They found it five minutes later behind a pair of towering doors. Normal gravity returned when they crossed the threshold and stepped onto a floor of metal grating. The orange lights illuminating the long and cavernous chamber pulsed slowly, dim to half bright, perhaps in rhythm with the ship’s engines. The room had two levels, the grating forming the upper floor above a solid floor fifteen meters below. A chasm in the grating split the room halfway down, about thirty meters ahead, with equidistant cargo space on the other side. Nearer the chasm, aluminum crates of various sizes lay scattered about, along with one massive forklift chained in place. It surprised Rizer that no bots had fired on them yet.
Belzer split the squad into three fire teams to cover the left, right, and center of the room as they advanced. They rushed the cargo and infiltrated spaces between crates, searching for the enemy. Rizer, on first team, had a feeling he knew their location, yet understood the importance of checking all potential hiding spots. They were going to be attacked; he preferred that it come from ahead as opposed to behind by a bot they’d somehow missed.
Belzer’s team on the left flank turned up no enemy. In the center, second team encountered bots in the miscellaneous junk, number unknown according to the frantic radio account. Several red dots appeared on the projected display map in the upper corner of his visor but quickly winked out as the bots were eliminated.
Belzer’s order came a moment later: “Continue to advance, fourth squad.”
They came under fire near the edge of the crates about five meters from the opening in the floor, which yawned about twelve meters wide. The bots hid among the crates on the other side, exposing little of themselves to return fire. In cover behind a crate, Rizer heard their rifles firing in simulation mode, along with a machinegun. He almost sighed with relief when he heard Smythe lighting up the bots with real machinegun fire.
Though the bots fired only sonic pulses against real plasma bolts, the Marines made little headway. Their rounds easily penetrated the aluminum yet seemed ineffective in reaching the training bots. The crates might have been filled with an anti-ballistic material. The bots’ keen vision found Marines as they leaned from cover to fire. One man took a fatal hit; another fell incapacitated, reducing the squad to ten operational bodies.
Rizer hid in cover and reloaded his rifle. We’ll never win like this! They had to cross the chasm and take the bots out up close. As if to punctuate his thoughts, two Marines on third fire team fell victim to an anti-personnel mine rigged amongst the boxes, something that wasn’t covered during the brief. Eight left! Rizer had struck only one bot, not even killing it. He figured they might have destroyed two bots altogether.
“Jump packs, cross now!” Belzer finally ordered, taking off on her final word.
Rizer stood from behind his box and mentally engaged thrusters. Halfway across, Belzer cried out when she took a hit and flew off course. She crashed hard into the edge of the grating on the other side and fell into the lower hold.
Rizer flew down to retrieve her, though he didn’t know why. Part of him said leave the bitch and continue the mission. That’s what she would do.
He landed beside her immobile body as a battle raged on the floor above. He knelt over her, opened her face shield to expose her wide eyes, blank and stunned. “Can you move?”
His enemy alarm went off. He whirled, raised his left arm and fired the M-11 beneath his wrist guard, striking a bot as it dove behind a crate. Red letters on his HUD announced FATAL HIT.
As Rizer was tracking another bot moving through the crates, Smythe crashed down a few meters away. PFC SMYTHE KIA. “Shit!”
Belzer moaned.
“Sit tight!” Rizer rolled between two crates and then crawled to Smythe, found him breathing and yet dead for simulated purposes. He grabbed Smythe’s machinegun and slung the thick strap over his shoulder, then waited for the bot to reappear. He missed it the first time, and pain jabbed him in the right arm when he took a hit leaning out of cover, a rolling ache that moved up his shoulder and into his neck. He sat dazed for a moment, calls over the radio drifting to him from kilometers away: “Two on the left!” “Watch your six, Stubs!” Rifles flashed and plasma bolts cracked on the level above. Smoke fouled the air in the bay, and the ship’s atmosphere stunk of discharged ozone and burnt ammo matrix.
He gathered his wits and swallowed the pain. When next the bot appeared, Rizer led it as it crossed between boxes. Several of his rounds struck, kilojoules of imparted energy blowing the bot to smoking pieces.
He remembered Belzer. “Right…” he muttered, still a bit woozy. He crawled back to her. “Let’s go, sweetheart.”
“Go… finish the mission.”
“That’s just what we’re doing.” With little effort, he scooped her up with his left arm and slung her over his shoulder.
“You’re fucking crazy,” she said as they rocketed to the level above.
“Aren’t you lucky?” He cut his jets, landed lightly on the grating far on the bots’ left flank. Other Marines had flown over the bots, now closing in from behind. Two bots knelt behind boxes in plain sight, less than five meters from Rizer, their backs turned to him. Easily controlling the machinegun with his right arm, Rizer sprayed them with a stream of crimson bolts, then ceased fire when two squad mates appeared behind the metal casualties.
After laying Belzer on the deck, he joined the hunt for bots who had fled through the cargo. They took them out gradually in a running battle at the cost of three more Marines. Despite their casualties, they had secured the ship.
The entire squad received a passing grade.
***
The attack came in slow motion. The grayish-green beast, towering three meters at the shoulder, plowed squarely into Cuthbert’s chest with the bony hump on its armored snout knocking him flat. He lay still, the vibro-blade protruding from his right wrist guard still activated as the beast trampled him and ran on, dirt and grass flying from its hooves.
He might be dead for real this time. Cuthbert had died in nearly every simulation, perhaps the most hapless Marine Rizer had ever met.
The beast made a sweeping turn and ran back toward the squad, the armored flaps of thick hide on its flanks flopping about like a pair of leaden wings. The flaps reminded Rizer of drawings of medieval warhorses draped in chainmail armor. Known scientifically as Barlow’s Juggernaut, after the Terran naturalist who discovered them, most people just called them juggers. A beast of plains and forests on several worlds, juggers were gregarious herbivores, generally docile unless provoked.
When angered, few creatures could equal their wrath. It used the hump on its snout to batter antagonists, along with a pair of short, stout horns jutting from just above its eyes. The flaps hung nearly to the ground, low enough to protect almost the entire length of the jugger’s six legs, its most vulnerable parts. Using only their vibro-blades, the squad had to slaughter it in order to graduate and receive the ceremonial sword of the infantry Marine.
“The fuck are we supposed to do?” Ward asked, resignation and fear in his voice as the jugger charged.
“Keep away from the head!” Belzer said.
“No shit, really?” Stubs responded with a laugh.
No one was trampled during this charge. Stubs sheared off a lower portion of the armor flap on its left flank, while Rizer’s blade only slashed a gash in it. The thing appeared totally unfazed and outrageously pissed off. Can’t say I blame it. One minute it had been grazing peacefully in a corral; in the next, twelve Marines were attempting to kill it in a barbaric ritual for ceremonial purposes.
It stopped short on its next charge, right in their midst. Its snout hump caught Stubs when it reared its head, sending him flying. Its hindquarters then leapt into the air, rear hooves lashing out in a double kick that fortunately missed everyone. When it next reared, a front hoof struck Belzer and knocked her aside. Hagel jammed his vibro-blade into its rear end, sinking it deep, enough to shock the beast into charg
ing away. Rizer finally made a swipe as it ran off but missed.
According to MSgt Hamilton, an infantryman’s greatest asset was his mind. Rizer noticed no one using theirs, himself included. He activated his jump pack, shot five meters into the air, and hovered as the beast turned to charge again.
Here goes nothing…
Surprising himself, he timed his drop just right, landing atop the charging jugger’s back. Grabbing a flap for balance with his left hand, he drove his built-in vibro-blade deep into the beast with his right arm, just behind the head. The jugger kept charging, unfazed, so he did it again. And again. The beast’s orange blood sprayed profusely from the wounds.
The beast pulled up, groaning and bellowing rage from deep in its gullet. Rizer’s momentum flung him off its back. He rolled through tall grass before stopping several meters away.
His fellow Marines slashed and stabbed at the rearing jugger, surrounding the beast, which fought on in diminished capacity. Rizer’s hits had definitely damaged the thing. Coltin, always a great imitator, decided to pull the same move as Rizer; he timed his landing wrong and met the jugger’s hump as it reared. The crashing blow sent him flying. His scream ended when he hit the ground with a grunt and lay still.
Rizer saw his opportunity. He ran, rolled between Stubs and Flynt, and found himself staring at the jugger’s hooves pounding earth centimeters away. His first slash struck the armored flap; he got his second underneath it and sliced off a hoof. The thing went apeshit, upped the volume of its basso bellow as it spun in circles, intent to batter, gore, and kick anyone within range. Rizer stayed on the ground for one more slash and took off a middle hoof before rolling away.
Injured, unbalanced, and enraged, the jugger slowed with exhaustion. Sensing weakness, the squad moved in and sliced it up, cutting off strips of armor and puncturing the hide beneath. The earth shook when the thing finally fell. They moved in and quickly killed it.
“Well done, fourth squad,” SSgt Griggs said on the radio. “Rizer, you get to do the honors. That was the right move, landing on that thing’s back”
Puzzled, Rizer said, “What honors, staff sergeant?”
“Cut it open and gut it. We’re havin’ jugger steaks for dinner tonight.”
Rizer stood dumbfounded for a moment. “Aye, staff sergeant.” Whatever you say… He slashed the thing open from groin to sternum, began scooping out the stinking mess of entrails.
Griggs appeared when he finished. “All right, fourth squad, strip off those suits and crawl inside the carcass.”
“What?” Hagel said flatly.
“You aren’t deaf, dumbass! This is part of the graduation rite. Unless you don’t wanna graduate…”
Rizer found the order a bit outrageous as well, but he stripped off his armor. Whatever it takes to get that sword.
Deemed the most valuable Marine in the fight, Rizer had the honor of slipping into the belly first. It stunk even worse inside. He retched, half vomited, yet remained in the sticky darkness until ordered out. Emerging from the beast, steaming and covered head to toe in orange blood and bits of viscera, he smiled at the cloudy sky.
As they cleaned up after the rite of slaughter, Belzer stood next to him in the shower. “I’m going to be the honor grad, Rizer, auto promotion to lance corporal.”
“Yeah? Bully for you.” He pretended not to watch her body as she lathered herself. Her figure had damn near reached perfection over the last year spent in training. Too bad it’s attached to her shitty attitude.
“It could have been you, if you hadn’t stopped to help me.”
“Yeah.”
“So why the hell did you, since I didn’t help you?”
“Because Marines fight as a team.” He shut off the water, weary of the conversation and eager to end it. “I don’t like you, Belzer. In fact, I can’t fucking stand you. But it seemed like the right thing to do. Some of us still have a conscience. I’m not sure you ever did.”
“It was the wrong move, Rizer. You should have taken charge and finished the mission without me. Then you’d be the one getting promoted.” She flashed him a devilish smile.
He stared at her a moment, this time not pretending to not look to at her body. “You’re welcome.” He turned his back on her and left.
***
That night they donned their dress blue uniforms to complete the next rite of graduation: walking through a wall of fire. The wall of flame was meant to simulate the forge of fire used to shape metal weapons. He felt the heat as he approached but trusted in the ritual, trusted he wasn’t about to be incinerated in his best uniform. He quickly stepped through without being singed. Only simulated flames. He again questioned the SOI graduation rites, but he appreciated now why the planet was named Forge.
He had hardly recognized himself in his dress blue uniform before the ceremony. He had filled out considerably, adding layers of muscle. His face had changed the most, it seemed more angular, his features more pronounced. The softness was gone, both mentally and physically.
The juggers slaughtered by each squad now roasted on spits over several fire pits, the aroma filling the night air. Delta formed up as a company for the last time in the flickering firelight, minus the Marines injured battling the juggers, who would receive their swords in sickbay. Rizer’s throat constricted as the official graduation ceremony began. He couldn’t believe it—almost a year of training behind him, the Fleet Marine Force ahead. He’d received orders to his unit earlier in the day. All the exhausting training and the silly bullshit that went with it finally meant something.
Each new infantryman got to choose a Marine, instructor or not, to present them with the infantry sword. Some chose Griggs, but most selected Corporal Archer, the junior instructor, a young and charismatic man who had helped many. Rizer had nothing against either man; he also didn’t have any real connection with them. So he had chosen someone else…
“Private Rizer,” said SSgt Mack, standing before him. She held a straight sword about a meter long, sheathed in black lacquer-coated wood trimmed with gold or a reasonable imitation. The infantry sword had a long hilt to go with its lengthy blade, the grip wrapped in brass wire. It was a bastard sword, technically speaking, a weapon once wielded by knights. Rizer was one of the few who understood its dual meaning, both symbolic and tacitly applied. “So are you surprised to find yourself here?”
“Just a bit, staff sergeant; I won’t lie.”
“I never pegged you as one to complete the training. I was wrong about you in that regard, but you still don’t understand the life you’ve signed up for.”
“You are probably right, staff sergeant. I’m surprised you came tonight.”
“Well, it’s Saturday and it’s a short flight. I had nothing better to do.” She kept a stern countenance, yet her blue eyes shined with something, though Rizer couldn’t tell what.
“I’m glad you did.”
She pushed the sword slowly toward him. “This belongs to you. You’ve earned it. You are now part of the warrior elite. Congratulations.”
Rizer took hold of the polished wood scabbard, pulled the sword about halfway out, the naked blade gleaming in the firelight. No symbols were engraved into the steel. The sword is symbol enough. A bastard doesn’t need anything else.
“Thank you, staff sergeant.”
“None necessary. This is only the beginning. Now the real work of being a Marine starts. Stay hard out in the fleet, and remember what I’ve taught you, everything you learned. Survive your tour; that’ll be thanks enough.”
“If I don’t look good, you don’t look good?”
“Exactly. Take care of yourself, Rizer.” For the first and last time he saw something like a smile on her face, right before she turned away.
CHAPTER 14
“Good evening, General Hella, sir,” said the aide, a female petty officer. “Admiral Erskin is expecting you.”
Hella flashed her a smile that made his facial scar a
ppear rakish instead of frightening. This and his rank never failed to mesmerize subordinates, particularly females. “Yes, I expect she is. After you.”
She returned a smile that offered much more, not that he would take her up on the tacit invitation. He rarely slept with subordinates and exclusively chose officers outside of his command to avoid scandal.
He followed her inside. Admiral Erskin stood upon his entrance, wearing the neutral expression she would have used when greeting any other visiting officer. “General Hella, a pleasure to see you again.”
“And you as well, admiral.”
Both declined the aide’s offer of refreshment. She left them alone. Hella took a seat unbidden.
“I’m surprised you didn’t send for me,” Erskin said, seating herself behind her desk. Like most of his unmarried peers, Hella had stepped down to younger women as he grew older; but Pamela Erskin had aged with a grace he still found alluring, if not irresistible. He still loved her height, her slim and willowy figure, her impeccable poise. On the rare occasions they met, he couldn’t help thinking they’d made a terrible mistake long ago, though he couldn’t say if that mistake had been having the affair or not taking it past that.
Hella shrugged slightly. “It’s your ship, Pamela.”
She laughed. “As if that matters to you. Any other fleet admiral would be sitting before a shadow of you in your quarters.”
“You know me too well.” As commander of ground forces on Verdant, General Hella commanded the entire task force, Navy and Marines, as was usually the case during deployments. He’d been aboard the USAS Resolute for only an hour and would normally have ordered the fleet commander to meet him in his quarters, his privilege as the commanding officer. Not that Erskin wouldn’t have obeyed; it simply wasn’t appropriate for them to meet like that. They’d been through too much together.
“How is the fleet looking?” he asked. “All elements in place?”
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