Theirs Not To Reason Why: A Soldier's Duty

by Jean Johnson

  The first three days would be “easy” ones, filled with orientation and instruction on how to do things the military way, from folding and storing clothes in their kitbags to performing their daily calisthenics correctly. After that, their schedule would be crowded with lessons on everything from parade maneuvers to mechsuit drills, vehicular operations to orbital mechanics. That last one was mandatory—they were entering the Space Force, and they would be expected to know how to handle themselves in the airless, weightless void awaiting them.

  Filing out of the air-conditioned ground bus, Ia followed the others into the processing center. She ended up in the middle of her line and waited patiently while the three recruits ahead of her were scanned, prompted into reciting the long-winded passages of the Oath of Service, issued their new units, and directed forward. She waited patiently, but nervously. Not because she regretted her decision to join—regret wasn’t even an issue—but because this was her final moment of civilian freedom.

  Listening to the others stumble their way through their vows felt like she was listening to the clank and snick of manacles being locked in place. When it was finally her turn, Ia lifted her chin and stepped forward, placing herself in the chains of military life of her own free will. For the Future, I will do whatever I have to do. For nothing else, and for nothing less.

  Sticking her left arm in the slot, she waited while the beams swept over her body, measuring her through her clothes and probing her tissues for signs of pregnancy, drug dependency, and other potential complications.

  The machine beeped, and the same pleasant neutral-female voice that had addressed the other recruits addressed her. “Please state your name, Alliance identification number, and planet of origin.”

  “Ia. Ident # 96-03-0004-0092-0076-0002. Sanctuary.”

  The machine clicked and beeped for a moment. “. . . This Processing Booth registers a Charter clause for the citizens of the Independent Colonyworld Sanctuary to join the Terran United Planets Space Force through the swearing of the Oath of Service to the Terran Space Force. Are you, Ia, 96-03-0004-0092-0076-0002 of Sanctuary, aware of this Charter clause?”

  “I am,” she agreed.

  “Are you aware it requires foreswearing and foregoing all citizenship of, ties of loyalty to, and benefits from your planet of origin and/or the V’Dan Empire during the full duration of your sworn Service within the Terran United Planets Space Force?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “I am.”

  “Duly noted.” The sensors swept down over her body again. “Are you under the influence of drugs, alcohol, or any medication which may affect your mental capacities?”

  “No, I am not.”

  “Are you under the orders or influence of a non-Terran government or other organization whose intent is to have you infiltrate the Terran United Planets Space Force and/or its supported government for the purposes of surveillance, subversion, sedition, or sabotage?”

  “No, I am not.”

  “Please state your location and situation for the record.”

  “I am standing in a processing booth in building A-101 of the training facilities at Camp Nallibong, TUPSF-Marine Corps, for the purpose of foreswearing my ties to my homeworld of Sanctuary and taking up the Oath of Service as a Terran United Planets Space Force soldier, for as long as I am retained as a soldier in said Terran Space Force.”

  “Duly noted.” The machine hummed again. “Please remove your civilian identity unit and place it in the tray which will appear below the scanner slot, then return your arm to the scanner slot and prepare to take your Oath of Service. Your personal information on your civilian unit will be transferred to your military one while you take your Oath. Be advised that your wrist unit may be monitored for inappropriate materials and adjusted accordingly.”

  Ia removed her arm, pressed her thumb to the seals to release them, and unclasped the plain, scuffed, grey plexi unit. She didn’t hesitate to drop the colony-issued unit in the slot, which opened and extended to receive it. Placing her hand back in the slot, she spread her fingers over the sensor pad.

  “It is now time to take your Oath of Service. Repeat after me,” the neutral-female voice instructed. “‘I, Ia, ident number—’”

  “—I, Ia, ident # 96-03-0004-0092-0076-0002,” she began without waiting for the rest of her prompts, “being of legal age, sound mind, and doing so of my own free will, being free from the influence of drugs, alcohol, or foreign direction, without coercion, promise, or inducement of any kind, and having been duly warned and apprised of the consequences of my Oath . . . and foreswearing all ties to my previous citizenship and the government or government-in-potential available to my planet of origin for the full duration of my terms of Service,” Ia added, pausing only long enough to breathe between each memorized phrase, “do hereby solemnly swear to serve the Terran United Space Force for a term of not less than three years as contracted, and for longer should there arise legal authorized need, as a soldier and loyal citizen of the Terran United Planets, its sanctioned Space Force, and Branches.

  “I solemnly swear to uphold and defend the Charter Constitution of the Terran United Planets against its enemies, within or without the boundaries of the Second Human Empire,” she continued as the machine patiently recorded her words, “to uphold, protect, and defend the Chartered rights, privileges, and liberties of its citizens and other lawful residents of the Terran United Planets, its provinces, prefectures, colonies, and protectorates.

  “I promise to perform, within or without said boundaries, such duties of lawful nature as may be assigned to me by any lawfully direct or lawfully delegated authority, to obey all lawful orders of the Premiere of the Terran United Planets Council as my Commander-in-Chief of the Terran United Planets Space Force, and of all officers or lawfully delegated persons placed in authority over me through the chain of command, and to require such obedience from all members lawfully placed by said chain of command or otherwise delegated under me regarding my lawfully assigned orders.

  “In swearing these Oaths of Service,” Ia stated, meeting the gaze of Sergeant Tae as he strolled into her field of view on the far side of the archway, “I agree to abide by the laws of the Terran United Planets, its Space Force, and Branches unto my honorable discharge, understanding that with said honorable discharge I will retain all retired or reservist ranks, honors, privileges, duties, and obligations of a sworn and retired or reservist soldier, unless I am stripped of such ranks, honors, privileges, duties, and obligations by a verdict proven, sustained, and sealed by a court of my sovereign military superiors and peers. I further consent of my own free will to abide by and endure the rules of corporal discipline as set down by the regulations of the Terran United Planets Space Force, should I fail to abide by said laws, rules, and regulations.

  “These Oaths I do solemnly swear this sixth day of March, in the year 2490 Terran Standard . . . so help the Future,” she finally finished.

  Then breathed deeply at the end of it, relieved she hadn’t missed a single word of the awful, long-winded oath taking, which she had practiced over and over, back home. There. It is done. I am now legally bound to this path by all these vows and codicils . . . even if I’ll end up breaking almost half of them just to get the job done.

  “. . . Duly noted and recorded. Please take the military-issued ident unit from its receptacle and secure it to your left forearm. Once it has been secured, follow the brown line to the dispensary booths to receive your standard-issue gear. Once you have received your gear, follow the blue line to the changing room and await further instruction.”

  Nodding, she clasped the broad Marines-brown bracelet to her forearm and stepped out of the archway. Sergeant Tae was still there, his hands braced on his brown-camouflaged hips while he studied her from head to toe.

  “You have the whole Oath of Service memorized, Recruit?” he asked her.

  “Sergeant, yes, Sergeant.” She didn’t elaborate, hoping he wouldn’t press.

  He did, f
alling into step beside her as she followed the brown line painted on the plexcrete floor. “Why would you memorize it?”

  “Because it was a very long trip from Sanctuary, Sergeant.”

  “You did not use the correct mode of address, Recruit. Drop and give me ten!” he ordered.

  Ia winced, but did as commanded. “Sergeant, yes, Sergeant!” Lowering herself to the floor, she braced her palms at shoulder-width, straightened her legs, and started levering herself up and down. “One! Two! Three! . . .”

  It didn’t take long to make it to ten. Out of shape as she was, the light gravity of the Motherworld made the task easy. Finishing her task, she returned to her feet, squaring her shoulders and facing her Drill Instructor.

  “I repeat, why would you memorize the Oath of Service, Recruit?” Tae asked her again.

  “Sergeant, it was a very long and boring trip from Sanctuary to Earth,” Ia repeated, careful to use the prescribed third person formula for speaking now that she was an official recruit. “This recruit didn’t have anything better to do than study whatever she could of the Terran military, Sergeant.”

  That made him step up close and lift his face, once again threatening her nose and forehead with the stiff brim of his camouflage-patterned hat. “Do you think that a bit of reading while flying through space for a couple days will turn you into a soldier, Recruit?”

  “Sergeant, no, Sergeant!”

  “I will decide whether or not you can be turned into a real Marine. Not whatever you thought you learned from some history chip or an episode of Space Patrol. Is that clear, Recruit?” he demanded.

  “Sergeant, yes, Sergeant!”

  He flicked his hand, silently ordering her to continue to follow the brown-painted line toward the dispensary booths. Turning crisply, Ia complied. They were easy enough to find; the occupied booths were alcoves humming with light and action as the half-hidden machinery sorted out crinkling packages containing appropriate sizes of clothing from underwear to overcoats. Plexi-wrapped toothbrushes, razors, and body-wash packets spat into their vending trays. The one that her particular brown line led to was still occupied by the woman with the suitcase.

  Ia watched the woman struggle with the plexi packaging, grimacing at her kitbag, which she was stuffing items into in a timid, haphazard way. After a few moments, Ia gave up and tapped the lightworlder on her shoulder.

  “Need help?”

  Huffing out a breath which stirred her shoulder-length, honey blonde hair, the woman eyed her. “Like you know what you’re doing?”

  “I think I can help. I’m Ia,” she added.

  “Forenze—go ahead give it a shot. I’m not even sure why the MAT picked me for the Marines. I was hoping to get into the Navy,” the other woman added under her breath.

  “Here. Pack the heavy items on the bottom. Boots and so forth—you can put small stuff inside the boots to maximize storage, like socks. That stabilizes the bag so that it’s easy to lift and doesn’t tip over,” Ia told her, pointing at the items in question. “Then in the middle you fold and stow your clothing and accessories, particularly breakables like your vidframe. Toiletries go near the top, in the plexi-sealer bag there. We’ll be taught how to make neat rolls out of our clothes in the next few days and the exact places where things are supposed to go. Until then, do what you can and just expect to do a lot of pushups for getting it messed up. Remember, absolute essentials go on the very top, the stuff you’ll need to grab right away. Right now, we’re headed for the changing rooms, but in the future, the most essential item will be your hat.”

  She picked up the plexi-wrapped hat, eyeing it. “Why the hat?”

  “If we have to go outside, you’ll want to put it on your head to protect it against the sun. If it’s buried at the bottom of your kitbag, it’ll take too long to get to it. Don’t forget your sunglasses,” Ia added. “Those should go on top, too. Sewing kit should be down in the middle of the bag. Here are your patches. Those go on top, since you’ll need to find them to slap on your uniform as soon as we’re ready to get dressed.”

  The other woman reworked her bag, which looked something like a backpack without a couple of exterior pockets, but gave up after she still had several items left on the dispensary table. “It won’t fit!”

  “It will,” Ia reassured her. “One you get out of your civilian clothes, you’ll be wearing some of it. The rest will fit in your pack. Here, lace together this pair of boots and strap them to this handle at the top, then stuff a pair of socks inside, along with underpants . . . a bra . . . a T-shirt on each side . . . there. Now it’s a single bundle.”

  The other woman eyed her. “Where did you learn all of this?”

  “Survival training is an education requirement for all new, inhabitable colonyworlds. It includes camping skills, which in turn includes efficiency in packing.” Plus the dabbling of my toes in the timestreams, preparing myself for this day. They don’t expect children to pack with military-grade efficiency, back home. Fetching a half-forgotten packet of extra bootlaces from the dispensary, Ia tucked them into one of the boots. “Now you can carry everything. And now it’s my turn.”

  “Be my guest.” Stepping back, Forenze shouldered her pack with a grunt.

  Ia took her place in the alcove. Tapping the green reset button, Ia tucked her arm into the slot long enough for the machinery to read her profile, then started grabbing and unwrapping the packets almost as fast as the dispensary spat them out. Plexi wrappers went into the recycler, and boots went into the bottom of her bag, stuffed with quickly balled pairs of socks and spare bootlaces. Undergarments were fitted in around both pairs of boots, then shorts, T-shirts, trousers, shirts, and rain gear, each item neatly folded and rolled tight. As soon as she reached the changing room, she’d have to unpack everything to get out the required change of clothes and boots and then repack it all over again, but for now, everything got stuffed into the oversized knapsack.

  On top of everything else, she fitted her hat, stuffed with her sunglasses and her freshly stitched name and platoon patches. A moment later, she had the bag sealed shut, and swung the entire load onto her shoulder as easily as she would have swung a jacket. The next recruit behind them wasn’t even done reciting his Oath of Service.

  “How did you . . . ?”

  “One of the keys to rolling things into a tight, tiny package is to smooth out the garments several times in the folding and rolling stages,” Ia said, shrugging. “That presses out the air and makes the material that much more compressible. Come on. Let’s follow the blue line to the changing room.”

  The two of them were joined by the purple and black haired Kumanei and one of the other recruits, a tallish, dark-skinned male. Both of them juggled their gear awkwardly, not having packed all of it into their kitbags. The blue lines on the floor converged and swerved to the right, detouring in front of a dark-skinned woman in a camouflage brown uniform similar to Sergeant Tae’s.

  “I am Staff Sergeant Linley. I will be your Regimen Trainer while you are here at Camp Nallibong as members of Class 7157. That means I will be in charge of turning you soft, wet, civilian noodles into real Marines. You will enter the changing room here,” she stated crisply, flicking the thin baton in her hand at the doorway next to her, “scrub yourself from head to toe in a maximum ten-minute shower, and change into the clothes of your SF-MC uniform.

  “Today, you will wear all-brown undergarments, socks, boots, pants, T-shirt, broad-brimmed hat, and sunglasses. Do not don the mottled clothes of your camouflage uniform at this time. You will apply your name-patches to each shirt and jacket before repacking them in your kitbags; the flag patch of the Terran United Planets will go on your right shoulder, the patch for Camp Nallibong Class 7157 will go on your left shoulder, your name patch will go over your right chest pocket, and the TUPSF-Marines patch will go over your left chest pocket. If your shirt has no chest pocket, you will see the fuzz of the adhesion patches in the designated region anyway.

  “If you ha
ve any questions, refer to the Dress Charts on the walls of the changing room. Refer also to the lists of local dangers of flora and fauna; pay particular attention to the posters on avoiding pools and streams while outside, and the dangers of ‘salties,’ saltwater crocodiles, which can and will be found in fresh water even up here on the plateau. Further instructions will be given over the next three days on all the dangers to watch for locally, and the dangers you may encounter elsewhere in the known galaxy.

  “You will be expected to be ready to go twenty minutes after the last of the recruits in your training class has entered this room, and you may be quizzed at that time on the information on those charts. Be prepared and be packed. You’re in the Marines now, Recruits. We do not slack on the job!”

  Two more recruits approached. Sergeant Linley held up her palm, stopping them. She kept her gaze on Ia and the other three who had already been there for most of her spiel.

  “When you have changed, you will pack up all your nonallotted personal belongings in the transport boxes provided, located to the left as you enter the changing room, and label them with the address of their return destination. If you have any questions regarding what you are permitted to keep, you will refer to the charts posted on the walls regarding allotted goods. Anything nonregulation which is found left in your possession at the end of this day or which was incorrectly labeled for shipping will be sent to the recyclers, so make sure you send it where you want it to go in the next few minutes. Once you have showered and dressed, all regulation and allotted items will be packed in your kitbag. You four will now move inside.

  “You two will stay. I am Staff Sergeant Linley. I will be your Regimen Trainer while you are here at Camp Nallibong . . .”

  CHAPTER 3

  The first few days of any boot camp are always the toughest—not physically, since that actually happens a bit later—but emotionally and mentally. The recruits have to readjust their thinking, from “civilian” to “military.” From “whatever” and “whenever” to “obedience” and “discipline.” From “me” to “us.”