by Scott Moon
He snapped his vision straight ahead and saw a redheaded young woman he recognized. She didn’t smile or look away.
There was no time to search the ranks for his brother or try to understand why Ruby McGuire would enlist. Her family depended on her, even though she was neither the oldest nor the most talented. Strange as it was, the sight of Ruby emphasized how far away from home they were. Standing straight across from him in the line, she was easy to recognize.
“Right face,” Yang shouted. “That means turn to your right and look straight ahead.” He moved up and down the line cursing for a moment, then put his hands on his hips and dropped his head in consternation.
Milarns approached and took over as though doing the corporal a favor. “Tomorrow we will teach you to march in a manner fitting for soldiers of any branch of the Starship Corps. Today I simply want you to walk into the showers. Do not talk. Do not touch. Follow the instructions of Corporal Yang or push the pavement until you grow ears better attuned to the sound of lawful military orders.”
Kevin walked into the barracks. Noncommissioned officers he didn’t recognize assigned them bunks. He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed it wasn’t a coed facility. A tall divider separated the male and female facilities. Showers, he guessed, would be the same. Thoughts of Ruby McGuire distracted him so thoroughly that he had trouble remembering Joii’s name or why he’d been fascinated by the dark-haired young stranger with the disturbing homemade tattoo of a monster.
The barracks were just as his grandfather had described — built on a grid system inside a larger building that might as well have been a gravity wheel habitat on a starship. His new home was basically a huge city of dividers covered by a single roof.
“This is a footlocker,” Yang shouted as he squatted low enough to hold a combination lock on the front of the luggage. His dark green slacks and sand-colored shirt creased when he moved, then recovered to smoothness as he stood. When he spoke — when he directed his gaze toward an individual — the hat became a weapon.
Kevin tried to listen.
Grandfather Brandon was even more reluctant to show himself inside of the recruit barracks. Remembering the name for the monster on Joii’s arm seemed very important, but Kevin was struggling now. Years in Tower Building 595 taught him to know his surroundings and think ahead to the next step. Now, however, his mind fractured along diverging streams of logic and memory.
There were dozens of mundane details to remember and perform perfectly. He thought he was standing correctly but couldn’t be sure. The number of his classmates assigned to his squad had flown from his mind like an irrelevant detail when he understood he would suffer for not remembering.
Several times, he thought of Ruby and Joii and all the other people he had met. Somewhere in the super-barracks complex, Foster and Chaf were struggling to make sense of the first chaotic day. He focused on his immediate environment. Gazing around for friends wasn’t allowed.
He looked straight ahead, listened to Yang and the other drill instructors, and did what he was told. There was no time to contemplate what had happened to the twins or why Joii had a tattoo eerily similar to the things Ace described after his nightmares. There was no time to remember with certainty his grandfather naming the creatures. He let go of the burden and followed directions. Focusing on the present moment was a relief. A weight lifted from his shoulders.
“Into the showers,” Yang ordered. “Do not touch each other. Do not look at each other. Stand in front of your shower nozzle. Turn on the cold water halfway. Do not move and do not make a sound.”
Several of the recruits cursed or grunted when the water struck. This wasn’t the lukewarm city water Kevin was accustomed to, but something reminding him of a cold blue sky. He controlled his breathing and tried to remember his father’s relaxation exercises. He made a list and focused on his next-action mantra as his mother would in the same situation.
“Turn the hot water halfway just as you did during the previously described cold water faucet procedure. The result will become what is known in the Starship Marine Corps as warm water. In the Starship Army Corps, this temperature is lovingly referred to as planet-piss-perfect. In the Starship Pilot Corps, this temperature is commonly seen as cause for litigation and may or may not be grounds for a fighter jock to get shore leave in order to recover from the ordeal. When hot water is available, you will take showers appropriate to the need of cleanliness and your comfort level. We will not waste the hard-earned money of the God-blessed taxpayers of the United Nations of America by taking long and hot showers. On the rack under the faucet, there is a bar of soap. Use this bar of soap under your left armpit. Do the same with your left arm. While holding the bar of soap in your right hand, rinse off the upper left part of your body. Now soap your right armpit.”
Tired and hungry, Kevin did what he was told, growing annoyed as time passed. Somewhere in the back of his memory, he thought his grandfather had said paperwork and processing came before barracks assignment and hygiene. Looking around at some of his classmates, he realized why the showers came first. Compared to Joii, Foster, and Chaf, he was filthy as a street rat. The realization made him angry because everybody in Building 595 paid attention to cleanliness and basic hygiene as best they could — not like the short buildings in West District where greasy hair and bad teeth were high fashion.
There was only so much water and soap available in 595. Residents used it for essential needs.
He stared at the divider between the male and female showers. Perhaps a third of the young women across flimsy barrier were tall enough to show more than their faces or tops of heads. One blonde girl was tall enough to display more than her shoulders. Kevin realized it would be easy to walk to the partition and look over.
He wondered who would be the first punished for violating a classmates’ privacy.
Once they were clean and taught the proper use of towels, drill instructors ordered the recruit applicants back into the barracks, where socks and underwear had magically appeared on footlockers.
“You have one second to look at that article of clothing and memorize how it is folded. You now have two seconds to get dressed in said clothing articles.”
NONE of this seemed right to Kevin. He knew everything there was to know about boot camp from conversations with his grandfather. He had expected to know what the drill instructors would say before they said it.
He laughed at the slanderous talk about Starship Pilot Corps and the Army grunts, cooling his mirth even as he browsed other things the DIs had said during their rants.
When he found himself dressed and laced into boots that did not seem to fit, he let go of his preconceptions of the entire process. He was here. No crime lord could touch him and if he played his cards right, he could find the twins soon after basic training.
Priest appeared through a doorway, looking as though he just had a meal and a good night’s sleep. “Fall out to the training field and I will explain how you’re supposed stand at attention. Do it now.” He strode behind them as everyone in this section of the barracks rushed through the section doors. “It is the will of the Corps that men and women will not shower together nor will they sleep together during basic training. It is also, however, the will of the Corps that men and women will work together and fight together. Corporal Yang will assign each of you a number until you are divided into four groups. Fifty classmates and they will be your training platoon. Do not overthink this. Listen to your number and then go where you are told to go.”
Kevin received his number and moved. He was disappointed Ruby was not in his training platoon. He used the confusion to look for his brother and did not find him in the ranks of recruit applicants. Joii, Foster, and Chaff, however, were all in his group. A half dozen barracks opened onto an expanse of dark-colored concrete and it didn’t take him long to realize none of them were going back into the same barracks where they had been processed into the showers.
Hence the ill-fitting clo
thing and no time to get settled in.
Priest approached his platoon. He taught, or attempted to teach, them how to stand at attention. He then did the same with the parade rest stance and told them to maintain it. “After breakfast, you will be issued your final kit, which will include uniforms, boots, boot brushes, writing utensils, grooming utensils, and several other things — don’t even ask what will befall you should you have something ‘stolen’ or otherwise misplaced by no fault of your own. Do not lose your underwear. Take care of your gear and it will take care of you.” He paused. “Before that can happen, you must eat. Before you fine specimens of society can eat, you must complete in-processing.”
Kevin waited for Priest to say more, then listened to other training platoons for information that wasn’t coming from his DI.
“Platoon, right face. March,” Priest said.
Kevin was glad to be in the middle of the pack, not at the front. None of the recruit applicants knew where to go. The sun rose. He laughed as he realized he missed Building 595.
Priest walked next to him and spoke in a low, serious voice. “Is something funny?”
Kevin focused on walking in step with the person in front of him.
“I will not ask this question again. Is something funny, boot?”
“I was homesick for a moment, sir.”
“And do you think that is funny?”
“I never thought I would miss Building 595, sir.”
The drill instructor stopped beside him and stared for several long moments before moving off to check on the rest of the training platoon.
Soon they were sitting in a state-of-the-art classroom with their heads down on desks, electronic screens ready to receive information but remaining dark until the recruit applicants received permission to work.
Kevin’s reward for finishing early — by skipping anything he didn’t understand and completing the rest from months of secret preparation before running away — was to put his head down. He would have slept if he wasn’t starving. Moments passed. Boredom was something he understood came with the job, which didn’t make it easier. He tapped his foot under the desk, then turned his head to the left and saw Joii double-checking all of her computerized forms for accuracy. He turned his head to center and faced down on the desk, holding the position long enough to know he had not drawn the attention of one of the drill instructors. After that careful pause, he looked to the right and saw Foster.
The wiry young man was skinny but looked too well fed to have lived in the public housing areas. He faced his desk, head down as directed but raised just enough to read the screen that was supposed to be turned off.
“What are you doing?” Kevin asked through clenched teeth.
Foster smiled and continued to work.
“You’re going to get us all in trouble,” Kevin said.
Foster smiled again and spoke without looking in Kevin’s direction. “Did you know a Void Troll really is twelve to fourteen feet tall and ten times as strong as a human? I mean, I expected they would be stronger. They’d have to be, right?”
Boot steps approached. Foster went silent.
A hand fell on Kevin’s shoulder. “Are you supposed to be speaking, Applicant Connelly?” a meticulously uniformed woman named Roosevelt said. Her voice was low, rough, and musical. Kevin had seen her several times, but this was his first encounter with the woman. Tall, her skin was dark but non-determinant of her race. With her hair tied back and a neutral, moderately educated accent, there was no way to make assumptions about her past or heritage.
She was quiet and stern, a watcher — and as he suddenly realized — an officer.
Kevin didn’t know if he should sit up to address the lieutenant or answer the question while down. With no time to think, he spoke without moving. “Sorry, ma’am.”
Foster, despite being in the clear, chose that moment to speak. “Ma’am, are Void Trolls really bulletproof? I know they look like stone, but that doesn’t mean they can stop modern munitions, right?”
Kevin felt the noncoms gathering with the silent force of a storm or food riot about to explode. He saw feet but did not look up.
“Lieutenant Roosevelt,” Priest said.
“I’ve got this, Gunny,” Roosevelt said. “Training Platoon 8970, fall out to the training field. Now!”
Several confused moments followed as young men and women stumbled into each other to form uneven lines displeasing to the drill instructors and the lieutenant.
“Why is my platoon not ready to march?” Roosevelt demanded, her voice driving through the harsh morning light with the power of an opera singer in a battle scene.
Yang, Davis, and Milarns moved like factory foremen crushing a strike. Fear thrilled its way through Kevin. During the scramble, he saw Priest arguing with Roosevelt in low tones.
“I know who you are, Priest. Don’t think it means anything here,” she said.
“They haven’t eaten. All they will do is make mistakes on top of mistakes,” Priest said.
“Of course,” she said, then wheeled away to stride up and down the line of trembling, disoriented recruits. “None of you know how to march. We will run instead. Corporal Yang, call cadence.”
Kevin kept pace easily at first, counting the first three times they passed the mess hall before turning off his brain and his imagination. The smell of food made his mouth water to rival the sweat pouring off his body.
Priest and Davis, one of the recently appeared DIs, gathered up stragglers and kept them moving. Each time Lieutenant Roosevelt passed the miscreants, her expression hardened.
“Now that was simple, wasn’t it? Gunny Milarns, get some food in them.”
Milarns held a salute until the lieutenant strode away. “Platoon, left face. Platoon, forward march. Corporal Yang, introduce these fine young specimens of the UNA to our dining facilities.”
Sobered by the displeasure of Lieutenant Roosevelt, Yang explained each step of the chow line. With the help of other noncoms, he directed them to tables.
“No one said eat,” Priest said just loud enough to be heard as he patrolled the room.
Kevin sat straight, listening for the lieutenant or some other officer.
Yang walked to the front of the room with a tray, turned, and sat at a table. “This is how you hold your tray. This is your right hand. Use it to place your fork next to your plate. For those of you smart enough to have collected napkins, place one on your right leg.”
Kevin ate like a professional and watched for the disapproval of DIs or officers.
“Don’t look at me,” Priest said. “And don’t answer or respond.” He began a quick-paced recitation of Starship Corps history and why enlisted men and women did not get assigned to a specific branch of the service until after Basic.
Kevin re-learned a lot during the first few days; how to keep a group of — if not friends — age mates in a straight line, how to keep his eyes forward, how to watch for the reasons or lack of reasons behind simple orders. For a young man far beyond fear and stress, it was a once in a lifetime experience to witness his growing circle of friends during their indoctrination. None of it felt as he expected it would.
Mostly he was tired, sometimes bored, often frustrated, and always concerned for Joii, Ruby, Chaf, and even Foster. These people, and others, were family now. The thought of watching them die sobered his daydreams of glory.
12
Vision
KEVIN’S eye snapped open. He stared at the bunk above him as Corporal Yang stormed between rows of bunks, slamming a baton into a metal box. The formalized ritual caused half the training platoon to fall out of bed in an ineffectual hurry as the other half groaned. Kevin stared at the springs above him. He had to the count of five before he needed to hustle. Life in BTF 029 was predictable if nothing else.
Everyone hated reveille. Foster complained that they must be in the Starship Marine Corps rather than the Army or Pilot Corps. According to the wiry know-it-all, the other branches had either a
bugle reveille or personalized alarm clocks for each recruit. According to Foster and his sources, the SMC was too poor or too steeped in forgotten tradition to move away from the baton and metal box. DIs in Basic came from all branches of the service, although the SMC provided the bulk of the instructors.
“My father said it was trashcan lid,” Chaf said from the next row of bunks as he steadily but surely dressed for another day of walking and standing in line.
Kevin knew what a trashcan lid was; he had a hard time visualizing one and why banging it with a baton would make noise.
Yang reached the end of the bunks and turned around. One of the female sergeants, Natalia Lacy, wandered through the partitioned room, sizing up each recruit with her famous indifference.
She would have been the most beautiful woman Kevin had ever seen or imagined if not for the scar cutting across her face. According to Foster, this meant her head had been cut in half with her brain hanging out, because anyone with as many awards for bravery and service as she had would have received the best medical attention in the UNA Starship Corps. Which meant she shouldn’t have scars.
Kevin, now dressed and ready for another stunning day of martial learning, stood at attention just in time to watch her pass.
She stopped, stared at him, then glanced back to the doorway where Priest was watching. Without expression or comment, she swept her eyes over him and continued her inspection.
“Why do they do that?” Foster asked from his position of attention.
“Foster has a question? That’s new,” said Chaf.
“No one knows why we have so many nonessential noncommissioned officers and field officers strolling through BTF 029,” Foster said through clenched teeth to avoid Yang seeing the conversation. He sounded annoyed that he didn’t know the answer or at least some rumor-approximated answer.
