by Kali Altsoba
Joachim gives a pathetic ‘Skyforce salute’ to the departing master sergeant: a shrug of his slumping shoulders that signals resignation and ignorance about what he’s supposed to do now. Then he walks over to where the bodies of three marines lie. Two are motionless, with eyes shut. The third is the type ACU marines call a ‘feather merchant,’ a slightly built jokester and tactical lightweight. He’s a real pain in Joachim’s ass. He’s writhing on the ground and calling for a medic like a ten-year old pretending to be shot by a playmate, grinning the whole time. He’s enjoying the role of fake casualty way too much for Joachim’s taste and mood.
“Shut up!” He shouts it at the two malingerers as well, even though they're silent. “Get to your godsdamn feet and move to the debrief, you eightballs!” All three ‘casualties’ scramble up, and to stiff attention. One salutes him, mockingly casual. Joachim is shaken by his failure in the town square, but he knows he needs to quickly reassert command or he’ll lose his men’s respect forever. That’s assuming he ever had it to start with.
“Not here, over there!” Joachim points to the rally circle, already filling with sheepish marines. He barks like a collie all the way over, herding the last three marines to rejoin the wooly platoons.
“Form ranks!” There’s some pretty slow, shoddy shuffling until the rows are evenly numbered. “While you’re waiting to debrief, field strip your masers and the heavy weapons.” He can’t think of anything else to say. He turns his back to the marines as they strip down their masers, pretend wipe them, then reassemble. Two heavy weapons squads take longer to disassemble the major parts of the SAWs and XM-7. Someone says something, deliberately loud.
“Dumb butterbar. He’ll kill us all.”
He can’t help it. He thinks on the gold or butter bar of his rank. At this moment he wishes he was a simple marine, not a failing 2nd lieutenant candidate wearing a gold bar he didn’t earn and now doesn’t think he ever will.
He’s startled to hear female laughter float over to him. Then he sees them, a crowd of ‘Grünen,’ all the civvies reforming in the middle of the town square. They’re watching, enjoying his deepest personal and professional embarrassment. The pretty girl is standing with her legs apart, her light cotton print skirt whipping around her thighs in a rising breeze, clinging to her tapered groin. One side of her blouse is audibly flapping in the wind. The front presses and clings to her small but tautly erect breasts. She’s a portrait of everything a young man wants to see in a young woman, and she knows it. Yet she’s the one who laughs at him loudest and longest, her cutting feminine voice chilling his shriveling pride.
His jagged platoons jostle into a semblance of military shape, 80 marines in four lines. Joachim stands at the left end of the first rank, dejected. Actually, all the marines are chagrined by the ambush. Some are nervous about how the drill instructors might take it out on them. The smarter ones are chastened to know that, if this had been the real thing “out there” in the war, half of them wouldn’t be standing here, while survivors would still be running with skilled and angry locust killers fast on the heels of their glide boots. Or in ACU marine slang, ‘riding their moondockers.’
Master Sergeant Moe Aung looks like a brig rat more than a proper NCO. He steps quickly toward the still shuffling ranks, then stands before them, his legs far wider than the pretty girl, whose still watching Joachim. The sergeant is grinning sarcastically. Mocking with his eyes.
“Did ya’ll en’joy our liddle show?” He likes to add “liddle” in front of lots of things, big or small. It’s a kind of verbal tic. This time, no one answers. “Did ya’ll like awh mock low’cusst town? It got pey’tards ‘n mines ‘n shit built inta all dah shops an’ houses. We intro’ed ya’ll to two ah dem.” He adds ruefully, “made a big mess aw my best liddle town, ya’ll did.”
His accent and speech patterns are way offworld, from some small planet no one can quite place. It’s barely Union Basic. He doesn’t give a shit. He’s not here to be pretty in blue. “Accept dah fear we gave ya’ll t’day. Own it, an if shit like dis ‘appens for real up’dah’front, maybe ya’ll won’t act so stoo’pid like ya’ll did jus now.” Point made. Time to make it again. “We want ya’ll ‘frayed, so dat ya’ll calm down in combat. Dat’s why we’ scared ya’ll shitless today, an’ will agin tomorrow. An’ ev’ry day afta dat. ‘Till ya’ll git usd ta it.”
“Take a deep breath, boys ‘n girls. Breed, I said! Smell dat? Yeah, piped in blood stink, burn’d hair, roast mock’meet, an’ rot’ten trash. Smell real Grün, don’ it? Liddle scent ma’sheens pump in dah smells lak it’s a real mar’kit town.” They have to give him that. “An did ya’ll pick up Cor’pral Stenis’ ginger hemp? He really hates dat RIK crap, but he likes ta bring ‘is own stink to awh liddle town.” The well-tanned, imitation gochō grins at them. Thick creases form corners of weathered, shark black eyes. A soggy, stinking, smoking cheroot is clenched hard between yellowed, stained teeth.
“Some of dah stink is real ‘dough, like yore own shit ‘n piss ‘n vomit.” Several marines blush. One can’t help it. He quickly looks down to his stained crotch and turns beet. Two others don’t look, but shift uneasily from foot to foot. “Yeah, I mean you, boyo.” Aung glares for long seconds at the blushing youngster with a darkly stained groin.
“We add real blood and worse smells, sometimes. We’ bin savin’ dah real good stuff for t’other boys ‘n girls from yore battalion. We am’bush Delta Com’pan’ee dis afta’noon.” He laughs. So do two other fake Rikugun Guards. All the others grin. Aung suddenly switches mood, speaking softer, almost in a fatherly tone.
“Dunna worry ‘bout crapping yore suit. Fear loosens dah bowels. ‘Appens to jus ‘bout ev’ybody, first time dey git shot at fur real. On’y worry ‘bout shittin’ yore armor agin if ya’ll didna lose it taday, ‘cause dat means yo ain’t scared ‘nough yet. Ya’ll will be, bafor we’er dun. Bafor C.O.B. For ya liddle newbies, dats bafor dah Close Owh Bus’ee’ness. I promise ya’ll.”
He smiles a Cheshire gash. On his haggard face it looks like an unnatural act, too much like a come hither grin on a way-too-old, painted whore. Pausing on nearly every syllable in the biggest words, he warns them of what their training will do and wants. “We’ bin do’in dis for months, liddle bat’tells dat pro’duce real phi’si’cal ‘n psy’co’loj’ee’cal strain in you conscripts. We old hands know it’ll make ya’ll ad’just fas’ta to battle stress, and may’be ya’ll will pre’form better when yore time comes, out dere. Not git yore heads blowed off, like ya’ll did taday. An’ it wus all’a’ya as fucked up!”
Aung shoots a quick, mocking glance at Joachim. “Most o’ ya’ll know tactics ‘n weps from yore liddle school man’u’els. From naw on, yore field work’s gonna get mo’ re’al’is’tic and im’po’tent dan dat school’yar’ crap. We got lots o’ var’ee’a’tions on ta’day’s liddle ex’or’cise. Yore gonna get hun’ted by sni’pahs, hun’ker down unda chem’ee’cal and bi’o’loj’ee’cal attacks.” Again, separation and overpronunciation of every syllable. “An’ sit thru a liddle arti’ shell’lin. We’ gonna put ya’ll thru all o’ it, ova ‘n ova if we havta.” The marines don’t like the sound of that at all, especially the last bit about an artillery barrage. Who in the name of holy hell would want to sit still under even a fake bombardment?
“OK maw’rines, atten hut!” Aung finishes up. “Time ta see dah doc’tah. May’jor Sna’na Oj’in’jint’ka.” Aung carefully and precisely overpronounces every precious syllable of the major’s name. He steps aside, replaced by an impeccably dressed, impressive looking officer of the ACU Marine Medical Corps.
The doctor is fit, well turned out, extremely handsome. Like the pretty girl, he knows the store front he inherited by sheer luck but presents to the worlds as accomplishment is his true life ticket. Either might have talent, as well. It’s too soon to say about the girl, though the jury is already in on him. Point is, neither of them needs it. Talent is gravy to fortune when you’re this beautiful.
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His features are dark brown, broad yet sharp. His complexion and bone structure are redolent of the Great Plains horse people of central Lemuria. He has deep set, dark brown eyes that lend him a further air of natural dignity. He’s a Tatanka-Iyotanka and Cha-O-Ha of dignity rolled into one extraordinary visage. He really should give this speech sitting on horseback, to complete the picture of his great ancestry and heritage among the Oglala Lakota of Amasia.
Unfortunately, this great first impression dissipates as soon as he speaks. He’s ponderous, pompous, longwinded. More a natural academic than a great War Chief. A portrait artist’s wet dream, perhaps. Just not the deep thinker and great warrior he appears on the surface. Maybe not a thinker at all, or a warrior? Yep! That’s it. He’s not a thinker, at all. He’s not a warrior, at all.
He’s not a soldier’s soldier at all.
Hell, he’s not really a soldier.
He’s another pogue pretender.
Faking he serves their best interest.
Faking his way through the war!
In his native Amasian Sioux, “Snana” means “jingles like little bells.” Once that got out-and-around, back when he was a med student at Armed Forces Medical School in Van Hook Arm, 800 klics north of Lowestoft-on-Stamos on Caspia, Cadet Snana never heard the end of it. The worst, as well as most original, offender was a perpetual, even cruel, tease called Officer Cadet Lee Jin.
At formal dinners, Lee tinkled his glass of Baku scotch and ice balls while others shouted “Jingle Bells” whenever Snana walked in. Just to rub sodium into that raw wound, Lee is now Dr. Snana Ojinjintka’s boss. Shit! The arrogant, weaseling, teasing prick is a Medical Major General and Head of the Alliance Medical Corp! That includes the whole of ACU Marine Medical Corps It burns Snana Ojinjintka every day to think of it, of Lee Jin. Worst of all, he loves scotch! But he can’t drink it anymore. Not since that bastard’s promotion. Brings back bad memories.
He launches his well prepared remarks like a battleship, slowly. “Through all history armies valued conformity above other soldierly virtues, held supreme the routine promotion of group interest over the interest of one individual. They did it because uniformity is good for military order, for discipline, for accomplishing dangerous missions in high stress conditions. In other words, uniformity of look and function is essential to combat performance of you troopers.”
‘What the hell is he talking about?’
‘Like, man, we didn’t know that?’
‘Why does he think they cut our hair?’
‘We’re not troopers. We’re marines.’
Joachim doesn’t notice or care that a Marine Corps doctor doesn’t know what to call marines. He’s worried how his failure will get written up by the instructors.
“However, modern neuroscience understands that stress responses are individualized more than group specific. Two men exposed to the same traumatic combat event will react differently. One will be debilitated by overload stress while the other shows no real reaction. The truth is, some fighters are hardier than others. Not superior. We Calmari don’t believe in native or genetic superiority of some over others, or in designer humans. We’re not locusts, after all.”
He pauses to allow his wit to register, but the only laughter is coming from the ‘Grün’ women still milling at the stalls in the nearby town. They’re out of earshot, clearly laughing at something unrelated.
“Yet some people are more stalwart than others. They survived life events, or have strong spiritual beliefs or good family, or had bad romantic relationships before they joined up. All of that affects how you handle battle stress. Others have precombat vulnerabilities.” He looks around portentously, thinking yet again that he said something profound and revelatory to the poor sods forced to listen to him.
‘Yeah, we’re all different. Like I never noticed? Life fucks over some people and unfairly rewards others. Jeez, I didn’t know that, sir. Which type are you, doc? Let me guess…’
“We can’t yet predict individual response to combat, even when we know your psych case histories. We can teach you to handle chaos better. We can give you a mental inoculation, a dose of extreme stress in safe conditions, like today, to stave off severe stress effects tomorrow.”
‘What does that mean?’
“We’re going to expose you to intense high stress …”
‘Oh, fuck me!’
“…for the next four weeks.” OK, he has all their attention. They’re all awake and listening. Even Joachim wakes up. “What do you say to that, marines?”
“Oorah!” They don’t really mean it.
“Most of you will recover from combat stress, like you bounced back from a bad breakup you thought was going to kill you. Or from the death of a parent or a friend. Some of you’ll take longer. About 20% will experience overwhelming horror and feelings of utter helplessness. Or nightmares, flashbacks, personality withdrawal, and maybe paralyzing hypervigilance. Some of you we won’t be able to help, not even a little. You’ll be ‘sectioned’ out of the ACU. We’ll teach the rest of you to control irrational reactions to trauma. At least a bit better than you do now.”
‘Shit! Thanks a heap, Doc.’
‘What’s irrational about being scared in war?’
‘I’d like to traumatize you, with all due respect, sir.’
‘Really looking forward to fake horror, before we get to the real thing.’
“It’ll be good for each of you and for all of us, together. Remember the Marine Corps motto? Nullum Secundum! What say you, marines?”
“Oorah!” If he didn’t prompt them, they’d never chant the marine affirmation. Not for him. He knows it at some level, but in the moment he gets gratification. What he doesn’t know is that at least half the marines think it’s a fucking stupid motto. The others are sick of hearing about combat stress and how to deal with it from a soap clean, hinter zone, memex star good looks medical officer.
‘A bloody pogue! He won’t be in fuck-you-up fights we’re going to.’
‘The corpsmen are one thing. I’ll listen to THEM. They’ve been in it.’
‘This pressed crease asshole is gonna tell us how to handle combat?’
‘The only blood he ever shed for the Corps was taken by mosquitos.’
“We’ll collect urine, blood, and saliva samples right now.” He isn’t kidding about the ‘right now” part. A nurse motions for the marines to “drop trou.”
No one hesitates. Men and women alike undo belts and drop trousers to their ankles, then resume the at attention stance with legs slightly spread and mouths patiently open. Like they’ve been trained to do. The nurse pico scans mouths and bladders before passing her handheld device over the large veins in their inner thighs, resting for only seconds near the groin.
The probe reads biofunctions by laser vibrating molecules in saliva, urine and blood. It records all substances exposed to earlier that day, from training explosives to cheap stogie smoke, to powdered sim eggs and coffee for breakfast, to combat stimulants or depressants, to soap and morning sex. But it can’t read through cloth ceramics. So everyone has to “drop ‘em.”
“We’ll do bile, brain and heart scans later,” Ojinjintka drones on, so full of his practiced oration he doesn’t notice the absurd ranks of half-naked fighters in front of him. Or that a plain jane is daring him to stare while three males make obscene gestures with hanging dicks. Joachim sees them do it. He takes names and squad numbers in his head. One is the fake casualty jokester.
“That’ll tell us what levels of stress you reached in practice combat. We’ll use results to tailor individual stress meds.” He guffaws in advance at his own too often repeated joke. “Then we’ll give you the best ‘designer drugs’ you ever had!”
“Oorah!” For once, they mean it.
He’s gratified, thinking they cheer him and not the drugs. Then he surprises them. “Your brain is a shapeable muscle. You trained other muscles to react to a loud sound, a quick motion caught in the corner of yo
ur eye. It’s time to exercise your brain. Call it resilience or toughness if you like. I call it mindfulness.”
‘Sure thing Doc, I don’t mind at all if you give me great drugs.’
“We’ll make you better soldiers with neurofeedback. You’ll learn to hold total silence discipline and chant meditations to strengthen your neural pathways.”
‘What the fuck? What happened to the drugs?’
He doesn’t tell them that the silent therapies and meditation techniques are adapted from ancient Broderbund initiation rites, dating to even before the First Orion War, to the Foundation Wars of the Ordensstaadt. Alliance MI learned about them under “intense interrogation” of RIK prisoners from Fates and Terra Deus, men held in secret ACU prisons just outside New Beijing. Doctors overseeing the torture were impressed at how long some men held out, and wanted to know how. Turned out, it was those old bastards, the Brethren, who knew about it for centuries. They thought the secret meditations and physical abuse got them nearer to their God. MI learned they altered brain functions in a benign, useful way. Cleaned out stress. Kinda like eating brain fiber.
