Recruit

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  “Easy there, cowboy,” a familiar voice called out as Ryck struggled to get up.

  It wasn’t until the person who spoke moved forward that he realized who it was. T-Rex, put a hand on Ryck’s chest, calming him.

  “What . . . ?” Ryck stammered as it all came back to him—the mission, the fight, him being hit.

  He quickly looked over to his right arm, or at least to where his right arm should have been. Instead of an arm, the stubby chamber of the regen seeder was attached to his shoulder. A steady green light was the only sign that it was doing its job.

  He looked back to his left arm. Most of the arm was intact, but the hand itself was covered by a small regen chamber. To his surprise, he wasn’t horrified. He knew he was drugged—the chance for a successful regen was significantly increased when the immunosuppressants were employed. Still, he felt he should be more shocked instead of just mildly curious.

  “You OK, there?” T-Rex asked.

  “I . . . I guess so. Where are we? We on the Adelaide?”

  “Not hardly! We’re back on the Dirtball. Home sweet home. You’ve been out of it for two weeks, and they just let you wake up now,” T-Rex said, nodding towards the foot of the hospital bed where a nurse stood, watching Ryck closely.

  Ryck tried to organize his thoughts. Of course he would have been put into an induced coma. They’d been well-informed on what would happen if they had to go through regen. A coma during the initial stages of regen helped the process catch better and helped ensure a more complete outcome.

  “A couple of the guys came to see you wake up, but you took your own sweet time with it. They went to the

  geedunk and the head while you were napping,” he told them.

  “So what happened?”

  “With you?” T-Rex asked. “You took on that pirate, zeroed him, but he kind of got you, too. Doc Silvestrie came in, got you stabilized, and you were zip-locked back to the Adelaide even before the ship was secured.”

  “What about Wan? Is he OK?”

  Some of the spark left T-Rex’s eyes as he said, “Wan Man didn’t make it. Doc got him out before you, and he was put into stasis. He made it back here to the Dirtball, but he just couldn’t hang on.”

  Ryck looked up at T-Rex uncomprehendingly. People just didn’t die if they made it to stasis. “Stasis” wasn’t really an actual suspension of the body, but it came pretty close. Fluids were pumped into the circulatory system, and the body was cooled, taking it down to a bare minimum of metabolic activity. If a wounded person made it that far, then he could almost always be saved once he reached a full-service medical facility. The Dirtball, as home to both a Navy fleet and a Marine division, had one of the best.

  “The Wan Man fought, but the docs, they just couldn’t save him,” T-Rex said.

  Ryck needed to change the subject until he was able to digest that, so he asked about the mission itself. T-Rex gave the nurse a pointed stare. The nurse checked Ryck’s vitals, then took the hint and left. Technically, the nurse was Navy, but he almost assuredly did not have a clearance for tactical operations.

  “We took back the ship,” T-Rex started once the nurse was out of the room. “Two Marines KIA, Wan and SSgt Piers over in Second Platoon. Another 12 WIA, three others like you going through regen.”

  “The passengers?”

  “312 passengers and crew out of 375 rescued. Most OK. The dead, well . . . ” he began, stopping to look around to see if there was anyone within earshot before continuing. “Sgt Marc’s squad from Second, they might have taken out five or six passengers, from what I’ve heard. The pirates had them dressed in that shitty armor, and they got zeroed when Marc took that compartment. The pirates, they got dressed like the tourists, trying to blend in. There’s an investigation going on, and Marc’s ass is on the line.”

  “They tried to blend in, to get away? That doesn’t sound like SOG.”

  “No, it doesn’t. And that’s not all. Some of their combat armor, it was Alliance gear, new stuff. The scuttlebutt is that they weren’t SOG at all, even if that’s what’s on the news feeds.”

  “He’s awake! About fucking time,” Sams said as he came in with Hu, Sparta, Smitty, and another Marine Ryck didn’t recognize.

  “Eat me,” Ryck said automatically. “And who’s that?” he asked, pointing with his chin at the new Marine.

  “That’s our new boot. Private Hamburger. Came in to take your place while you fuck off,” Sams replied.

  “I keep telling you, it’s Helmesburgen, not Hamburger,” the private objected.

  “Shut up, boot!” the other Marines said in unison.

  “You OK?” Cpl Pallas asked.

  “Hungry as shit. You got anything there?” Ryck asked, looking at the burger Hu was munching.

  “Yeah, don’t I know it. I thought I would die of starvation when I regened my foot, but you got to eat their puke-slop to make your arm grown nice and strong. Just be glad you’re not Lieutenant Badalato. He lost all his guts, everything from the belly button down Cut in frigging half. When they let him wake up, it’s IVs in the arm for at least a year before his new stomach can take real food.”

  “You’re quite the talk of the town, you know,” Sams said. “Burning pirate ass with a toad. That’s some freakin’ shit. Most copacetic!”

  “Well, he burned out his neck, at least,” Hu corrected.

  “No, I was there, and I saw the body. Sams has it right. Burned his ass. The armor that bad boy was wearing kept his stinking corpse upright enough for the toad to burn all the way down to his ass, then out the armor again. Unbelievable!” the fire team leader said.

  “How did you decide to use the toad?” Hamburger asked.

  “Shut up, boot!” the others chorused again.

  “That was pretty bitchin’. No fucking arm, and you decide to play catch with him,” Sams said.

  “You didn’t do too bad yourself, PFC Samuelson,” Sparta said.

  “PFC? You just got busted down to private.” Ryck said.

  “Ah, no big deal,” he said before Hu cut in.

  “Our esteemed dickwad here led the charge into the galley just at the pirates started to execute the captives. He took out two of them with his M77, then tackled the third, I mean bam!” Hu said, getting excited. “He’s going all psycho on the guy. And this guy, he’s got some of that new Alliance combat armor, but he can’t do nothing, ‘cause this beserker’s all over him. Sams here, he saved a bunch of the passengers, and the captain, when he comes in and we show him the vid, he promotes him on the spot. Takes away his brig time, too.”

  “No shit?” asked Ryck in wonderment.

  “It wasn’t quite like that,” Sams protested.

  “I’ll show you the vid next time I come,” Hu said.

  “OK, OK. We’ve got to get going. Someone will come back to check on you after evening chow, but you need anything now?” Sparta asked Ryck.

  “Uh, yeah, but this is sorta weird. I can’t move my arms now, and my nose is really getting to me. It’s itching up pretty good. Could one of you, you know, give it a scratch?”

  The other Marines broke out laughing, but the corporal moved forward, reaching up to gently scratch Ryck’s nose.

  “None of you’ve been through regen, so you don’t know what it’s like,” he said.

  “Just make sure that’s all you do, there, corporal. Ryck never got to get that ho in Vegas, and it’s been a long time, so don’t you go getting any ideas on getting him off, what with his hands out of action like that,” Sams shouted.

  “Oh, man, he can’t even jack off!” Hu joined in. “I bet that nurse out there, he’ll do it for you, Ryck, so don’t you worry. I’ll go ask him now, to make sure he takes good care of you!”

  That brought out howls of laughter, even Ryck joining in. He hadn’t yet really thought about life without his arms for a good amount of time, but leave it to Marines to bring it up, and bring it down in the gutter.

  “Something funny in here?” a voice broke thro
ugh the din.

  “Attention on deck” Hu shouted as the battalion commanding officer and sergeant major stepped into the room.

  Despite himself, Ryck struggled to get up.

  “At ease,” the colonel said as he walked up to Ryck before turning around to face the others. “Sergeant Major, I think these men want that nurse out there to come in. Did we hear that right?” he asked the Marines.

  There was a heavy silence as the men seemed afraid to catch anyone else’s eyes.

  The sergeant major glowered at them for a moment before breaking out in a laugh.

  “Sorry, sir, I couldn’t hold it in any longer. You had them shitting in their pants,” he said to the CO.

  “Just Marines looking out for each other, as it should be, Sergeant Major, as it should be. PFC Samuelson, though, seems to have a thing with the ladies, so maybe he could do better than that fat nurse out there.”

  There was more dead silence, and Sams snuck a look at Sparta.

  “The colonel told a joke, men. Laugh!” the sergeant major said.

  There was a ragged volley of forced laughter.

  That elicited a hearty laugh from the colonel himself.

  “OK, sergeant major, you’ve had your fun, so enough yanking on their chains. We’re here to check on Lysander, after all,” he said, turning back towards Ryck. “You’ve just been brought out of your coma, right? Still a bit murky, I bet, and you’re probably starving.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ryck answered.

  “I’ve been through it myself, three times, so I know what it’s like.”

  Everyone knew the colonel’s history. He was a mustang, up from the ranks, from private to first sergeant, then to lieutenant and on up to lieutenant colonel. He wore the Navy Cross, the second highest award for valor. Earning that medal had cost him both arms and legs as well as a good portion of his torso. That the Navy docs had saved his life was something of a miracle, and he had spent a full two years in regen and therapy, so yes, Ryck was well aware that the colonel “knew what it was like.”

  “You’ll get fed after we leave, but it won’t be good. These Navy docs must think that decent taste ruins the process. Before that starts, though, the sergeant major has something for you.

  “Sergeant Major, if you will, and let’s bring in these reprobates here, too.”

  The sergeant major pulled a stack of paper cups from his cargo pocket and passed them around to the Marines. He took a tube from under his sleeve and poured something out of it into each cup. He gave another to the colonel and took one for himself before moving to Ryck and offering him the end of the tube. Just before Ryck put it in his mouth, he pulled it back a fraction of a centimeter and waited.

  “Gentlemen, needless to say, this does not go beyond this room.

  “Lift your glasses for a toast. To Private First Class Ryck Lysander, Audaces Fortuna Iuvat.”

  “Here, here!” they all chorused as the sergeant major slid the tube into Ryck’s mouth.

  Ryck took a long swallow, the cold beer feeling wonderful as it slid past his tongue and down his throat. Alcohol was explicitly prohibited throughout the regen process, but if the colonel, with all his regen, thought it was OK, Ryck was not going to argue.

  The colonel leaned forward and quietly said, “You’re going to be OK, Ryck. Semper fi.”

  And Ryck knew it was true. He was going to be OK.

  Chapter 21

  Ryck sat at the test bench, watching the results on the PI-530. He didn’t really need to be there. The process was automated. Once the test was initiated, each PICS was pulled out of its locker, trundled over to the bench, and subjected to the tiny pulses the 530 threw at it.

  The PICS was high tech. It might be over 50-year-old tech, but high nonetheless. And that required constant maintenance. The 530 was just one of the tools in the armorer’s box to keep the PICS in top working condition. This piece of test equipment sent tiny pulses into the skin of the PICS, testing the kickbacks. Each kickback had to react within 10,000th of a second, firing back at the incoming projectile or pulse. Coupled with the integrity of the LTC array armor itself, the kickbacks helped the PICS to withstand 20mm cannon fire or 6mm hypervelocity rounds. They only helped marginally to pulse weapon strikes, but the PICS had other defenses for those.

  The PICS being tested belonged to Corporal Timothy Brown in Golf Company. Golf was the “heavy” company in the battalion, with each Marine and corpsman having a suit. Ryck had been in Fox, where only one squad would be suited up if the mission required it. Ryck had seen Brownie out and about, but other than one group conversation on the NFL, he never really had any contact with him.

  Ryck had been transferred to H & S, to the Rehab Platoon (the “Sick, Lame, and Lazy Platoon”) once he had gotten out of the hospital, and while he still hung out with the guys, he did not train or work with them. Fox had been out on a routine show-the-flag mission to Barrow to help celebrate their Landing Day, so for the last two weeks, he hadn’t even had them around. He knew they had returned the night before, but no one had stopped by. It was great when he was around them, but with new guys coming in, and with him on his eighth month since being wounded, he felt like he was being forgotten

  The green light flashed, and the numbers popped on the screen. Brownie’s suit was at 98.7%, good enough for government work. Ryck reached out with his left hand and hit the approve button. Brownie’s suit was trundled back to its locker and another was taken out. Ryck knew he really wasn’t necessary in the test. The lab was fully capable of automatically rejecting or accepting test results. This was make-work. This was a result of the psych docs who insisted that all servicemen and women in regen be given work as soon as it was feasible. It was supposed to make them feel needed. On one hand, Ryck thought that was so much BS. No one doubted that Ryck was hurt. His right arm, now three-quarters grown, was proof of that. But still, the “Sick, Lame, and Lazy” label didn’t make him feel very good, nor the “gen hens” nickname, even if those undergoing regen used that term among themselves. On the other hand, he could have done worse. Some of the other gen hens were pushing papers, monitoring chow, or other thrilling, exciting jobs. At least Ryck was still peripherally associated with combat, and both CWO2 Slyth, the Fox Company armorer and CWO4 Heng, the battalion armorer, had taken him under their wings, teaching him quite a bit about not only the PICS suits, but also all the battalion’s weapons. Ryck was still infantry through-and-through, but the weapons were pretty brills.

  It also helped that CWO4 Heng had a prosthetic hand. It had only been his second regen, and it had gone well at first, but the regen had failed at the wrist. Hands were more difficult than arms, for reasons beyond Ryck’s understanding, but still, a partial regen was rare. Heng had petitioned to remain a Marine, and it was granted. His prosthetic was pretty amazing, but still, the Corps rarely approved such requests, and only when the petitioner had a mission that he could accomplish. Of course, CWO4 Heng’s four, yes, four Platinum Stars, might have helped in that.

  With Heng on his mind, Ryck looked at the regen sleeve on his right arm. This was his fourth sleeve. As his arm grew longer, he went up a size. This one looked to end right about where his wrist would be. He wondered if he would have problems with the hand just as Heng had. He was scheduled for a full scan in two days. Maybe the docs would tell him something then.

  Actually, his regen had progressed unremarkably. Sure, he had phantom pain and itching with his missing arm, but not to any great extent. His left fingers, though, had been another story. The itch had driven him crazy. With the regen process, the nerves re-knitting caused prickling for most people, and nothing could be done to stop the cause of the itching. Only treating the symptoms could be done, and with only varying degree of effectiveness.

  His regen for his left fingers was technically completed, but he wore a special glove to protect the tips. It was skin tight, so it didn’t get in the way of his using the hand. Being one-handed sure beat being no-handed.

  “Happy b
irthday, Marine,” CWO4 Heng said, sticking his head in the test lab.

  “Happy birthday to you, too,” Ryck said.

  “You know, the pageant starts in about 20, and the armory is officially off duty now. You coming?” the Heng asked.

  “Uh, yeah, sure. I just wanted to get some things finished up here,” Ryck said.

  In all truth, Ryck hadn’t planned to watch the pageant. He couldn’t get out of the mess night that was scheduled for the evening, but he figured he could skip the pageant without anyone noticing. He wasn’t in the mood to watch the units march in review. While he was holed up in the hospital, Fox and Echo had conducted yet another live op, the takedown of the so-called “Kingdom of Morvania.” That was three live ops since Ryck had come aboard, which was pretty amazing for a “peacetime” Corps. Joshua, who had gone to the supposedly premier First Marine Division, had yet to go into harm’s way. While Joshua was jealous of Ryck’s experiences, Ryck had only been on two of Fox’s ops. He’d been lying flat on his back in his hospital bed when the company had answered the call to battle.

  CWO4 Heng was waiting, though, so Ryck stopped the 530 and powered it down. Together, they walked down the passage and logged out.

  “Happy birthday, Marines,” the sailor manning Post 4 said as they came up. Post 4 was manned around the clock, but for the Marine birthday, the sailors at the Naval Air detachment usually took over some of the vital posts to let the Marines enjoy the celebration.

  The gunners mate who had taken the post was huge, muscles upon muscles. His obsidian skin was in stark contrast to his Navy whites, and his smile notwithstanding, Ryck got the feeling that he could take on a Marine in a PICS even in just his skivvies. He had no doubt that the armory was in good hands.

  The two Marines made their way through the various support buildings, past the regimental headquarters, and out to the parade deck. They skirted the brass, Navy and Marine, the Legion reps, and all the civilian bigwigs in the center section of the bleachers and made their way to the far right to join the other peons. In front of them, the entire regiment and attachments were waiting in formation.