by Tripp Ellis
They hustled into the contraband room and turned over all of their possessions. From there they were ushered into a room with a bank of communication terminals. They were allowed to send a scripted video message home, letting loved ones know they arrived safely and would be in contact soon. They were then issued military clothing and toiletries. Then they were shuffled off to the barber.
“Just take a little off the top," Matt said as he sat in the chair.
The automated barber bot didn't seem to have a sense of humor. It's robotic arms trimmed Matt’s hair with a few quick strokes. Tufts of hair floated to the ground and were quickly vacuumed up. Matt's head was smooth and shiny.
He rubbed his head as he stood up out of the chair. Zack took a seat after him and met with the same fate.
From there, they went to medical, underwent more tests, received more shots and vaccinations, filled out paperwork, and then moved on to receive their M7 plasma rifle.
It was the finest small arms weapon the United Planetary Defense Force had to offer. Light, durable, and perfectly balanced. It had multiple power settings, and operated in single shot, three shot burst, and full auto mode. At full power you could put a hole through a concrete wall, or incinerate the entire thoracic cavity of a human, or similar bipedal alien. Each charge magazine was good for 500 rounds. And when all else failed, the weapon could be set to overload, making it an effective anti-personnel weapon. The receiver would explode sending blistering hot shards of shrapnel spraying in all directions. Occasionally, a recruit would try to get out of the Marine Corps by shooting himself in the foot. But there wouldn't be much left below the ankle. There was one incident where a disturbed recruit set his plasma weapon to overload within the barracks. The blast killed 27 recruits, and wounded 32 others. Ever since then, the recruits underwent multiple psychological evaluations during training. But there was always the possibility that someone unstable might slip through the cracks.
For the next three months, and the rest of their military career, these recruits would be inseparable from their weapon. They would work, eat, and sleep with it. A Marine without his weapon wasn't the most effective killer. And without a doubt, making killers is what the Marine Corps did best.
As they crawled into their racks and prepared for lights out, the recruits recited the rifleman's creed. “This is my plasma rifle. There are many like it, but this one is mine. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life. Without me, my rifle is useless. Without my rifle, I am useless…”
The chorus of voices echoed throughout the squad bay as they chanted the creed. It was an ominous mono-voice that would certainly strike fear into the heart of any enemy who heard it. Perhaps they should broadcast it into space for the Tarvaax to hear—they might turn around and leave, Zack thought.
24
"Is that all you got?" Sergeant Stone shouted.
Zack's biceps burned and his lats ached. It felt like his shoulders were going to rip out of their sockets.
“One more, you worthless piece of dog dung.” Sergeant Stone tried his best to avoid the use of profanity. He tried to be creative with his use of words, sometimes to humorous effect. But old habits die hard, and foul language slipped out every now and then.
Some inane bureaucratic regulation had come through prohibiting the use of certain words by drill instructors during recruit training. It seemed ridiculous that some senator somewhere was concerned about recruits being exposed to harsh language, yet had no compunction about sending these young men and women off to fight and die. They were just words, after all. A collection of letters. But the new regulations didn't hinder the drill instructors from demeaning and demoralizing the new recruits to the best of their abilities. That was the point of First Phase— break down the recruits, strip them of their civilian habits and ways of thinking, and build them back up again the Marine Corps Way.
Zack struggled to get one more pull up, but he had no strength left in his body. He dropped to the ground after 11. It was more than most recruits.
“You’re weak, Salvator. Work on it."
The pull-ups were part of the Initial Fitness Test. The recruits had to run 3 miles in less than 25 minutes, do three pull-ups, and 50 sit ups within two minutes. If they couldn't pass the IFT, they were in jeopardy of being rolled back to a conditioning platoon.
Matt didn't fare well on the pull-up bar. The added weight he was carrying wasn't helping. He struggled to get a single pull up.
“That's it, Private Carver. Just hang there long enough and the bar will come down to you. I've seen turds with more motivation than you. From now on, you’re Private Pork Chop. Do you like that name?"
“No, sir." He could barely get the words out. Matt's face strained as he pulled with all his might. His face was red, and he grunted and groaned.
"Come on, Pork Chop. One more!”
Matt tried, but he couldn’t lift himself any higher. He finally let go and dropped to the ground.
Stone snarled at him. "You disgust me. You ought to be the poster child for birth control. Get out of here!”
Isaac stepped up to the bar.
Stone's eyes went wide. "Holy dick snot! Can you even reach the pull-up bar?”
“Yes, sir." Isaac leapt up and grasped the worn metal pipe. He proceeded to knock out six pull-ups.
"Impressive. I've never seen an abortion do a pull-up before. Give me one more!"
Isaac's face was twisted up, and the veins in his neck looked like they were going to rupture. He barely inched his chin over the bar one more time, then dropped to the ground.
“Not bad, Half-pint.”
From there it was on to the sit ups and then the run. Afterward, the recruits lined up in formation and prepared to receive their evaluation.
Stone marched up and down the line, looking more than a little displeased. "I have never seen a more pathetic bunch of individuals in my entire life. If you are the future of the Marine Corps, we should just surrender right now.”
The recruits stood at attention, still gasping for breath.
“Carver, Fenton, Lewis, Sanchez, Burns… Congratulations. You made the doughnut brigade. Report to the physical conditioning platoon ASAP."
Nobody moved.
"What are you waiting for? Get your fat asses out of here."
Matt glanced at Zack and shrugged, then fell out of line with the other recruits.
“Double-time! Move! Move! Move!"
Matt would stay in the physical conditioning platoon until he could pass the IFT. Then he would class up with another platoon to complete training.
“For the rest of you rejects, welcome to Hotel company, Echo platoon. Everything is based on the success of the team. There are no individuals here. You will not refer to yourself in the first person. From here on out you will refer to yourself as this recruit. Is that understood?"
“Yes, sir.”
"There will be many challenges here that you cannot face alone. You will have to learn teamwork. If the team succeeds, you succeed. If one of you fails, the team fails. If one of you screws up, you will all be punished. Is that understood?"
“Yes, sir.”
“Right now you're all a bunch of pathetic meatballs. But if you survive my training, you will be made of steel. You'll become the toughest fighting force in the galaxy. You’ll be born again killers.”
“Yes, sir.”
There were a few recruits already regretting their decision to join the Space Corps.
“Sergeant Stone, I want to DOR,” Perkins said.
Stone rocketed to him. He was so close, the brim of his cover bounced against Perkins’s forehead as the sergeant yelled. “I don't think I heard you correctly. What did you say?”
“I want to DOR, sir. This recruit doesn’t think he’s cut out for this."
“You pathetic dirt bag. You can't quit. The Federation owns your ass. Hell, we haven't even gotten to the hard part yet.
“That’s what this recruit is afraid of, sir.”
&nb
sp; “Well, I would hate for you to be afraid of anything. God forbid a Marine should have to face his fears.” His angry voice was dripping with sarcasm and mock compassion. "Do you really want to get off my base, Private?"
“Yes, sir."
“There are two ways off of my base. Death, or graduation. Which one is it going to be, Private?”
Perkins said nothing, his eyes wide with fear.
Sergeant Stone unholstered his sidearm and placed it against the private’s temple. The barrel dug into his flesh. Perkins trembled with fear.
“Which one is it going to be?” Stone's eyes blazed into the nervous private."
25
Drill instructors weren't allowed to physically harm students, much less shoot them. At least, that was the official policy. Sergeant Stone seemed to be making up his own rules. Perkins wasn't about to push his luck and find out.
Perkins finally stammered, "I'll graduate, sir."
"Outstanding. You're smarter than you look. I'm going to be watching you." Stone's bulging eyes were inches from Perkins’s face. He stared him down for a long moment, then stepped back and addressed the rest of the platoon. "I am here to give you the tools and the motivation to become Marines. Quitting is not an option. Failure is not an option. You can't quit on the battlefield. Do you understand?"
“Yes, sir," the recruits responded in unison.
“Is there anyone else here that doubts their ability to complete recruit training? I'll be happy to find ways to motivate you."
The piercing sound of an air horn filled the squad bay. It felt like an ice pick stabbing through Zack's eardrums. He dismounted his rack and stood at attention in front of his footlocker.
The drill instructors swarmed the squad bay like angry hornets. The recruits counted off to make sure everyone was accounted for. Then they scrambled to get dressed.
“Port side, get in the head,” Stone yelled.
The port side of the squad bay rushed to the restroom for morning hygiene, while the starboard side made their racks.
This was how every morning began.
The recruits were from all across the Federation. Fitzpatrick was a short stocky guy from Beta Epsilon 7. Always quick with the joke. Garner was a country boy from Arcturus Minor. His main focus was beer, girls, and single engine Skyhawk racing. Milby was a nice guy, but dumber than a stump. Griffin was the strongest athlete in the platoon. He was gung-ho all the way and just loved this shit. He had all the general orders memorized before he even showed up in boot camp. Clark was a skinny, geeky kid who knew more about theoretical physics than most university professors. Why he enlisted in the Marine Corps was anyone's guess. He should've been off at college, or on the officer track, at least. Rick Reed just wanted to kill something. Anything. It didn't really matter. He was just one of those guys looking for a legal way to inflict pain-and-suffering on others. Darrell Vaughn was an obnoxious dick. He was 6’3”, 250 pounds, and built of solid muscle. He had excelled at athletics in high school, and the Marine Corps was just another way for him to prove his toughness. But he wasn't a team player. He was used to doing the hazing, and having to take the abuse from the drill instructors wasn't sitting well with him at all. Cooper Sims was, perhaps, the most unusual recruit. He was a pacifist. He joined the Marine Corps for the enlistment bonus and the college money. He had the unusual belief that he might be able to make the war less violent.
First Phase lasted four weeks, during which the recruits learned the fundamentals of military life. There was a lot of classroom time with the recruits learning the history of the Space Corps and the culture of the Marines. They learned ranks, customs, courtesies, and the 11 General Orders. They learned how to make their racks and wear their uniforms in regulation.
Close order drill taught the recruits timing, precision, and attention to detail. It brought the recruits in synchronization with one another, training them to work as a cohesive unit.
By the end of the third week, Zack was able to disassemble and reassemble his M7 plasma rifle in under two minutes. There had been several issues with the M6s. They were supposedly self-cleaning, which wasn't true—they were initially issued without cleaning kits. It led to all kinds of problems in the field. There were also issues with corrosion and jamming. Most of those complaints had been worked out with the M7, which typically only failed in 1 of 6000 firings.
Marines needed to be effective killers, with or without plasma rifles. The Space Corps Martial Arts Program ensured that. The recruits were taught the Basic Warrior Stance, from which all maneuvers were executed—hands in the air guarding their face, bent knees with a low center of gravity, and a short solid base. They were taught various punches and counters—hooks, uppercuts, jabs. They learned leg sweeps, eye gouges, hammer fist strikes, elbow strikes. Front kicks, round kicks, vertical knee strikes. They learned how to escape choke holds and bring their opponent off balance with a leg sweep. They mastered wrist locks and arm bar takedowns. They learned muzzle grabs, and how to counter them. Every maneuver was executed repeatedly, until it became ingrained in their muscle memory.
Not only did they learn how to attack and defend against other humanoid forms, an equal amount of their training was focused on non-human opponents. Defending against the muzzle grab from a six tentacled Proflaxian was a much different maneuver. Escaping a chokehold from a four armed Velusaan required precision and strength.
The ominous chants of kill, kill, kill were repeated over and over again throughout the maneuvers. The Marine recruits were taught to attack everything with urgency and force. It didn't matter if it was a training exercise, the obstacle course, or a meal in the chow hall. Attack breakfast. Kill it. And do it in the Marine Corps Way.
Their hand-to-hand combat skills were put to the test on a regular basis. The recruits were paired for fights by the drill instructors. Sometimes the bouts were woefully mismatched. But war wasn't fair, and neither was recruit training.
Zack squared off against Darrell Vaughn. Both of the recruits were wearing headgear, protective chest padding, and gloves. But the gear didn't keep you from feeling the punches. And when someone the size of Darrell Vaughan hit you, it left a mark—pads or not.
Zack assumed the basic warrior stance and kept light on his feet. The two circled around each other for a moment, sizing each other up. Darrell had a dangerous grin on his face. He just knew he was going to destroy Zack.
What the hell are you waiting for?” Stone shouted. "This isn't prom. Kill each other."
26
Darrell lurched forward, charging at Zack. He had explosive speed. He swung a hard right. His fist careened through the air.
This wasn't at all like fighting Dean Dully.
Dean was a lumbering oaf whose size was his only advantage. Darrell was an athlete. Fast, strong, and with a killer instinct. His fist pounded Zack square in the jaw. The impact lifted him off his feet and sent him crashing to the ground.
Darrell was on top of Zack within seconds, pummeling him into the ground.
“Kill him! Kill him!" Stone shouted.
Darrell’s eyes looked crazed, like a vicious, merciless predator. Fist after fist hammered down on Zack. Blood spewed from his lips and nose, despite the headgear.
Finally, Stone interrupted the beating. "All right, that's enough. Outstanding, Private Vaughn."
Darrell stood up and thrust his fists into the air in victory. He circled the makeshift arena as the recruits hooted and hollered.
Zack staggered to his feet. Pinpoints of light flashed before his eyes.
"Congratulations, Private Salvator. If that was a real battlefield, you'd be dead."
“Yes, sir,” Salvator slurred.
“Get to medical and get checked out. Then I want you back here for another fight."
“Yes, sir."
"Move, Private Salvator!"
He shuffled off to the medical facility, where a corpsman ran a brain scan, and put a regenerative compound on his split lip.
“You're al
l clear," the corpsman said, after reviewing the scan.
“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong with me?” Zack wasn't enthusiastic about the prospect of another beating.
The corpsman chuckled. "You're fine. Try not to get hit this time."
“Easy for you to say.” Zack hustled back to the martial arts facility and watched the rest of the bouts as the platoon worked through their initial matchups. The junior drill instructors were taking bets on some of the fights. It was against regulations, but no one was going to report them.
Stone created another matchup for Zack, and he soon found himself in the ring again. This time he was squaring off against Isaac. He hated to fight his friend, but he didn't have a choice.
“Maybe you can actually get a punch in this time, Salvator," Stone shouted.
The crowd of recruits laughed.
“Attack!" Stone yelled.
The two assumed the basic warrior stance and circled each other for a moment, then Zack advanced a few steps. Zack decided he was going to let Isaac win. But he needed to put on a good show. He led with a few jabs, then snapped a right that cracked Isaac across the bridge of his nose. Isaac took a quick step back, and Zack advanced again.
Isaac countered with his right hand. He put his body into it and swung with everything he had.
Zack stepped aside as Isaac’s fist rushed past his face. Zack slammed the palm of his left hand into the back of Isaac's right elbow as he completed his swing. The inertia carried Isaac’s center of gravity forward. Zack planted a swift knee strike in Isaac's belly, then finished with an elbow to the back of his head.
Isaac crashed to the ground. It happened in a flash, before Zack even had a chance to think about what he was doing. Muscle memory and training took over. He didn't mean to put Isaac on the ground so quickly.