by Jake Elwood
"I never really saw myself as a soldier."
She shrugged. "Did you see yourself as a convict in a prison cell?"
There wasn't much to say to that.
"You'll do six weeks of Basic Training," she said. "Then three years of service, minus your six weeks. Normally it's two years, but it's three right now because of the threat of war." She made a dismissive gesture. "If things quiet down, they'll let you go in two years. You'll have a clean slate. You'll be able to get on with your life."
I could still be an architect. He squashed the sudden bloom of hope. Three years in the military?
Laycraft met his gaze, then smiled gently. "It won't be so bad. In fact, most of it will be easier than being a college student." She opened her briefcase, rummaged inside, and drew out a smart sheet. "Here's a list of occupations and descriptions. You can just about take your pick." She set the sheet on the table, then stood. "Look it over. Take your time. Then call me when you've made a decision."
He nodded, numb, and watched her walk out of the room.
For a long time he sat in the prisoner lounge, listening to a couple of women wage a bitter argument over who looked at whom the wrong way. The justice system had evolved considerably over the years, with a growing emphasis on rehabilitation rather than punishment. He wouldn't face a judge. Instead, his fate would be decided by a committee consisting of Laycraft and a couple other social workers.
The more conservative part of the population insisted that the current system was a joke, that only savage punishments could deter a hardened criminal, that if you spun the right line of BS to the committee, you could pretty much get away with anything.
Tom, sitting in a lounge that was comfortable enough but was still a cage, shook his head wryly. For him at least, the system worked well enough. He was about to start paying for what he'd done, and he couldn't see a single way out of it.
The Hall of Justice was a soulless brick of a building, every corner at ninety degrees, every surface cold and blank and echoing. The lounge had a bit of orange carpeting, but aside from that it was stark and bleak. Did they design it deliberately to crush the spirits of idiots like me? Probably not, he decided. It was just bad design. I haven't even graduated yet and I could do better than this. But I'm going to waste three years playing soldier instead.
He picked up the datasheet, which showed a list of occupations for enlisted personnel in the Home Guard. Charged with the defense of Earth, the Home Guard spent most of its time doing drills and exercises, interspersed with occasional search and rescue missions or disaster relief.
The list of occupations didn't inspire him much. Just about everyone in the Guard was primarily an infantryman. In addition to plodding around with a rifle over his shoulder, he could be a cook, or a clerk, or a driver. He stared at the list, even tapped a few occupations in a vain attempt to inspire himself. Then he sighed and pushed the sheet away.
It's his fault. That shit rat with the stupid mustache. He's the one who should be locked up, not me. No, it's her fault. The girl. She started the whole thing. And she got away with it.
An image filled his mind, the girl sprawled in the snow with both hands pressed to her face, blood coating her chin. His stomach twisted. Okay. I guess she didn't get away with it.
I wonder what they would do to me if I didn't have implants. He grimaced at the thought. At least I've got a little bit of a choice. He picked up the sheet again. Yeah, right. Some choice.
A link in one corner caught his eye. Career Opportunities in the Regular Forces.
I don't want to join the real military. He scanned the list of Home Guard occupations one more time. But then, it's not like I want to join the pretend military, either.
He tapped the link.
The sheet changed, forming four columns. Army. Navy. Marine Corps. Space Cavalry.
He looked at the cavalry first. Cavalry pilots flew fighters. They were glamorous, romantic figures, though he wondered if they would live very long in wartime.
The only occupations he saw listed, though, were for support personnel. They all wanted some kind of engineering or mechanical background as a prerequisite, too.
He glanced only briefly at the Army column. The Army was essentially like the Home Guard, as far as Tom was concerned. The only difference was that the regular Army worked harder and got shot more often.
He skimmed the list of Marine Corps occupations, confirming his initial impression that marines were basically soldiers who rode on spaceships. There were differences, of course. The marines didn't use artillery. They used mechs sometimes, but never the gigantic mechs the Army used. They had shipboard duties, and fought sometimes in zero gee. They boarded ships.
Primarily, though, they seemed to be infantry who spent their days cooped up on ships.
That just left the Navy. Tom sighed and started reading. The list of Navy occupations was quite long and varied, which piqued his interest somewhat. He found a link to testimonials from spacers, and tapped it.
"It's a great life," said an earnest young woman, her voice made flat and tinny by the rudimentary speakers built into the sheet. "You get to see the galaxy, and serve your country."
Tom snorted. Seeing the galaxy was fine, but he didn't feel a lot of devotion to the United Worlds.
The image changed to a beefy young man in coveralls, holding a wrench almost as big as he was. "Signing up was the best choice I ever made." He sounded like he meant it, too. "I work on some of the most advanced technology in the galaxy." He grinned. "And I signed up straight from high school, too! When I leave the Navy, I'm going to have my pick of jobs."
"Great," muttered Tom. "I could have my pick of jobs I don't want."
"I'm a patriot," said a solemn older woman who reminded Tom of his mother. "But that's not why I joined. This is the greatest branch of the military. No marching. No sleeping on the ground. You don't have to be outside in blizzards or pouring rain, and you don't have to shoot anyone. Oh, it can be tough sometimes. But even on the toughest day, you get a hot meal at the end of it, and a shower, and you sleep in a proper bunk. That's not what it's like in the Army, let me tell you."
Tom paused the video. "You make a good point," he told the woman.
A voice in the back of his head told him not to make an impulsive choice. Service in the Home Guard would be dreary, but it was the simplest way to put this incident behind him and get back to his old life.
But three years felt like an eternity, and he couldn't bear the thought of spending the whole time cooking and doing pointless drills. He thought of the shuttle he'd seen rising toward orbit, looking so brave and lonely against the vastness of the sky. The Navy goes places. I could see other worlds.
He closed the testimonials and expanded the Navy section. He spent several minutes reading job descriptions. Where the Cavalry wanted qualified technicians, the Navy seemed to prefer, or at least to accept, unskilled recruits who could be trained to do things the Navy way.
The list held dozens of occupations, and they soon started to blur in Tom's mind. He'd be a cog in a big machine, helping to keep a large spaceship running. There were logistical and clerical positions groundside, but he dismissed those. The chance to travel, to see the galaxy, was suddenly fascinating. If I have to leave my old life behind, I might as well make a thorough job of it. I'll leave the whole bloody planet.
His initial enthusiasm faded quickly. None of the listed positions held much appeal. "Just pick something," he muttered. "It gets you out of here. It gets you onto a ship." He ran a fingertip across the sheet, making the text slide, glancing for the third or fourth time at each job title. All too soon he reached the end.
And noticed for the first time another line of text, just below the list of occupations.
Positions for Officers.
You must need some kind of experience to become an officer. There's no point in even looking.
He shrugged and touched the link.
The list of officer occupations was much sh
orter. Most of them did, in fact, have strict requirements. Medical Officer. Dental Officer. Chaplain. Engineer. Then there was Logistics Officer, which sounded not only dull but planet-based.
An acronym caught his eye. OIPO. Officer, Interplanetary Operations. He expanded the listing and read the details.
An OIPO officer, he learned, was exactly what he would have imagined every naval officer was, before he read the sheet and discovered personnel officers and legal officers and all the rest. OIPO officers were part of the command structure of space-going vessels. They provided leadership and command. They directed the tactics, strategies, and procedures of military vessels. They managed training and personnel.
Tom stared at the listing, his head full of images from every space-going adventure vid he'd ever seen. He started to smile.
Until he came to the section on requirements. OIPO officers – in fact, every officer in the UW Armed Forces – needed a degree from an accredited college or university.
His shoulders slumped. You've done it again. One semester short, and you screwed it up. He scowled at the sheet, then poked without much hope at the Service Officer Training Program link at the bottom of the page. And his scowl faded.
For occupations where demand is high, the UW Armed Forces will pay for suitable candidates to attend College or University.
It looked a bit less promising when he read further. SOTP candidates typically attended a military university. Only rarely did the Armed Forces pay for a candidate to attend a civilian school. And OIPO Officer hardly sounded like a high-demand occupation.
Still, he had the vast majority of a degree. Surely he was a bargain compared to an SOTP candidate straight out of high school.
Laycraft's face was bright with expectation when she returned to the little meeting room. She wilted a bit when he announced he wanted to be a Naval officer. "You didn't finish your degree."
He told her about the SOTP program, and she stared at him for a bit, thinking. Finally she said, "I'm going to put you in touch with a recruiter. We'll see what they say."
A week later, Tom walked into a recruiting center near the campus and pressed his thumb to a long formal document. In that moment he surrendered his rights as a civilian and agreed to take on the duties and responsibilities of a member of the United Worlds Armed Forces.
The government would not, as he'd hoped, be paying him to complete his education. The recruiting officer had seemed amused by his optimism. "A year ago you'd never have gotten in," the grizzled man told him. "Not even if you'd finished your education. This year, though, things are different. This year, seven out of eight semesters is good enough. Welcome to the military."
Chapter 3
"I swear, it feels like someone stole our flag staff and replaced it with solid lead." The two-meter staff in Oscar Van Pelt's right hand started to droop. He quickly lifted it to the proper position, flag above his left shoulder, and glanced furtively at the cadre trainer before giving Tom a weary look. "Bloody thing weighs as much as my pack." He used his free hand to tug at the shoulder strap of an enormous backpack. "As much as my pack weighed when we started out, I mean. Now it feels like someone put a truck in there."
Tom, too tired to waste his breath in banter, gave Oscar a sympathetic nod. He wore the same brutally heavy pack, and it was all the weight he wanted. He'd eventually get his turn carrying the flag. He wasn't looking forward to it.
The flag was nothing impressive, and he'd have urged Oscar to get rid of the thing if they could get away with it. It was a dark green triangle, attached to the staff with lanyards and decorated with a black silhouette of a Canada Goose. It was the symbol of their platoon, and it was a pain in the neck.
"I'm not sure why we're doing all this marching, Boss," Oscar added. "I mean, we'll be on ships, won't we?"
Tom hitched his own pack into a slightly less painful position and gave the other man a grin. "Take it up with CT Carpenter. I'm sure he'll be sympathetic."
Oscar found the breath to chuckle. "Right." The cadre trainer was about as sympathetic as a cat in a bathtub.
Oscar was Navy, same as Tom. The Goose platoon held recruits from all four branches. They would spend eight weeks in Basic Officer Training before dispersing to learn their various professions. They were two weeks in, and Tom was seriously considering the merits of doing hard time in prison instead.
"Let's go, kids. Pick up the pace. If you can't keep up now, what will you do when we give you packs that actually weigh something?" CT Carpenter went past at a trot. He carried the same pack as the officer candidates, and if he noticed the weight he gave no sign.
"That man's unnatural," Oscar muttered. "Oh, God. Another hill."
Tom didn't answer, saving his breath as the ground rose. Wetaskiwin Base was in the Alberta foothills, and no hike stayed on level ground for long. He knew from experience that looking at the trail ahead would only discourage him. He focused instead on the heels of the woman in front of him, matching her step for step, telling himself that all he needed to do was keep up and eventually it would end.
"Pick 'em up and lay 'em down. That's it. Don’t just think about yourselves, either. You're a team now. You succeed as a team. You're going to get that lesson through your heads if I have to march you all the way back to barracks and start this hike over from the beginning. So watch out for one another."
Tom, lost in a fog of exhausted pain, didn't raise his head. I'll keep an eye on this person right in front of me. Or at least her feet. That will have to be enough.
When she stopped, he stopped as well. Only when her pack thumped onto the ground did he look up.
All around him recruits were dropping packs, straightening up, working kinks from their shoulders, or sagging against trees. The platoon was on a wide, sparsely-treed hilltop, and a breeze turned the back of Tom's shirt cool as he lowered his pack to the ground.
"Fifteen minutes rest," Carpenter said, setting his own pack down. "Enjoy it while you can. We'll try to pick up the pace for the second half."
Tom stepped away from his pack, turning to look at the trail behind them. The base was lost in the haze. They'd marched an impressive distance over some rough terrain, and it wasn't even noon yet.
With the weight gone from his back he felt as if he was going to pitch forward. He felt light and cool and strong, and he smiled, startled by what he'd achieved. It's only been two weeks and I'm already getting stronger. What will it be like by the time I'm done?
Civilian life had never been so punishingly hard – but at no point in his old life had Tom ever felt quite as good as he felt in this moment. Maybe I wouldn't choose prison after all.
"Hey, Boss, we're not done yet."
Tom looked at Oscar, standing just behind him. Another recruit had the flag. Oscar's hands were empty. "What? Are we on sentry duty?"
Oscar shook his head. "Look." He pointed down the hill. "Just this side of those pine trees."
They were spruce, not pines, but Tom didn't correct him. He shaded his eyes instead, and finally spotted a small, dark figure staggering up the slope. "Who's that?"
"I think it's Bruce." Bruce Harmon was the oldest member of the platoon, pushing fifty and carrying a lot of extra body weight. He approached every hike with a kind of grim desperation. He wouldn’t give up, Tom knew. But he wasn't about to catch up, either.
"Come on," Oscar said, stepping past Tom.
"Wait, what?"
Oscar gave him an impatient look over one shoulder. "Teamwork, remember? You think Carpenter will let us leave someone behind?" He didn't say anything further, just headed down the hill at a trot.
"But I did my part," Tom grumbled, watching his friend descend the hill they'd just climbed with such effort. "Aw, hell." Telling himself he didn't really need the rest, he headed after Oscar.
Bruce didn't want to give up his pack. He was red-faced and out of breath, not actually saying anything, just clinging to the shoulder straps and refusing to let go as Oscar tried to take the pack from his ba
ck. Tom jogged up to them in time to hear Oscar say, "Give it up, Bruce. We'll need your help sooner or later. And when we do, we'll take it and be grateful. We won't make you argue with us."
Bruce, still panting for breath, sagged a bit and reached for the buckle at his waist. He let Oscar take the pack.
"Come on, Boss, you can spell me half way up." Oscar headed up the hill, and Tom started after him.
Bruce's hand landed on his shoulder, stopping him. Tom turned. Bruce tried to speak, then gave up and pointed at the trail behind him. Tom looked down the trail, looked at Bruce, then shrugged and started walking back down the hill. He waited until he was out of the older man's earshot before he muttered, "Fine. I'll just lose even more distance. Because that's how I want to spend my rest breaks. Doing more walking."
Just inside the line of spruce trees he found Lily. He'd barely noticed her before, a tiny Chinese girl almost lost inside her baggy fatigues. She sat in the middle of the trail, staring up at him with wide, distressed eyes, her legs splayed on the ground in front of her.
"It's okay," he told her, and put a hand on the top of her pack. "Unbuckle yourself and get up. I've got the pack."
She unclipped the waist belt and wriggled out of the shoulder straps. When she stood he was struck by how small she was. The pack wasn't quite as big as she was, but it wasn't much smaller. Her legs trembled, but she squared her shoulders and said, "Maybe we can each carry one end."
"Too awkward," he told her, and hoisted the pack onto his own back. He had to expand the shoulder straps to get his arms through, then lengthen the waist strap.
Lily gave him a dejected look. "I'm sorry. I just couldn't carry it any farther."
She looked embarrassed and miserable, and Tom wished Oscar was with him. Oscar always seemed to know how to make someone else feel better. He'd probably point out that this hike was much, much harder on Lily than it was on him and Tom. It was true, too. She looked done in.
