by Scott Moon
“On my command of ‘unlock,’ you will enter the numbers 8-9-7-0 followed by the command key. Unlock.”
A thrill went through Kevin as the top of the standing desk, a secure workbench, slid into itself to reveal a weapon.
“This is the MSRG, or Military Standard Rail Gun. I know men and women in the combat services who have never fired one after basic training,” Priest said. “Why is that?”
“Sir, that is because most fighting is done from a distance or from inside battle armor that contains integrated weapons systems,” Foster said.
“Correct, Foster.”
“Sir,” Foster said.
“Why do you need to master the MSRG?” Priest asked.
No one answered.
Priest looked at Foster. “Do you know the answer, recruit?”
“Sir, the recruit was ordered by Master Sergeant Milarns not to answer more than three times an hour and generally to keep the recruit’s mouth shut,” Foster said.
Priest nodded and shifted his attention, waving with one hand for Foster to relax. No one volunteered to speak. “There are units that do not rely on the integrated armor systems of heavy or even medium armor — the 343rd Marauder Recon teams, for example. Whether or not you are an elite commando or a fresh out of AIT grunt, the MSRG is your backup weapon. You must maintain proficiency.” He paused, seeming to consider something important. “You will also remember from earlier lessons that a reconnaissance battalion is not the same as a Recon unit.”
He briefly explained the structure of a division and the purpose of lightly armored special units like Recon and Para-rescue. “There are also garrison duties in politically sensitive areas with laws against armored military presence that require guards with lighter, less offensive appearing weapons.”
Kevin thought about the soldiers searching the streets of Greater Kansas City on the night Ace and Amanda-Margaret disappeared. He remembered how they had detained the Siren and the way the sky had been clear of air traffic for the first time in months.
“Perhaps more important than all of those factors is the Marine-Army Shoot-off.”
“Are you okay?” Joii murmured.
Kevin swayed where he stood as he thought about the storm breaking and the Siren singing. He remembered the soldiers better now because all he had seen around him for two months were soldiers — present knowledge filling in past details. The city that raised him had the quality of unreality in his memories, like images of his parents and grandparents.
And the twins.
“The MSRG is shorter than its ancient predecessor but retains some stylistic similarities for reasons your instructor neither understands nor cares about. The weapon before you will be assigned to you and has now become more valuable than your life. You will not damage, lose, or misuse this weapon,” Priest said. “Corporal Yang will demonstrate how to dismantle the Military Standard Rail Gun. He will then guide you step by step until the weapon is completely stripped. No one will attempt to reassemble their weapon on their own initiative. This isn’t an abstract lesson; this is hands on. Safety first. Are we clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
BY lunchtime, they had taken their weapons apart and put them back together dozens of times. The cafeteria felt like it belonged in a field base. Kevin and the others ate, told stories, and asked each other questions that they didn’t want to ask the instructors.
The afternoon session was on the range, a long field of scorched earth with palisades of dirt reaching out to five hundred meters, ending in a pockmarked hill. At the end of each day, bulldozers rebuilt and reshaped the earthworks.
Yang lined them up without their weapons. Priest stood before them with a weapon. “This MSRG is unloaded. Pay attention, because I am going through this quickly.”
The air between the class and Priest grew thick with focused attention.
“Stock, trigger housing, fore-stock, barrel, rear sight, front sight.” He paused. “Contrary to what you may have seen in action movies and video games, the modern MSRG does not have a reloadable magazine — as I pray you figured out this morning. The weapon is loaded with sufficient ammunition prior to the mission.”
Yang moved behind the line of recruits to ensure everyone was paying attention.
“Prior to mission deployment, you will, under the supervision of your squad leader, remove the weapon housing like this. A predetermined amount of ammunition will be loaded into this cartridge. More likely, a preloaded cartridge will be given to you. So no need to reload. However, the MSRG will only fire for so long before it overheats. These two buttons must be depressed, thumb and forefinger, and held for a five count whenever this warning light appears.”
Foster raised his hand.
Priest signaled him to speak.
“Have you ever been on a mission requiring more ammunition than one magazine can hold?”
Priest’s face flushed red like Kevin had never seen.
“Yes,” Priest said. “Many times. That is part of being 343rd Marauder Recon.”
Wind pushed and stretched orange windsocks on the palisade.
“Connelly, Darsey, Edwards, Fairchild, Fees, and Foster — step up to the line and present arms for inspection.”
Kevin moved with no need to think. Three days of classroom instruction and simulator training seemed insufficient, but now paid off as targets were presented and faced with loaded weapons.
“Recruits on the line, aim center mass on the target in your lane. Recruits on the line, fire one round.”
Kevin watched the targeting reticle and listened to Priest.
All of the recruits struck the targets.
“This is easy!” Foster shouted.
The rest of 8970 watched him do push-ups as Yang lectured the platoon on the difference between range marksmanship and combat marksmanship.
A WEEK of school followed the introduction to the MSRG. Mornings were spent cleaning and calibrating weapons already cleaned and calibrated by the assistant rangemasters. Kevin dreaded the smell of the workshop classroom. After lunch, they learned mathematics from a civilian instructor for one hour, then cultural anthropology from another civilian born and raised on Grendel.
Then came armor theory and history, taught by a stocky man with a bad attitude named Major Greg Teams. For three hours, the man looked over their shoulders as they silently read tablets. The only thing he said during the first hour gave half the squad nightmares.
“You could get locked in and forgotten,” Major Teams had said.
There had been no explanation or warning or suggested remedy for this horrible fate. By the third day of silent instruction, three recruits were removed from 8970 and recycled to non-military service — or maybe the Starship Pilot Corps, depending on who was speculating the loudest.
By the second week, Kevin believed he could draw a schematic chart of combat armor from memory and build a MSRG from scratch.
“Armor is cool, but if I don’t get to use my MSRG in battle, I will be seriously annoyed,” Foster said. Pinch-blisters covered his fingers from working with the guns. He and the weapon fought like lovers each time he attempted assembly.
Kevin shook his head. Foster was growing on him, just like Chaf and Joii and even the DIs. “Just hit your first planet, pull the MSRG from your back, and pop of a few rounds for no reason. Get it out of your system,” Kevin said as they neared the front of the food line at the Weapons and Basic Tactics Facility cafeteria.
“Get it out of your system,” Joii said with a flirtatious flip in her voice that was new.
Kevin thought it might be for him. Lately, she was difficult to understand, causing him to realize the only female he really knew was his somewhat atypical teenage sister. He was still thinking of a response as food dropped onto his tray in oversized, under-shaped servings.
“Don’t eat too much,” Chaf said, ignoring his own advice as they gathered at a temporary table the military had decided years ago would be permanent to the cafeteria. “I heard the basic
tactics course starts with PT.”
Milarns, Priest, and Yang were waiting outside the cafeteria. Yang formed them into ranks and ordered them to stand at ease.
“Not at that much ease. What the hell is wrong with you, Foster?” Yang shouted. “No chit-chat. This isn’t a single’s bar. Recruit Joii, wipe that grin off your face or get ready to push right alongside Recruit Foster.”
Kevin resisted the urge to look. Moments later, Milarns walked down the ranks, giving instruction in his low, serious voice.
“I hope none of you ate too much. We are about to begin basic combat tactics, which requires squad level communication and movement. You may have realized by now that Training Platoon 8970 has been selected for the Starship Marine Corps rather than the army. Please take a moment to breathe a sigh of relief. I haven’t lost many to that decent-but-not-as-excellent-as-the-SMC organization.”
Kevin hung on every word. His grandfather, one of the few times Kevin saw him come home drunk, had lectured the infant twins on the importance of combat tactics, thinking no one was awake. Kevin had not understood it then and didn’t now, but thought the scene had been cathartic for Grandfather Brandon.
You’ve gotta shoot and move, little ones…just listen to an old man…don’t talk so much on the coms but tell me what’s what. Then move. Move and shoot. Keep your head down…
“Corporal Yang, please transport 8970 to the woods,” Milarns said.
“Sir!” Yang gave orders in his sharp, no nonsense tone and set a tough pace, probably to punish the recruits who had embarrassed him in front of Milarns and Priest.
By nightfall, Training Platoon 8970 had learned to form fire teams, squads, and in simple formations — without technology to assist in the process. They traveled longer distances in a staggered column, setting some kind of record for the number of ambushes they survived as Yang and Priest screamed, “Contact right! Get on line, get on line. Head down, eyes up. Get on line. Right flank, pivot, and direct enfilade fire on my command…”
In a large field, they moved in a wedge, then a Y formation, and back to staggered columns. Kevin, who dreamed of this moment his entire life and rehearsed it a hundred times in his imagination, ended the day frustrated and confused. Just as 8970 had started to look like soldiers, darkness turned them into blind idiots unable to appease the DIs.
They marched not to the WBTF for more classroom work the next day, but to a temporary base with tents needing set up. By the time he slipped into a sleeping bag and closed his eyes, he could barely remember what daytime looked like. He felt as though the night was lasting forever.
He slept, and for the first time in weeks, suffered nightmares that split his head with pain when he awoke.
16
The Courageous Roger
KEVIN wished there wasn’t so much freedom during this phase of basic. He didn’t want this much time to think about the twins… or other things.
Gone were the step-by-step orders and constant supervision of basic tasks. One of the history professors explained the progression of military training over the years. During the dawn of modern military armies, basic training had lasted two or three months, mostly indoctrination and physical conditioning. As weapons and warfare became complex, foundational skills required more time.
He hated the morning runs and calisthenics despite excelling at both. After the first night in the field learning unit movements, the nightmares came every night and grew worse. He didn’t remember what his dreaming eyes saw but understood the scenes of horror must be apocalyptic due to the pain they left behind his eyes when he awoke. Each morning, Yang selected a fast and a slow group, then led the fast group. The stern corporal ordered pushups and burpees to spice up the action, which was like stabbing a bayonet through Kevin’s brain.
Each morning he dripped sweat and tears on the exercise field as invisible aliens attacked his head. He focused on Ace and Amanda, swore he would find them and punish the entire Siren race for taking them from TB 595.
“Showers!” Yang shouted before they even stopped running back onto the general assembly area of BTF 029 from their cross-country odyssey that had them singing about SMC glory and dangerous professional romances on alien worlds.
Kevin showered with nothing but the shoulder-high wall between him and Joii. There were other girls on that side of the shower divider. Everyone laughed and teased and flirted and Kevin wondered what cruel god decided this was a good idea. He kept his body turned away from his peers to hide his erection. All of it was routine now. His thoughts about Joii and Ruby — whenever he saw her passing with 8972 — were confused. All he really knew was that if he didn’t hook up with one of them soon, he would explode, headaches and basic training be damned.
Denied the satisfaction of communal showers and sleeping quarters, he dried, dressed, and rushed outside, where Joii met him. There were always DIs watching even when they weren’t watching, so she brushed against him and he leaned back for a second. Foster and his girlfriends from other platoons called this the Basic Training Make-out Dance.
“We get two days of liberty between graduation from Basic and transport to Advanced Infantry Training,” Joii said as they hurried to the chow hall.
“What do you want to do with it?” Kevin asked.
“You’re an idiot!” She struck at his groin, missing as he twisted a leg to block the dangerous attack.
“Foster says there are rules about our first liberty, but most people head straight into town and shack up until the transport ships arrive. I haven’t spent any of my pay,” he said.
“Me neither. It’s a date, then.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I can’t believe we are about to graduate this place.”
“Kind of makes me sad,” Kevin said. “Feels like home.”
“You won’t be sad for two days afterward.”
Kevin laughed and wished they could get a room immediately.
After a generous, mostly unsupervised breakfast, Training Platoon 8970 assembled as Yang looked them over without comment. Training for the day was review; the physical conditioning was easy. Kevin felt stronger and more confident than even he expected as basic training neared completion.
The next day, Yang took them to a vehicle hangar where a platoon of military tailors directed them into groups. Things went well until Yang decided they had taken advantage of their increased freedom and responsibility to think for themselves.
“That is enough grab-ass, 8970. I swear to the almighty creator of this galaxy and the next or whatever god or non-god you believe in that if these uniforms don’t look parade perfect, I will recycle all of you back to the start of basic training!” Yang shouted.
Kevin stood straighter. His dress uniform lacked even a private’s stripe, but he loved it and wished his grandfather was here to see him.
Milarns assembled them, an event so unusual now it made Kevin uncomfortable. Corporal Yang had performed this duty hundreds of times and often led Training Platoon 8970 without direction from sergeants or lieutenants.
Lieutenant Roosevelt entered without a word, as usual, and inspected 8970. After what seemed like a year, she turned her hard face to Milarns and nodded.
He snapped a salute, then turned to the young men and women he had trained to fight for the UNA. Roosevelt left as deliberately as she had entered, nursing a mysterious injury that Foster always claimed was not an injury but a hangover. Kevin disagreed. He saw reflections of his nightmares in the eyes of the tyrannical officer.
“Today is a special day, for you and for Sergeant Yang,” Milarns said, ignoring the cheers that burst from 8970.
Yang strode to face Milarns and saluted. “Sir, Sergeant Yang reporting to take 8970 on one final run.”
“Denied, sergeant,” Milarns said with a smile.
Kevin and the others laughed.
Yang faced them and snapped to attention. “Attention! Officer on deck!”
Lacy, also recently promoted — not for the first time — to Se
cond Lieutenant, addressed the platoon. “Sergeant Yang has done such an exceptional job forming 8970 into respectable members of the SMC that I requested, and was granted, permission to command this unit during Advanced Infantry Training. Say goodbye to Master Sergeant, I mean Gunnery Sergeant Owen Milarns, and Sergeant Kyle Yang. You may see Gunnery Sergeant Robert Priest, PhD, soon. Don’t count on him getting promoted like the rest of us,” Lieutenant Lacy said.
Yang took over and perfected their marching formation. He made them practice for several laps around the general assembly area before heading to the parade ground with the other platoons.
“I told you,” Foster said behind Kevin as they marched.
“Told me what?”
“Priest is looking for Marauder prospects. He’s a talent scout and we made the cut. Why else would he be moving on to AIT with us?”
“Lieutenant Lacy was also a Marauder. I hate to say it, but Foster could be right,” Chaf said.
Normally, this was the part of their covert marching conversations where Joii chimed in and drew all of their attention. Tension radiated from her silence. Kevin glanced at her and thought she looked nervous.
“It’s just a graduation parade,” Kevin said.
“That isn’t what I am nervous about, Private Kevin C. Connelly,” Joii said.
“All right, 8970. Pay attention. No more of the secret chatter you think I don’t hear. This is a parade, possibly one of the most memorable days of your lives. Let’s do this right.”
The company SMC band played as training platoons marched onto the field. Families and other spectators cheered. The clouds parted to allow brilliant sunshine to strike banners, buckles, and insignia. The graduation ceremony proceeded in three distinct stages, Kevin thought: excitement and disbelief it was over, boredom and fear he would stand listening to speeches until he died without a combat ribbon, and cloud of hats exploding into the air.
Arthur Brandon Connelly was not among the family spectators.
Before he knew it, mobs of new privates were reuniting with friends and family from the stands. Not long after that, he and Joii were in town, in a hotel, and in bed.