The population of New Earth had increased since its colonization to somewhere in excess of fifty million, a number dwarfed by the billions living on crowded Earth - but for any colony that was quite a number. That fifty million was divided into three significant parts, the two larger and equal portions at twenty million a piece was made up of European and Chinese nationality, with the smaller part being Russian. There had been a tradition of acceptance between the ethnic groups, who lived as neighbours on sections of the planet’s continents that had been neatly divided up by the colonial powers and the corporations. It was only in the recent few decades - as relations between the old allies began to cool - that tensions on the colony rose.
‘The Chinese corporations wanted more land and demanded the Union give up her own territory,’ the lieutenant explained to his audience, showing us a rotating New Earth atlas on the hologram, divided into sections that were coloured in the flags of the three colonial powers that controlled the surface, ‘In particular the southern continent, where most of the Union mines were located.’
The lieutenant went on to describe more of the geography of New Earth and the patchwork of colonial territories that appeared to follow no obvious pattern across the four main continents and smaller islands. We learned about the planet’s Union capital; the Emerald City, a beautiful arrangement of glass domes, spheres and tunnels lit with all the colours of the rainbow. With a population of two million, it could be seen from space.
New Earth had nothing in the way of materials that couldn’t be found closer to the home planet. What made it so desirable was its booming manufacturing industry. Unlike asteroids and some of the moons found orbiting many gas giants, the planet had an abundance of raw materials from right across the periodic table. It had no need for imports and could support a large human population without assistance from Earth. Also, unlike Earth, the planet wasn’t divided by a thousand borders, and so the movement of raw materials was simpler still. The planet was a leader in nanotech, and was a leading mass producer in everything from computers to warships.
Due to the large Russian and Chinese presence and the open trading society that had existed before the Betrayal, English was widely spoken, although within the Union sectors - German, French and Spanish were the primary languages. It wouldn’t be a problem for us, since our respirator headsets and mouthpieces were programmed to translate for us.
It was hard to imagine what the population of that holographic planet had been through in recent years, no news had escaped New Earth since its capture, except for Chinese propaganda on the net back home that we were told to ignore, ‘What do you think they’ve done to them?’ I wondered aloud.
Climo shrugged, ‘Slave labour probably. Who knows?’
Joe Mac turned from where he sat in front of me and Climo, ‘Oi, shut up you pair of skid marks,’ he hissed.
‘Sorry,’ we murmured. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Woody leaning forward to look at us from a few seats down. His eyes bored into my burning cheeks, but I pretended not to notice him and eventually he returned his attention to the speaker. Great, I thought, no doubt he would come up with some way to make me pay for that later.
He did. As soon as the lecture finished and we were on our way back to our accommodation to wait for more timings, Woody rounded on me and Climo, with Stevo and Brown stood just behind him. The rest of the company crowded past us around the circumference corridor, either unaware or simply uninterested in the confrontation.
Woody scowled, ‘What were you doing talking in that lecture? Not interesting enough for you?’ Woody didn’t care about the lecture, I knew, he simply wanted some reason to continue his campaign of intimidation against me, but this time his contempt was directed at both me and Climo.
I tried to cool things down, ‘I’m sorry, we weren’t thinking,’ I admitted, ‘It was really stupid.’
‘Was I talking to you, crow bag?’ Woody spat, then turned to Climo who had blushed crimson.
‘Crow don’t speak,’ Stevo said to me from where he stood behind Woody’s hulking frame, ‘They get spoken to.’
‘Are you missing your crow days, Climo?’ Woody asked.
‘No,’ Climo said, defiance in his voice.
‘You wanna hang out with crow now do you?’
Climo looked at me, then back at Woody and shrugged, ‘He’s alright,’ he protested, and Stevo laughed as if such an idea was preposterous.
‘You did your time as a crow,’ Woody went on, ‘Like we all have. I took you under my wing and sorted you out. I could have smashed you far worse than you got, but I thought you were a good lad. Now you’re mixing with this weasel,’ he jerked a thumb at me where I stood awkwardly to one side, ‘Throwing all my hard work back in my face. What’s that about, then?’ He threw his arms up in the air in a gesture of futility.
Climo looked to me again, ‘He’s alright,’ he repeated. I felt a lift to my spirits seeing him stand up for me. Even though half of the platoon seemed to hate me, at least there was one more person who I could call a friend.
‘He’s a crow,’ Brown said, as if that were answer enough, but Climo, his defiance growing, shook his head.
‘We’ll be going to war soon,’ Climo said, ‘What’s the point in…’ he was cut short when Woody grasped him by the throat and pushed him against the corridor wall so hard that the metal panels echoed loudly about the confines of the ship. I jumped back instinctively.
‘Don’t talk to me about war!’ Woody shouted, his face pressed up against Climo’s nose. Climo struggled for air and grasped at Woody’s arm in a vain attempt to release the grip, but like me he was not nearly strong enough. When he wasn’t working Woody lived in the gym, and his huge muscles bulged against his fatigues.
‘What do you know about war? Nothing, that’s what. You think you got a pair now coz you did a few drops with us on Uralis? Crow do drops on Uralis. But that’s what you are, really isn’t it, Climo? A crowbag.’
‘You know what crowbags get don’t you?’ Stevo prompted Woody with a grin.
Woody nodded, and then he punched Climo full force in the gut. He let go and Climo, winded, fell helplessly to the ground. For good measure, he then kicked him again in the stomach as he retched on the floor.
It was at that point that Joe Mac appeared over the corridor horizon and saw what had happened. I was relieved, there was no way that Woody could explain this away, they had been caught red-handed assaulting a fellow trooper in the corridor. He lifted his cap, stooped over Climo and frowned, ‘Lads, screw the nut! Officers walk down this corridor.’
I gaped as Woody massaged his knuckles casually, ‘Sorry, mate, won’t happen again.’ Climo still clutched at his stomach where he lay at our feet.
‘Get him out of here,’ Joe shook his head, ‘Screw the nut, Woody.’ The lancejack was only concerned that somebody outside the platoon might see what was going on. He was happy to let the blokes serve their own justice if it kept them in line and it saved him work so long as no one was around to see it. He walked away without looking back.
Once Joe Mac was gone Woody looked to me. I was rooted to the spot, staring at my mate as he fought the urge to vomit on the metal floor. All the while Stevo and Brown stood ready, clearly wanting me to try something so they could have a go. It wouldn’t be much contest - there were three of them - and even if I went for one, I doubted the other two would allow me a fair fight. Stevo was as old as Woody, in his mid to late twenties I guessed, but he was little larger than me and I could see weakness in the way he hid slightly behind Woody for protection. Brown was less afraid, and he eyed me like a predator might eye its prey, but he knew not to do anything without Woody saying so.
‘Fancy a go, do you?’ Woody asked threateningly. My silence gave him his answer and he smiled, ‘Didn’t think so. Sort your new mate out.’
Once the three of them left I helped Climo up so that he sat with his back against the wall. There were tears on his cheeks and at first I thought that was because
he was winded, but then he sobbed.
‘Are you alright, mate?’ I asked, crouching on my haunches beside him. A couple of troopers walked by chatting loudly, only briefly stopping their conversation out of curiosity as they passed.
‘You alright?’ I asked again, placing my hand upon Climo’s shoulder but he shrugged it off angrily.
‘Just give me a minute, alright?’ Climo’s voice was breaking as he tried to take control of himself once more.
I paused, thinking of something to say that might lift Climo from his misery. Normally it seemed like it was just me feeling miserable, ‘I’m sorry, I should have done something.’
‘Like what, Moralee?’ Climo said harshly, ‘Do you do any martial arts?’ He shook his head and his voice softened, ‘I didn’t do much good the other day anyway, did I?’
I realised he was talking about the day that Woody attacked me and he had done nothing, ‘No, not really,’ I agreed and Climo shot me an angered look - but saw that I was smiling. After all we were only as bad as each other. Climo laughed and wiped his eyes. He put out his hand and I lifted him to his feet like we would when we were exhausted on Uralis and carrying too much kit to stand by ourselves.
‘This place gets too much for you sometimes,’ Climo admitted. He sniffed and regained his composure.
‘You don’t have to tell me that, mate,’ I agreed. My eye was still bloodshot in one corner and probably would be for some time.
Climo frowned, ‘I hate Woody,’ he said angrily, as upset turned to rage, ‘And his cowardly little minions. This senior private show won’t count for nothing down on New Earth. You’ll see.’
I nodded, not necessarily because I agreed, but because Climo had begun to seethe with anger and I wanted to humour him as we began to walk back to the accommodation.
‘It’s Andy,’ I blurted, surprising both of us, ‘My mates call me Andy.’
‘Well then,’ Climo exclaimed with a smile and renewed cheer, ‘Nice to meet you, Andy!’ We shook hands, and I made myself a new friend aboard challenger.
9: Training
As Challenger slipped through the cosmos at speeds I could scarcely imagine, the platoon began training under Sergeant James. Hand-to-hand combat practice was followed by first aid and respirator drills. We practiced weapon drills as well, but the limited space on board meant ranges and exercises were impossible. The fact is, skills fade when you’re cooped up for a long time aboard a ship.
The simulators were the Union’s answer to that problem. They could recreate anything - from ranges on Earth, to exercises on Uralis, to combat scenarios on Eden fighting the Indo-Japanese Alliance - and make you feel like you were really there by tapping into the neural structures of your brain. Troopers being troopers, the programmers were asked to recreate bars, nightclubs and even brothels, but they were always told the same thing: someone would have to actually ‘play’ the female. We always joked about someone taking one for the team.
The most important weapon in our arsenal that we all had to practice with was the MSG-20, or magnetic assault rifle, far superior to the silly carbines we’d had in basic training. Its powerful magnets could propel a small steel dart, no larger than the end of your little finger, at supersonic speeds up to five hundred times a minute. It didn’t rust, it had a trigger, a catch to remove the magazines, a firing selector to switch from single shot to burst to automatic, and three equally simple buttons to control the sight: change view mode, zoom, and focus. The MSG-20 was designed by a genius to be used by fools, in any environment, from Earth to vacuum, and made the sniper rifle - though not the sniper himself - almost obsolete.
Using the simulators, me and the other new lads slowly began to settle in and see how our new platoon worked. There seemed to be three distinctive tiers within the platoon that were almost as rigid as the rank system itself, even if it wasn’t official. The senior bods ensured we turned up with the correct kit. Woody in particular appeared to take sadistic pleasure in dealing with anybody stepping out of line; he thought up no end of humiliating punishments, including one time when he made me and Gilbert clean the toilets with our toothbrushes as punishment for not cleaning them properly that morning.
‘Don’t forget to brush your teeth tonight,’ Woody had said with that same sickly grin that I had come to loathe.
‘God, what a sadistic freak,’ Gilbert had cursed under his breath, careful not to be heard as we frantically scrubbed at green stains that had formed under the rim of the urinals. I agreed with him but chose to say nothing, lest I earned another black eye.
There were about ten senior bods in the platoon, three of whom made up parts of the headquarter element, including the platoon signaller - who was a slightly strange looking skinny man with eyes that were perhaps a little too close together - which earned him his nickname ‘Cyclops’. He never spoke much, but supposedly he was a genius. By trooper standards that didn’t necessarily mean a lot. Then there were of course Sergeant James’ smart launchers, Harmes and Mitch, who were - as Sam had said - quick to point out the importance of their role and how hard it was.
‘The platoon won’t get anywhere without the launchers,’ Mitch would say, while Harmes would nod his head furiously in agreement. During breaks in between shoots we would be taken outside into the corridor so that we could practice handling the smart launchers, loading them and unloading them with drill rounds and practicing using the sighting system. It was ridiculously simple, most of the clever stuff existed within the small missile which was indeed probably smarter than all of us. All you had to do was verbally tell the missile what you wanted it to do, point and fire, the missile worked out all the rest. You could even fire it blind into the sky without saying a word and it would search for a target you hadn’t seen and kill it.
‘There’s more to it than just fire and forget,’ Harmes defended when one of the senior bods made a sarcastic comment, ‘You gotta load it quick, fire from a good position and know how it thinks!’
‘Yeah, you gotta know how it thinks, man!’ Mitch agreed with far too much enthusiasm. They were like a comedy act.
‘Be one with the missile! They’re heavy, too, man, so you gotta be fit!’
‘Gotta be fit!’
I lifted the launcher in both arms. It was over a metre long, but built using lightweight composites in the most advanced factories on Titan. It probably weighed less than ten kilos with the drill round loaded into it. I decided that Sam had been right about the two of them; they were idiots.
Jamo appeared to have a soft spot for the two smart launchers, who were clearly in their position because they were senior but none too bright. He would often refer to them as his ‘boys with the toys’ whilst the platoon referred to them - in secret of course - as his ‘boys who are toys’.
The rest of the senior bods were split amongst our sections with an aim to spread their knowledge equally amongst the newer troopers. Woody and Rawson both presided over One section, one of whom was in each of the section’s two fire teams. Woody liked to think of himself as the top dog in the section, being the biggest in bulk as well as the biggest bully, but we all knew that in fact the top dog was Rawson, who would have been a Lance Corporal had his Junior Leader’s course not been cut short in anticipation of the Invasion. Despite being a cocky joker, he was calm and capable. Rawson appeared to let Woody have his way, but both Corporal Evans and Joe Mac often turned to him when things needed to be done - much to Woody’s apparent frustration.
Then there was the new lads - us - who sat at the very opposite end of the food chain. Even though some members of the platoon had warmed to us, including Climo who had become a friend, we were still widely seen as outsiders and not considered worthy of conversation. Some troopers, such as Sam and Davo, would extend us the courtesy of one word phrases but generally wouldn’t go out of their way to speak to us. We were used for menial tasks that the other lads didn’t want to do, such as running errands and cleaning the accommodation in the mornings, and we were always watch
ed closely by troopers keen to spot our mistakes.
Those in the middle weren’t referred to as anything specific, they were ‘the blokes’, ‘the bods’, ‘the lads’,’ the toms’… whatever took your fancy. They ranged from having served a year - to four years - and formed the main workforce of the platoon. Some were clearly more capable than others, some even more so than the senior bods, but they were seen as not having had enough experience to be considered for additional responsibilities. Some, like Sam, outwardly resented this, but made no effort to change a system that had worked for centuries. Others, like Brown, followed the senior bods doggedly in an attempt to climb the platoon pile, and I despised them for their shamelessness.
The platoon itself had a hundred divisions, depending on where individuals came from, ancestry, social class and religious beliefs. Most of our battalion were recruited from the southern cities, but we did have some within our ranks who came from the north, and even the odd Welshman - such as Westy. The platoon accepted their differences, as only troopers could, united by a bond created by shared hardship.
The rumours amongst the platoon intensified as we neared the rendezvous, the platoon were nervous and rightly so, and nothing made troopers more edgy than being left in the dark.
‘I don’t think it’s gonna happen,’ Woody said one time as we practiced using the under-slung grenade launcher outside the simulators and away from the NCOs.
‘So what, we’re gonna just turn up and the Admiral says “Shorry ladsh, falsh alarm?”’ Rawson mimicked the Dutch accent of the commander of the 3rd fleet and the invasion of New Earth.
‘We’ll get there, and they’ll think about it, and somebody will say it’s a stupid idea.’
‘What’s stupid about it?’ Sam asked from where the rest of us watched the two senior soldiers practicing with the grenade launchers. We were supposed to be taking turns, but Woody had not handed his over for ten minutes, because he kept making mistakes. He blamed it on being tired from a rough session in the gym the night before, but we all knew better, senior troopers weren’t all perfect and he was proving it, and getting angrier and angrier in the process.
C.R.O.W. (The Union Series) Page 10
