War's Edge- Dead Heroes

by Ryan W. Aslesen

  “Outstanding!” Burrmaster said to Abek, further boggling Rizer’s mind. Abek stood directly across the squad bay; Rizer noted that Burrmaster had given his weapon and gear only cursory glances. “You are chargin’ hard today. Maybe you got what it takes after all. One demerit. Pass.”

  This is so much bullshit. Praising shitbirds to dishearten the squared-away recruits who actually worked at becoming Marines, Rizer had seen them do it several times. It certainly fucked with the minds of the less-intelligent recruits.

  As if to hammer home the façade of a real inspection, Mack ripped into Belzer for several offenses, though Rizer knew her display was practically flawless. “I thought you gave a shit, Belzer, but you’re just another gray man. That’s five demerits and a fail!”

  Mack moved on to Smythe, a core worlder who bunked a couple of racks from Rizer. Though not a gray man, Smythe kept off the DIs’ radar most of the time by keeping prudently quiet. His fellow recruits had nicknamed him Shoulders, for he always looked over both before speaking to them. “Dirty butt stock. Otherwise not bad. One demerit, Alpha. Pass.”

  As she turned away, Alpha said, “Wait a second, staff sergeant.” Rizer risked turning his head slightly and wrenched his eyes far left in their sockets to see what Alpha had found. With two fingers, the bot picked at the shoulder seam on Smythe’s jumpsuit. “Irish pennant right here.” He kept pulling the loose thread, which grew longer and longer. The shoulder seam on Smythe’s jumpsuit began to unravel.

  “Hell, you could rappel off that, Alpha,” Mack said, moving in again. “Let me save you the trouble!” She dug her fingers into the unraveling seam and yanked downward, tearing the sleeve damn near off his arm. “And here I thought you might be salvageable, Smythe! This kind of nastiness is worth two more demerits. Fail! Hope your sewing is up to snuff, because your uniform will be inspected tomorrow!”

  “Oliver, I’m nailin’ you for unsat shave!” Burrmaster announced to the unfortunate recruit cursed with permanent five o’clock shadow. “You should just peel the skin off your nasty face, boy! Save yourself a shitload of trouble!”

  Mack stood before Stubs as he executed inspection arms, ending the movement at port arms. Rizer held his breath as she snatched his weapon and started quizzing him while poking a cotton swab into various dirt-harboring nooks on the rifle. He’d helped Stubs out all he could; even so, Stubs’ attention to detail remained suspect, and his skins were slightly out of place since the inspection started earlier than advertised.

  “Ma’am, the serial number of my weapon is K305-48926-37!” Stubs said.

  “I fucking hate your accent, Stubneski. You sound off like there’s a dick stuck in your nose! Now repeat your answer in a language that I can understand!”

  Stubs repeated himself three times before extracting the dick to Mack’s satisfaction. She handed the rifle back to Stubs, shoving it hard into his chest, who lowered it to order arms. She moved to his bunk display. “Skins out of place.” Rizer heard Mack pick up a couple of items, then drop them. “Decent gear. That’s one demerit for the skins. You pass. I’d give you another for your awful accent, but I can’t put that in my report.”

  And then she stood before Rizer. He executed inspection arms—a perfunctory movement to demonstrate the weapon wasn’t loaded—and ended at port arms. She ripped the rifle from his grasp as if disarming an enemy soldier and probed for dirt with a swab. “What’s the kilojoule impact of a standard plasma round?”

  “Ma’am, the impact of a standard plasma round is three hundred and twenty kilojoules!”

  After asking him five more questions—all involving weapons or Corps history, and more difficult than those she’d asked others—she said conversationally, “You’re another one, Rizer, a fucking spy sent down from Headquarters Marine Corps. Aren’t you?”

  “No, ma’am!”

  “Yeah, right. At least you’re better at hiding it than your nitwit guide.” He still had no idea what her spy comments meant. She handed him his weapon as if it were contaminated. While he brought it to order arms, she moved to his rack. She grunted ambiguously now and then as she studied items and then carelessly put them back.

  Meanwhile, Rizer watched his reflection in the dozens of black compound lenses through which Alpha viewed the world. He waited for Alpha to claim he was “eye-fucking” him, but the bot said nothing.

  Mack appeared again. She held up his comm helmet, shoved the visor in his face. “Two fingerprints on your visor, Recruit Rizer. These are precision optics, you moron. How the fuck are you supposed to see when you can’t keep your visor clean?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am!” I can see through it just fine.

  “That’s the smartest thing I’ve ever heard you say.” She tossed the helmet onto his rack. So much for precision optics. “One demerit. Pass!” She spat out the last word like a rotten piece of shellfish, then moved on to face Coltin.

  Hard charger or hopeless shitbag? It could go either way; Mack could ignore or invent any infraction she chose. She got hold of Coltin’s weapon. “Holy sheepshit!” Rizer almost made the mistake of smiling when she held up a cotton swab tinged dark brown. “This is the nastiest weapon in the entire platoon! Filthy receiver and trigger housing. Auto fail! And I’m not done yet!” She shoved the weapon back at him and moved to his rack. “Well look at that! About face, Coltin!” She held up his skins and shook them. “Look at the dent on this knee plate! You call that inspection ready?”

  “Ma’am, it happened yesterday so I didn’t have time—”

  “I don’t wanna hear it, pig! Too bad excuses don’t win wars, Coltin, or you’d be the fucking commandant by now!” She threw down the skins, then grabbed one of his jumpsuits and thrust it the collar into his face. “Improper stenciling. Can you read that, Alpha?”

  “Looks like a blob of shit, staff sergeant.”

  “Oh, then maybe he stenciled it right! How’s your visor looking today, Coltin?” She picked up the helmet and let the window light shine through the face shield. “Covered in fucking fingerprints! How else would it be?” A hollow clop echoed throughout the squad bay when she slammed the helmet to the floor. She then grabbed his mattress and flipped it over. Gear clattered and banged as it bounced across the floor. “That’s for you and your fucked-up squad! Their gigs are on your hands, Coltin! Did you ever stop even once to check their gear?”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  “Really? Belzer, how many times did Coltin check your fucked-up gear?”

  “Zero, ma’am!”

  Yeah, drop that dime! Not that Belzer was any less of a self-centered buddy fucker. But it was nice to see just desserts served after a fulsome meal of garbage.

  “As I figured!” Mack positioned directly beneath Coltin’s nose, spit flying as she chewed his ass like well-done steak. “Ten demerits, a hundred, a thousand! No amount can do you justice! Alpha, take this buddy-fucking shitbag to the quarterdeck. Sergeant Burrmaster?”

  “Staff sergeant?”

  “When you’re done down there, relieve Alpha on the quarterdeck and thrash Coltin until he quits or dies. Either one is dandy with me.”

  “It will be my great honor, staff sergeant.” Though he couldn’t see Burrmaster, the man would be smiling in anticipation.

  Rizer fought to check a fit of laughter. Calm the fuck down, or you’ll be up there with him! He worried more about Stubs, however, who sometimes lost his military bearing when things went swimmingly for a change.

  “You heard the senior drill instructor, you fucking hemorrhoid!” Alpha thundered, louder than Rizer had ever heard him. “Move! Get on my quarterdeck now!” He cuffed Coltin across the head to get him moving.

  “Aye, sir!” Coltin’s voice dripped with dread and despair.

  Once they reached the quarterdeck, Alpha ordered, “On your back! Flutter kicks until I get tired!”

  Burrmaster finished his inspections a couple of minutes later. He strutted to the quarterdeck with a bo
unce in his step. “Time to play! I got this, Alpha.” He towered over Coltin. “Elbows-toes, get there now.” He sounded relaxed, confident, satisfied, like a man unleashed from drudgery to pursue his one true passion in life. Thank God I’m not Coltin. The elbows-toes modified plank position had the recruit rest all of their upper-body weight upon the elbows as opposed to forearms, an excruciating posture to maintain on a hard surface such as the concrete quarterdeck.

  “I should fail every last fucking one of you!” Mack said. “But then I’d look just as shitty as you! But I learned some things today, Eighty-Four, and there’ll be some changes made starting right now. Garwood, you’re fired as guide! Abek, you’re promoted. Disappoint me and you’ll be the next Coltin.”

  “Aye, ma’am!”

  This can’t be happening. Rizer marveled at how quickly the utterly ridiculous could become unbelievable reality.

  “Rizer!”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  “You’re now first squad leader! And since your squad is so fucked up, you can join the failures for an afternoon of sand and bearcrawls on the Hill, courtesy of Recruit Coltin!”

  “Aye, ma’am!”

  Mack stalked over to him, said in a low voice, “We’ll see how many hours you last, dumbass. Fuck up and that’s you.” She pointed to the quarterdeck.

  Rizer watched the action there as she walked away. Coltin bellowed, the pain in his elbows and burning abs driving him to agony.

  “Your elbows gettin’ tired yet, Coltin?” Burrmaster asked.

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Well, why don’t you give your left a rest.”

  “Aye… sir!” Coltin put his weight on his right elbow.

  “Know what I find helps? Stretch out your left arm a bit, get it nice and loose.”

  Coltin groaned as he stretched out.

  “Farther… farther… Keep your body straight, now! There you go, son! Now ain’t that better?”

  “Yes, sir!” Coltin screeched like a little girl.

  Wearing a barely discernible smile, Burrmaster paced circles around Coltin. The man is a torture virtuoso. “Yeah, that’s it. You just stay like that for a little while, then we’ll get the kinks outta your other arm.”

  “Let’s go, crawlers form up on the Grinder now!” Mack ordered. “And you recruits who somehow passed, school circle quarterdeck! You can watch the end of recruit Coltin. But I’d keep my mouth shut if I were you, unless you wanna join him.”

  “Aw yeah, get those sucks runnin’, Eighty-Four.” Burrmaster rubbed his palms together. “The more the merrier!”

  First Squad Leader Rizer fell out with the others, more than happy to leave Sgt Burrmaster behind to do what he loved with Coltin.

  ***

  Their rifles served as the Marines’ most efficient killing tools, but the Marines themselves were the true weapons. Expected to adapt and overcome in any situation, they won battles with or without their rifles. This required honing their most primitive killer instincts through weeks of intensive close-combat training, supervised by their DIs and dedicated close-combat instructors.

  For the first week they trained in unarmed combat, an introduction to the Corps’ hand-to-hand fighting system derived from several ancient schools of martial arts. Due to constant stress and their steroid-infused diet, aggressions ran high among the recruits, who were more than happy to take out their violent frustrations upon one another. For many, their training had only added to their fighting skills born on the streets and forged in jail.

  Rizer had never taken martial arts classes as a civilian but surprised himself. He had a knack for close-up quick takedowns. He took the training seriously, not only because it might save his life in combat. A fight could happen anywhere, so why not learn to kick some ass instead of taking the boot?

  They engaged in full-contact sparring matches during the last two days. Rizer won several matches and proved he could scrap with the toughest of the recruits. Stubs stood supreme at the end of the day, platoon champion. An ugly tenacity and ox-like strength made the big man an unstoppable force.

  Week two began with pugil stick instruction, a carry-over from the bootcamp training of ancient Terran Marines meant to simulate close combat with a rifle and a fixed bayonet. The pugil stick was nothing more than a pole roughly 1.3 meters long with foam pads on either end that delivered a low voltage shock. A solid head shot delivered with a pugil stick could knock a recruit temporarily senseless, even though they wore helmets when sparring.

  The recruits ran a pugil stick course where they assaulted through structures manned by bots who put up token resistance with their sticks; nevertheless, those less proficient found themselves defeated, knocked down, forced to repeat the course until they put down all of the bots. Rizer aced the course in a single running. He didn’t consider the training practical, especially the constant screaming required by the instructors, yet he recognized its value for building combat instincts and channeling aggression into striking power.

  The fights got real when the recruits squared off against each other. Rizer performed well, though he eventually fell to Carelli, who seemed to have been born with the requisite aggression to become a Marine. Rizer often wondered why Carelli hadn’t been appointed guide, especially after he knocked Abek senseless during a match, much to the platoon’s approval

  “De-nastify yourselves, Eighty-Four,” Mack told them while the bots revived Abek. “Maybe then you’ll get a real guide. Until then, Abek is a symbol of the embarrassment you cause me every day.”

  “Aye, ma’am,” the platoon responded.

  Suckdick Coltin shouted the loudest as ever. Like a rat in the aftermath of a nuclear war, the kid was a consummate and tenacious survivor. According to Stubs, Coltin’s thrashing had lasted over half an hour, finally ending when he passed out from pain and exhaustion, never having dropped on request. Furious, Sgt Burrmaster had kicked in the heavy steel door to the gear locker; he then savagely thrashed the watchers until it was time for the next training evolution. The DIs continued to single out Coltin for punishment whenever possible.

  Close-combat training culminated with three days of vibro-blade instruction. “You freaks who haven’t paid attention the last few days better wake the fuck up right now.” Mack paced before them with one of the twenty-centimeter blades in hand, a blunt-edged training model of heavy plastic that delivered a shocking vibration upon impact instead of severing limbs. “You get jumped up close on patrol, this weapon is damn near the only thing that’ll save your life. All that head-stomping jiu-jitsu and shit that you learned is useful—it can take down an enemy—but you’re not gonna stomp to death anybody who’s wearing armor. But this…” She paused and raised the blade. “This weapon will cut through all but the thickest body armor like butter. Those of you fortunate enough to become combat-arms personnel in my Marine Corps will wear one in the field. You wanna survive? Then you better get to know it like your momma’s saggin’ titties!”

  They began with the basics: length and weight, the specifications of the generator in the hilt that produced the plasma cutting edge along the fixed metal blade. The handle tended to vibrate when activated, which gave the weapon its name. All had seen civilian vibro-blades with lower power rates, used for culinary work and self-defense; but the potency of civilian blades, even those used by law enforcement, paled next to mil-spec models. Higher complexity technology allowed a magnetic field to control a blade of pure plasma energy without the support of a fixed blade, but such weapons were prohibitively expensive to produce and difficult to maintain. Stubs had mentioned to him that power swords in particular were prized weapons on frontier worlds.

  At the end of day three, Rizer easily defeated Carelli to stand alone as platoon champion.

  “What the fuck was that, Carelli?” Mack demanded. “You fight like a retard butcher chasing a pig! Get the fuck outta there, and I’ll show you how it’s done!”

  “Aye, ma’am.” The defeated champ
ion rubbed his bruised ribs as he lay on the deck. As in other phases of close-combat training, they wore no body armor, only helmets.

  Rizer offered him a hand up. Carelli glared at him, suspicion and waning anger in his dark eyes, before accepting. “Good luck,” he growled in a whisper as he exited the fighting circle. His faint smile wasn’t lost on Rizer.

  “You probably think your some kinda noble knight, don’t you, Rizer?” Mack said as she confronted him. “Well, I’m gonna damsel your sorry ass into distress!”

  She attacked him with a tempest of simulated steel, moving so quickly that she seemed to have four arms. He dodged and parried two of her strokes before the next two found him: a slash across his upper left arm followed by a thrust to the stomach that doubled him over. A real vibro-blade would have left him in pieces, but the training model simply stung like a motherfucker, the effects lingering for seconds afterward. Her next slash fell across the back of his neck, the decapitating stroke that knocked him to the deck and sealed his fate.

  “And that, maggots, is how it’s done!” Mack shouted, reveling in her easy victory.

  “But I’m not done, ma’am!” Rizer said, returning to his feet.

  She looked at him in shock for an instant, then her nostrils flared in amusement as she quickly recovered her bearing. “Good! Cause I’ve only begun to carve up your ass!”

  Mack came at him again. Rizer blocked a few more of her blows this time, made her work a little harder, yet he still wound up on the deck. She finished with a hard jab to his gut, effectively running him through, though the training blade collapsed under pressure. She held the blade there for a couple of seconds, giving him an extra-long jolt for good measure as he collapsed.

  His body throbbed and ached from the slashes and stabs. Get up! Don’t let her do this!

  Mack turned from him and addressed the platoon: “If you’re not fighting like me, then you might as well cut your own throat, because this weapon’s no good—”