Ride The Rising Tide (The Maxwell Saga)

by Peter Grant

  “I will, Sir. Unfortunately, it’ll probably take several years, perhaps as long as a decade, to obtain results.” Long enough for me to get far away from here – and from you!, he thought.

  “We understand that. We won’t pressure you unduly.” Wang rose to his feet and held out his hand. “It only remains for me to wish you every success in your Fleet career.”

  Steve rose with him, and returned his firm clasp. “Thank you, Sir. I’ll certainly give it all I’ve got!”

  Wrong Leaf!

  January–March 2839, Galactic Standard Calendar

  The first day of in–processing at the Fleet Recruit Depot was a nightmare of bellowed orders from seemingly infuriated instructors, desperate attempts by the recruits to do something — anything! — to placate the vengeful demons yelling at them, and… running. They double–timed everywhere, sometimes from one place to another, other times running in place while they waited for admission to the next processing station. Steve half–expected to be told to run in place even while using the restroom facilities — which he rapidly learned were to be referred to only as ‘the heads’, on pain of the instructors’ instant and highly vocal displeasure.

  Moving between reception stations was an adventure in itself. Recruits tried to stay in formation as they ran, but hadn’t yet learned to keep in step with one another. Many couldn’t help bumping into each other, causing their platoons to lurch from place to place like bulging, endlessly shape–shifting amoebas. Some individuals resembled nothing so much as new–born calves, trying desperately to keep their feet and move with the herd, but so unsteady that they wobbled all over the landscape in the process.

  At one point Steve’s platoon got crossways with another at an intersection, ending up with a hundred and sixty recruits in a hopelessly intertwined tangle, staring at each other in bemusement. The resulting chaos appeared to induce simultaneous apoplexy among the staff, as two sets of instructors tried to sort out two units of complete (and completely inept) strangers, almost all of whom were quite happy to follow somebody — anybody! — as long as they moved away from the screaming.

  As they finally began moving again, the recruit next to Steve — whose name he didn’t yet know — muttered, “Someday I guess we’ll look back on this and laugh.”

  Steve snorted. “Yeah, right!”

  The last gear issue wasn’t funny at all. They staggered into their barracks and dumped their uniforms and other gear on their beds, only to be called to attention by Petty Officer First Class Robinson, their Platoon Instructor. The recruits fumbled their way to an approximately upright position at the foot of their bunks.

  “Pay attention this way, recruits!”

  They looked down the barracks to where Robinson and the Deputy Platoon Instructors, Corporal Shabab, a Marine, and Petty Officer Third Class Kilrain, stood by the door.

  “Look at the people around you. I guarantee that at least a third of you, maybe as many as half of you, won’t be here by the time Boot Camp is over.”

  There was a dumbfounded silence as they glanced apprehensively at each other, then back at the Platoon Instructor. He held up a piece of white cloth.

  “You’ll each receive one of these armbands. You’re to keep it in your pocket at all times, and put it under your pillow when you sleep. It’s a disciplinary offense to be caught without it — and yes, we’ll be checking.”

  He paused for a moment, then spoke more slowly, with great emphasis. “This is your ticket home. Anytime you’ve had a bellyful, anytime you can’t take any more, just put on this armband and raise your hand. We’ll have you out of here in two blinks of an eye. There’s no harm, no foul, and you can go back to civilian life without shame.”

  Beside him Corporal Shabab added, “You may have taken the oath of enlistment, but as far as the Fleet’s concerned you’re not Spacers or Marines yet. As recruits you’re ‘fresh fish’. You have no rank. You’re officially grade E–zero unless and until you graduate from Boot Camp. If you decide you can’t handle the pressure, or if we decide you’re not Fleet material, your enlistment can be terminated without prejudice. Once you’ve graduated, you’re stuck for a full four–year term. Why take that risk if you’re not sure? Just say the word and we’ll set you free.”

  PO Kilrain nodded. “The Fleet accepts only a tiny fraction of one per cent of the population of the Lancastrian Commonwealth into its ranks. That doesn’t imply that the other ninety–nine–plus per cent aren’t good people. They’re just not cut out for this sort of life. If you’re among them, why torture yourself trying to be something you’re not? Put on your armband and stick up your hand. Make it easy on yourself — and on us.”

  The instructors passed down each side of the barracks, pressing an armband into every recruit’s hand. Steve looked at his with revulsion. He knew its ready availability would be — was intended to be — a nagging, humbling temptation and a psychological torture in the days and weeks to come. Even as he put it in his pocket, he commanded himself mentally, The white armband does not exist for me. From now on, that’s my mantra. The white armband DOES NOT EXIST FOR ME!

  That night the barracks was filled with restless rustling, coughing, tossing and turning — even a few hidden tears — as the recruits tried to get some sleep amid the ruins of their preconceptions.

  ~ ~ ~

  Every day, from before dawn until late into the night, the recruits charged from challenge to challenge. They bounced between their bunks, the heads, calisthenics, breakfast, close order drill, classroom periods for hypno–studies or lectures, lunch, practical exercises and training, supper, and back to the barracks once more. There they spent long evenings in bleary–eyed study while washing and pressing their sweat–soaked, dirt–encrusted uniforms.

  They brought their gear and accommodation to a state of cleanliness and smartness they wouldn’t have believed possible until their instructors demanded it. At first their beds were stripped during inspection almost every morning, the bedding thrown to the floor, to be retrieved and beds remade at breakneck speed. Their uniforms were derided as dirty, bedraggled, worthy only of contempt. White–glove inspections of their barracks produced condemnations such as “Slovenly!”, “Filthy!”, or — most damning of all — “Fit only for CIVILIANS!”

  The recruits never had enough sleep, and what rest they were permitted was often interrupted by alarms, practice drills, and what seemed at first to be pure sadistic bloody–mindedness. Their instructors soon corrected them. “You think we do this because we enjoy it? Think again! What d’you think will happen at two in the morning when Spacers are dragged out of a deep sleep to fight a fire aboard ship, or Marines have to defend their position against an attack? You’d better learn to function when you’re tired and stressed, or else you’re gonna die!”

  The platoon entered upon close order drill as a shambolic collection of individuals moving in roughly the same direction at least some of the time, in anything but unison. However, it rapidly began to evolve into something bearing at least a passing resemblance to a military formation. Recruits displaying particular ineptitude were ‘encouraged’ by making them run at full speed to a distant point and back. Slow runners received additional ‘motivation’. After one foul–up, Steve was ordered by PO Kilrain to “Bring me a leaf from that bush!”, pointing to a shrub on the hillside above the parade–ground. He returned, panting, and presented a leaf to the instructor, only to have it thrust back at him. “Wrong leaf! Put it back and get me the right one!”

  Trotting away, he made a mental vow to remember the incident, and to do something about it at some point… but not yet. Every muscle in his body hurt too much.

  ~ ~ ~

  The recruits’ ancestry, present worth and future prospects were witheringly discussed (and frequently dismissed) by their instructors. However, the recruits couldn’t help noticing that whilst their vocabulary was varied, creative and extremely expressive, they seldom used profanity. Their example began to have the desired effect o
n most of the platoon, but there were a few particularly foul–mouthed ‘fresh fish’ who didn’t pay attention.

  PO Robinson laid it on the line during their first route march, early in their training. Halfway out the platoon was given fifteen minutes to catch their breath, care for their feet, take a head break behind any convenient bush (policing up any detritus for sanitary disposal later), and eat an energy bar and drink a few swallows of water. Inevitably, some of the recruits moaned, groaned and complained during the break, cursing the heat, the cold, their feet, the dirt path, the energy bars, the water and anything else they could think of.

  PO Robinson waited until the platoon had reassembled, then called them to account. “I don’t want to hear so much cursing and swearing. Nobody minds an occasional ‘hell’ or ‘damn’ or whatever, but there’s no need to string expletives together or be filthy–minded. You’ve all passed tough aptitude and intelligence tests to get here. You’ve all got good vocabularies. Use them!

  “Some of you may have been taken in by holovids portraying Spacers and Marines as big, tough guys who swear at the drop of a hat, and drop it themselves if necessary.” Laughter. “Swearing can be useful to let off steam. In the heat of the moment, sometimes nothing will do but a string of words that’ll curl the hair on your chest, or burn it off an average civilian’s head!” More laughter. “However, that’s not normal everyday practice. You’re here to become professionals. Part of being professional is to actively use your intelligence in your interactions with others, both inside and outside the Fleet. It’s part of the image you project as individuals, and that we project as an armed service. We want our society to be proud of us — after all, they pay for us! — so think about the impression your choice of words conveys.

  “Most of you grew up in, and the Fleet operates in, one of the most intelligent societies to have developed in the history of the human race. Emigration from Old Home Earth and the first colony planets acted as a sorting, filtering and selecting device. Every planet settled over the past couple of centuries has averaged twenty IQ points higher than pre–Space–Age Earth, and the spread’s getting wider. You’re the fruit of that — so why not show it?

  “They say that ‘profanity’s the sign of an idle mind’. I reckon that’s true. The Fleet’s found that recruits who won’t exercise self–discipline to control their swearing probably won’t graduate. The few that do usually don’t last more than one term of enlistment, and usually don’t earn many promotions. That’s not specifically because they curse — it’s because we’ve found pointless, repetitive swearing to be an indicator that they won’t achieve the standards we expect from them in other areas. In particular, they clearly aren’t prepared to apply their minds and use their intelligence. Those who don’t learn that lesson usually don’t make it to graduation.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Their calisthenic sessions initially left them feeling as if their arms and legs were about to fall off, breath forming white clouds before them in the chill morning air as it rasped in their throats, chests heaving, sweat soaking their clothing and dripping down their faces. Their instructors were relentless, increasing the tempo and number of repetitions as their fitness grew; but despite this, to the recruits’ surprise, their pain began to diminish. Some of them actually began to enjoy themselves as the platoon progressed from uncoordinated, fumbling ineptitude to a rhythmic, cadenced sequence of exercises performed with growing speed and confidence.

  The obstacle courses — no less than eight of them, to allow multiple platoons to train at the same time, and every one different to provide variety — daunted them at first. Teams of eight recruits, varying in number as the platoon grew smaller, were required to carry long heavy wood poles over, under or through (but never around) every obstacle. The poles initially spent more time on the ground than on their shoulders, to the vocal displeasure of their instructors. However, repetition, increasing fitness and strength, and nagging, ungentle urging led to more effective teamwork and greatly improved results.

  The great day finally dawned when, for the first time, all the platoon’s poles made it through the course without touching the ground. The instructors celebrated by immediately having them return their poles to the stacks, take larger, heavier ones, and do it again. That day three more of their number put on their white armbands.

  The rest weren’t yet military… but they were already no longer civilians.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Awright, gather round!”

  The recruit platoon broke formation and formed a semi–circle around Corporal Shabab. Like them, he wore combat boots, battledress trousers and a gray T–shirt. A large rubber training knife was thrust through his belt. PO Robinson, immaculately turned out in Number Two uniform, stood on the grass at the edge of the soft sand of the training–ground, watching proceedings with a gimlet eye.

  “This is your first class in unarmed combat,” Shabab informed them. “By the time I’m finished with you, you’ll be able to take down an attacker using only your hands, feet, elbows and knees — unless he’s shooting at you from a distance. In that case, you’d better have a weapon to match his, or else you’re gonna die!” Dubious, muted laughter from the recruits.

  “The Marine Corps has developed its own system of unarmed combat, which has been adopted throughout the Fleet. It incorporates techniques from wrestling, hand– and kick–boxing, karate and other martial arts. They work very well together, as you’ll learn. Let me demonstrate. Recruit Kumar! You look tired! Let me help you wake up! Front and center!”

  The recruit stepped forward apprehensively and snapped to attention.

  “I want you to put me on the ground, any way you like. Let’s go! MOVE, recruit!”

  The hapless Kumar jumped nervously, gulped, and lunged awkwardly at the instructor. Corporal Shabab side–stepped the onrushing recruit, reached out almost negligently, and tossed him over his shoulder. Kumar landed on the soft sand like a sack of potatoes, arms and legs flailing, breath driven from his lungs with an agonized ‘Whumpf!’

  Steve couldn’t help frowning at the inept display, shaking his head — and the instructor noticed. “You! Recruit Maxwell! Why are you shaking your head?”

  Uh–oh, Steve thought to himself as he snapped to attention. “Sir, no excuse, Sir!”

  “Front and center, Recruit Maxwell! Recruit Kumar, on your feet! Rejoin the platoon.”

  Steve stepped forward and came to rigid attention as Kumar hobbled back into the ranks, gasping for breath.

  “Did you think that was pitiful, Recruit Maxwell? Do you think you can do better?”

  Steve hesitated for a moment, aware that anything he said was likely to backfire on him. Shabab frowned and stepped closer, thrusting his face into Steve’s. “Answer me, recruit! Do you think you can do better?”

  Oh, what the hell!, Steve thought, suddenly reckless. “Sir, yes, SIR!” The last word was a defiant shout.

  Shabab stepped back, affecting a look of surprise. “Did I hear you correctly, recruit?” He glanced over at Robinson. “Would the Platoon Instructor please confirm that my ears didn’t deceive me? Do we actually have a recruit who thinks he can take me?”

  Robinson stood impassively at Parade Rest, arms behind him. “It would appear so, Corporal. I suggest we find out whether he’s right, or just bluffing.”

  “Aye aye, Platoon Instructor! Awright, Recruit Maxwell, show me what you got. I’m going to attack you with this training knife,” and he plucked the rubber blade from his belt. “Stop me any way you like before I stick it in your gut — but you’d better stop me, because I’m going to stick it in hard, and it’s going to hurt! Got it?”

  “Sir, aye aye, Sir! This recruit requests permission to ask a question, Sir!”

  “What is it, recruit?”

  “Sir, this recruit wishes to know whether there are any rules to this fight, Sir!”

  Shabab goggled at him for a moment, then laughed scornfully. He clearly thought Steve was grandstanding. “No goug
ed eyes and no broken teeth or bones, recruit. Other than that, anything goes! Stand ready. Here I come!”

  He moved even as he spoke, gliding in with a swift, sinuous motion, knife extended forward in his upturned hand, thrusting fiercely straight at Steve’s navel. Steve didn’t have time to think or prepare; but he didn’t need it. His opponent’s guard was down, probably through over–confidence. He chopped outward, his left hand making a tegatana hand–sword strike to the Corporal’s forearm and knocking his knife out of line. As he struck he twisted to his right, thrust his right hand beneath the instructor’s right armpit, extended his right leg, and catapulted him over his hip in a seoi nagi throw. Even as the Corporal fell, Steve pivoted with him and came down with a knee on his chest, left hand securing his opponent’s knife hand, right hand lashing out in a fist–strike to the joint of his opponent’s jaw–bone, shouting aloud, “Kiai!”, the sound welling up in a hoarse coughing grunt from the base of his diaphragm. He halted his blow just as it touched Shabab’s skin.

  The Corporal stared up at him, eyes wide with astonishment, but a growing grin on his face. “So you weren’t just full of it! Where did you learn to fight like that?”

  Steve came to his feet, offering his hand to Shabab, who took it and rose with him. Snapping to attention once more, he replied, “Sir, this recruit is ranked nidan in karate, Sir.”

  “Aw–right! We have a second dan black belt among us! Well done, recruit!”

  Robinson stepped forward. “Recruit, why is your karate qualification not listed in your personnel file?” he asked briskly — almost suspiciously, Steve thought.

  “Sir, this recruit respectfully submits that his recruiter was provided with copies of all his qualifications, including karate. He doesn’t know why it’s not recorded in his file, Sir.”

  Robinson glanced at Shabab, and they shared a rueful nod. “It won’t be the first time there’s been a foul–up in the records. I’ll look into that. Meanwhile, Corporal, would you agree that we’ve found our unarmed combat team leader?”