source of the commotion.
The compartment snapped to attention.
Tanc sprang to his feet and fell in with the rest of his platoon. Nyvor’s gaze fixed on Nolan, who was still lying on the deck. He peeled himself up and staggered to his feet.
Nyvor was in his face within seconds. “What were you doing on the deck, recruit? Is there something interesting down there I should know about? Are you tired? Were you taking a nap?"
“No, sir. I… fell, sir.”
Nyvor knew exactly what had happened. “You sure are clumsy, recruit. Do you need special assistance? I wouldn't want you to get hurt in the mess hall.”
“No, sir.”
Nyvor glared at the recruit, standing nose to nose. “I will not tolerate disorder and chaos in my mess hall. I will not tolerate it anywhere on this ship. And it will not be tolerated in the Star Legion. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir."
“The next time you get clumsy and fall on someone's fist under my watch, it's going to be your ass." Nyvor stepped away from Nolan a
nd addressed the entire compartment. “I know you all come from different backgrounds, but you are no longer individuals. You are one, cohesive, fighting force. If you intend to survive out there, you will need to rely on one another. Every Star Legion Soturi is your brother. And Soturi don't fight Soturi!” Nyvor’s eyes blazed at Tanc.
The big ogre sheepishly looked away, shifting uncomfortably.
Nyvor’s eyes snapped back to Nolan. "I think a few hours in the pain chamber might serve as a useful reminder to anyone who's forgotten the basic principles of the Star Legion.
Nolan tried to hide a frown. The pain chamber was the last thing he needed on top of his battered face and wounded pride.
"Get yourself cleaned up," Nyvor said. "Then report to the pain chamber, ASAP."
“Yes, sir!”
The gunnery sergeant’s furious eyes surveyed the rest of the recruit platoon. "I want the rest of you to report to the pain chamber as well. When one of you screws up, you're all going to suffer.”
The recruits stifled groans of displeasure.
Nolan felt the angry eyes of his platoon fall upon him. This definitely wasn't the way to make new friends.
“And by the way," Nyvor added. “You’ve all lost meal privileges this evening.”
There were more groans and angry stares.
Nolan cringed.
“Move out, dirtbags!” Nyvor yelled.
The recruits trudged out of the mess hall, their faces full of dread.
Nyvor’s description didn't quite do the pain chamber justice. He had far undersold the effects. The recruits had been strapped to the bulkheads, restrained at the wrists and ankles.
Nolan wasn't sure how the torture device worked—whether it was magic or some type of technology—but the result was excruciating. Every nerve ending was on fire. It felt like his skin was covered in molten lava. He could almost smell flesh searing away from the bone, even though it was all an illusion. His muscles spasmed and his joints felt like someone was jamming an ice pick in them. The compartment was filled with the shrieks and screams of the platoon. Red faces, bulging veins, and watery eyes were the norm—even among the toughest of individuals. Nolan had never experienced pain on this level, and he wasn't sure how much more of it that he could take.
It was hard to say how long the torture went on for. It seemed like an eternity. It came in pulsating waves so that no one could grow accustomed to it. A few of the recruits passed out from the intense discomfort and hung from the restraints, drooling on themselves.
Nolan could barely breathe the pain was so intense, and the muscle spasms so strong. When the throbbing pain finally ended, it was like a miracle. He thought for an instant that, perhaps, he had died. It seemed the only way to end the agony. He was drenched in sweat, as were the other recruits. Snot was running down his nose. Some of the recruits hurled from the nauseating discomfort. One thing was for certain—nobody wanted to experience that sensation again.
Nyvor strolled into the pain chamber with a devilish grin on his face. His gleeful eyes surveyed the tattered recruits. “Because you’re new, and this was a first infraction, I decided to go easy on you. That was five minutes. Have you had enough, or do you want more?”
"No more, sir,” one of the recruits wailed.
“I didn't think so. Am I going to need to use this as a disciplinary tool in the future?" Nyvor already knew the answer.
“No, sir," the weak voices of the recruits replied in unison.
“Good." Nyvor spun around and marched out of the compartment as recruits were released from the restraints by several petty officers.
One by one, the recruits staggered into the hallway and found their way back to their berthing quarters. Nolan had to suffer the cold eyes of the rest of the platoon. Their contemptuous mutters filled his ears.
“Well, that was interesting," Caleb said as he caught up to Nolan.
“Sorry.”
“Look at it this way. Today can’t get much worse.”
Nolan sighed. “The day’s not over yet.”
13
“Who is that?” Captain Kira Avar asked.
She was young, beautiful, and tough as nails. She had sculpted cheekbones, blue eyes, and short blonde hair. Despite her stunning good looks, she was a battle hardened veteran who had led her unit to many victorious campaigns. She watched as Nolan sparred with an opponent, displaying expert swordsmanship. Several weeks had gone by since the introduction to the pain chamber, and the recruits were starting to look more like Soturi.
The shiny blades clanked and clattered as Nolan dodged and parried, then attacked with masterful precision. He quickly disarmed his opponent. It was like that every time he picked up a blade. No one in the platoon could beat him.
The recruits had been put through an intensive training program. Nyvor may have been true to his word about not punishing recruits with PT, but that didn't keep him from making them run endless laps around the ship to get into better physical condition. An out of shape warrior is an ineffective one. Those who couldn't hack the intense physical conditioning were sent to another unit where their meals were slashed and their training focused almost solely on exercise—the Blubber Brigade.
When the recruits weren’t running laps, or doing push-ups, they were taught the protocols and customs of the Star Legion. They learned how to make their racks and how to properly wear uniforms. They were indoctrinated into the Imperial way of doing things, and all remnants of their civilian lives were expunged. Emphasis was placed on teamwork and cohesion. They were taught basic swordsmanship, and small unit tactics. Every training evolution was practiced with speed and intensity. Swift, violent action was the order of the day.
Though he had gotten off to a shaky start, Nolan was quickly making a name for himself.
“That’s Nolan Jamison,” Nyvor said.
“I want him.”
Nyvor arched a curious eyebrow at her.
Kira scowled at him. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Sergeant."
Nyvor flashed a sly grin. “I’m sorry, but Major Zan has dibs on this platoon.”
Kira clenched her jaw. “My unit has taken heavy casualties recently. I need good replacements,” she said through gritted teeth. “All Major Zan does is sit on his ass. He's never in the first wave.”
“I'm just a dumb grunt, sir. Those kind of conflicts are way above my pay grade. Maybe you can work out an arrangement with the major?”
“I've never known the major to be open to negotiations.“
“Perhaps you can talk to Commander Xule.”
“I don't think Commander Xule is going to involve himself in Star Legion politics.”
“I think this is more than politics. This speaks to combat readiness," Nyvor said with a wink. "Your unit is the most effective fighting force in the entire Legion. I think you should get to pick and choose who joins your team. But then again, I'm just a dumb grunt."
Kira’s tense face softened. "I think we both know you're not quite so dumb.”
"Thank you, sir." Nyvor paused a moment. “Major Zan may have dibs on this recruit platoon, but he didn't make note of any specific individuals within the platoon." He let that hang there for a moment. "It's entirely possible that some of them don’t graduate with this platoon. Some recruits may show such promise that they graduate early.”
Kira’s eyes glimmered. “Who would some of these advanced graduates be?”
Nyvor surveyed the recruits. "Nolan is an obvious choice. Darvak...” Nyvor pointed him out. “He's big, aggressive, and follows orders. Not the sharpest tool in the shed, but I’d want him in my platoon.” He continued to point out recruits. “Caleb Von.”
Kira gave Nyvor a skeptical glance. "Him? He’s about the size of my pinky finger.”
“He smart, agile, and he's got guts. Cool under pressure. The guy is unflappable.”
Kira seemed impressed. “I like cool under pressure. Make a list of everyone you think would fit in with my unit. When do you think they'll be c
ombat ready?”
Nyvor chuckled. “They don’t give me enough time to get these recruits combat ready. Three weeks is what they give me. Maybe if we had a little more time to turn them into warriors, you guys might not lose them so fast, sir.”
Kira couldn't argue with him. "Perhaps you'd like to tell the Emperor to slow down his conquest of the galaxy?"
Nyvor flashed her a resigned look. Nothing was going to slow the Emperor down. Soon he would lay siege to the capital of the Republic and have complete control of the galaxy.
14
Nolan couldn't help but notice Captain Avar as she watched the recruits. There wasn't a man aboard the ship that didn’t imagine the possibilities. But those fantasies were quickly squelched by her brusque personality.
“Alright! Listen up!” Nyvor shouted, interrupting his sparring session between two recruits.
They lowered their swords and stood at attention.
"Don't take this as a compliment, but you're not the worst platoon of recruits that we've ever had come through here. As such, I'm going to step up your training." Nyvor held up a spell rifle. It was a sleek, sexy piece of equipment. A big black barrel with a vented jacket and short stock. A high-powered scope was attached to the upper receiver. It was part tech, part magic. "This is a Zortak spell rifle. You've all been on the business end of one, and as you're aware, that is not a place you want to be. Each one of these is powered by an enchanted crystal. While they are lethal and highly destructive, they are of limited use. The crystal’s energy will deplete quickly, and depending upon the strength of the wizard who enchanted the crystal, recharge times can be lengthy. That is why we spend so much time on swordsmanship. Quite often it will be your first and last line of defense." Nyvor tossed the spell rifle to Nolan.
It caught Nolan off guard. He fumbled to catch the heavy weapon, finally securing it in his grasp. He had never held a rifle like this before. It was well-balanced and felt good in his hands. If only the Emperor were in his line of sight, he thought. But even then, there was no guarantee the spell rifle would work against the Emperor's magic. Nothing else seemed to be effective.