Bayonet Dawn (SMC Marauders Book 1)

by Scott Moon

  “Put your helmets on. We have a guest,” Yang said.

  Training Platoon 8970 formed into ranks with automatic precision as Lacy approached, looking only slightly less deranged than Priest had when the hellish day began.

  “8970, plank,” she said.

  Kevin and the others dropped to a pushup position and held it. His arms and shoulders trembled. Spots returned to his vision with a vengeance.

  “There will be times the Starship Marine Corps or Starship Army Corps will ask more than you can give. Today is that day. You may want to consider one of the other services,” she said, her voice rough from yelling at Priest.

  Kevin wished Lacy would take them on another run of the physical training field when not so long ago he would have paid any price to never run again. Fire filled his arms, shoulders, and chest. Core muscles twitched. All he wanted was to fall on the tarmac.

  “8970, stand and recover,” Lacy said.

  Yang waited nearby, face unreadable. Milarns arrived but said nothing.

  “Right face, march. Corporal Yang, please deliver Training Platoon 8970 to the obstacle course,” Lacy said.

  Yang stepped forward. “It is the corporal’s duty to inform his superior that the obstacle course is closed until midday tomorrow.”

  “Of course,” Lacy said. “But the rope climb is not.”

  Kevin went with Yang and his classmates to the rope climb and stared at forty feet of vertical hell. Lacy and Milarns moved aside for a private conference.

  Yang watched the sergeants for a moment, then addressed the platoon. “All right, Connelly. Since you seem to be the one to royally piss off everyone above the rank of corporal, you’re first. Up that rope, recruit. Foster and Chafalote, up the other two.”

  Kevin climbed. Pulling, pushing, and otherwise using his natural strength was his preferred form of physical conditioning. If he hadn’t spent the last few years sharing his meals with the twins, he would be one of the biggest recruits in the training cycle. As it was, his long frame was powerful compared to his weight. He went up the rope like it was a vacation.

  Yang ordered those recruits not climbing to sit cross legged on the edge of the obstacle course.

  Milarns approached and watched for most of a rotation. When he stepped forward, he spoke in a voice that was barely audible. “Training Platoon 8970 will continue to climb. Corporal Yang will serve as safety monitor for the rest of physical training.”

  “Yes, sir,” Yang said.

  “Now listen up; there may be a test on what I am about to tell you.”

  Several of the recruits chuckled. The head noncommissioned officer said this almost every time he opened his mouth. Listen up; there will be a test…

  “Void Trolls inhabit an Earthlike world near the boundary of explored space, between us and the Siren home world. Who remembers their astro-maps from school?”

  Several hands went up.

  “Not so long ago, the UNA and other sovereign nations of Earth identified a political subculture as dissidents with an unclear political and military agenda. This movement calls themselves what?”

  “The Dissident Union,” several voices answered.

  “Superb. Everyone gets a gold star,” Milarns said.

  “There were certain engagements not shared with the media, not secret but somewhat restricted. You are far from completing your training but have earned a right to discuss the enemy, or enemies as such.”

  Kevin took his second turn climbing the rope and missed some of what was said.

  “The Void Trolls are an advanced civilization, but not space capable,” Milarns said as Kevin sat down. “Someone has to move them for them to be a threat. Currently, the Dissident Union is content, not so dissident. Do not ask me why; just be thankful they are not using the monsters as weapons like they did on Brookhaven.”

  “Then why is there so much propaganda about the Void Troll threat?” Foster asked.

  Milarns moved to stand over Foster, displeasure at being asked a question evident. “Not all the trolls made it home. Several nations use them as mercenaries. The longer they are away from home, the more vicious they become.”

  A cool breeze refreshed the training area, blowing across the drill field and obstacle course without concern for the young men and women sitting at the feet of Milarns. A golden ember of the dying day caught the silver streak in his hair, blessing him with an aura of mystery, wisdom, and sadness. With a wave of his hand, rope climbing and physical fitness training ended. Training Platoon 8970 sat cross legged and listened to their instructor. From time to time, Foster and a few of the others quietly readjusted their sitting positions. Kevin realized that his loud-mouthed friend had probably never sat on the ground before basic training.

  Priest approached from across the field, almost as though he were arriving from across the galaxy with dusk falling behind him.

  “That is enough ghost stories,” Milarns said. He looked to Yang, then paused as Priest stood watching the class without malice. “What was on the agenda before the run and obstacle course went over schedule?”

  “Political and historical influencers of UNA Armed Forces — what most of you call the UNA Starship Corps. Technically, that is only a part of the organization but so large it might as well be the whole bag of beans,” Priest said.

  Milarns nodded, then paced around the class listing one hundred and seventeen nations that met serious threat criteria. “Greater France, for instance, has three things we should respect on this side of the planet: a robust military organization that includes nuclear weapons and an interstellar navy, a stable economy with a competitive gross national product, and damn good coffee. Thankfully, they are friendly to the UNA most of the time.”

  Kevin’s legs cramped and the breeze made him sleepy. No one mentioned dinner, which would not be served this late. As Milarns talked about politics and history and the role of force projection in modern interstellar society, Kevin fantasized about the sandwich machine no one from 8970 had been allowed to use. It was in the general assembly area near the barracks. He wondered how many recruit classes it would take to empty the thing.

  “Recruit Connelly,” Yang said.

  Kevin looked up, unsure when the corporal had taken over the lecture or if he in fact had taken over.

  “Would you like Master Sergeant Milarns to repeat the question?” Yang asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What is the purpose of the high density neighborhoods in Greater Kansas City?”

  Kevin stared at the wise master sergeant as though he were an alien.

  An awkward silence spread, causing more recruits to shift and stretch their legs. The drill instructors ignored the violation.

  “Does the master sergeant mean the Tower Buildings?” When no one chastised him for asking a question instead of answering, he felt something shift inside. It felt good to inquire for clarification and discussion, reminding him of animated conversations before his mother and father were gone. Tears threatened to slick his eyes as vivid images of his father singing and his mother smiling grew from his heart.

  He shifted, feeling his leg cramps now, and met Milarns’s gaze. “My father insisted every TB served the working middle class. Shared resources, security, proximity to quality work — high paying jobs with benefits and continuing education. My grandfather never agreed. That’s why he went into the SMC.”

  “But he came back,” Priest said. There seemed there would be more to the statement, perhaps a logical link to how Kevin’s family wound up building starship parts without ever seeing a starship or the greater assembly facility that loomed just beyond the horizon.

  “His reserve unit was activated several times. I was still young the last time he was called away,” Kevin said.

  No one spoke for a time. Recruits and instructors turned inward to their own thoughts for over a minute.

  “Shared resources and security and continuing education. The UNA military also requires these things to function. We work toget
her, but are individuals. For many of you in 8970, that will be the hardest lesson to learn.” Milarns paused. “That will be all for today. Corporal Yang will see you back to the general assembly and introduce you to the sandwich machines. One each, please. They don’t get restocked until the end of the week.”

  Yang took the class to the GA, pointed at the machines, and explained their individual financial account numbers. He left without eating.

  The mood became friendlier than Kevin expected, with no fighting for places in line. Before long, they spread across the auditorium in large and small groups.

  Kevin sat with Joii, Foster, and Chaf.

  “Everyone knows that story,” said Foster. “Priest saved Lacy’s life on Brookhaven fighting Void Trolls. Some people call them Carbon Trolls because no one understands their genetic code and the big brains in the government didn’t want to start a panic. Goes like this: the monsters are aliens, but at least they are carbon-based life forms just like on Earth.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel better,” Chaf said. “What if they want to invade?”

  “Shut up,” Foster said.

  “You shut up,” Chaf said, pushing Foster sideways.

  “That’s where she got her scar, is what I heard. Priest saved her when everyone thought she was dead,” Foster said.

  “You already said that.” Joii rolled her eyes at Kevin as she chewed a big bite of sandwich.

  “They hated each other then and worse now,” Foster said.

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” Chaf complained.

  Joii shrugged.

  The conversation split. Kevin asked Joii about her headaches and nightmares, wanting to discuss the tattoo that always reminded him of Ace and Amanda, but struggling to direct the conversation where he wanted it to go.

  She smiled as she ate. “Been sleeping like a child since the eye surgery.”

  “Me too,” he said, realizing the truth of it for the first time.

  “Oh, look at me, my head hurts,” Foster said, bursting back into the conversation with Chaf right behind him.

  “You never had chronic pain,” Chaf said.

  “Talking to you causes me pain every day,” Foster said.

  Kevin and Joii laughed at their antics.

  15

  Fifteen Minutes

  THE next two days at the Weapons and Basic Tactics Facility were easy. Physical conditioning sessions were short and to the point each morning. The obstacle course remained closed. Instructors treated Training Platoon 8970 like adult humans, spending most of the days in classroom instruction. Topics included the table of organization and equipment, the uniform code of military justice, and basic weapons coursework. Their first day at the range was fast approaching. Kevin realized with surprise he was nervous to fire a weapon.

  “Starting tonight, Training Platoon 8970 will have fifteen minutes of unstructured time before lights out each night. Do not fuck it up,” Yang said. He walked to the end of the men’s partitioned domicile, stopped to point at his eyes, then at them, and left.

  Kevin heard other drill instructors giving similar warnings beyond the partitioned walls of the general assembly super-barracks. Before he realized what had happened, several of his classmates were at the partition wall talking through to girlfriends on the other side.

  “Are you going to pay a visit to Joii?” Foster asked.

  Kevin hesitated, thinking of Joii and Ruby and his brother and the twins — more or less in that order, but all jumbled into a confused mess of thought and emotions.

  “Fine. That’s cool,” Foster said. “I will tell her you are busy with something.”

  Kevin watched the fast-talking troublemaker stride to the barrier between male and female members of 8970. “Hey.”

  “Too late, dude,” Foster said. “Save your dignity.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Kevin muttered. He looked toward Chaf, who was meticulously checking his footlocker and the limited gear inside of it.

  Chaf shrugged without looking up.

  Kevin sat on his bunk, confused and not sure why he should worry about Joii or Ruby. He had barely seen his brother’s redheaded girlfriend even from a distance, but she was around — in 8972, he thought. Joii wasn’t his girlfriend — he didn’t think. Jealousy was irrational.

  “Damn it,” he said.

  “You should check all of your gear. It will help you relax,” Chaf said.

  Kevin studied the big man. “Are you nervous about shooting tomorrow?”

  Chaf shrugged. “I was raised with guns. They’re legal on our lands.”

  “Those are different, aren’t they?” Kevin asked.

  “Yes, they are. My uncle told me military weapons are easier to use than our outdated civilian firearms. They don’t use gunpowder, for starters, and have computer-assisted aiming reticles.”

  Kevin sat on the edge of his bunk, staring in the general direction of missed opportunities, sure that the privilege of free time before lights out would disappear by the end of the week if not the next night.

  Milarns and Priest entered the room, conducted a brief inspection, then ordered lights out.

  Kevin’s mind wandered as he drifted toward sleep. Images of Ace and Amanda playing soccer in the park reached for him like the ghost of summer. They were real enough to touch.

  He awoke in the morning without remembering his dreams.

  “How’s your head?” Foster said as he dressed for reveille, then lay on his bunk.

  “Good, believe it or not.” Kevin slipped on his fatigues, made his bunk tight as he could pull the sheets, and lay on top of it.

  Yang and Davis stormed into the room, just as loud as the first day but less hostile. “Up and at ‘em. Move it, recruits. Glory waits for no man. It sure as hell isn’t waiting for you slackers.”

  Kevin rolled to his feet, smoothed his bedding with two quick swipes, and hustled his toes to the inspection line. Barely a minute passed before the drill instructors were satisfied with Class 8970.

  Priest waited on the assembly field without fanfare, his tight ball cap contrasting with the campaign hats of the regular DIs. Cool darkness ruled the morning. Kevin almost wanted to start physical training to warm up. Men and women hurried into place and stood at attention.

  “At ease, recruits,” Priest said. “Today is special. The Starship Marine Corps and Starship Army Corps both agree you can find your ass with at least one hand each. Which means you have one free to hold a weapon. Corporal Yang, please gather Class 8970 onto transports and report to Camp Sedgwick 0700 hours.”

  Yang took charge. The bus ride was silent and tense. Like most of his classmates, Kevin had done hundreds of push-ups for safety violations on the simulators. The written examinations required a score of ninety-five percent to pass. The information was straightforward — the dimensions of the Military Standard Rail Gun (MSRG) and safety gear — and how to clear basic malfunctions. Neural inserts had been checked by medical software specialists.

  Everyone was good to go. The DIs had ensured there would be no failures, because that meant immediate removal from the armed forces. Starship Marine and Army Corps policy did not allow second chances with weapons. The Starship Pilot Corps made concessions if other testing scores were high enough. Rumor had it, they liked applicants who failed to qualify with small arms.

  “I talked to Foster last night,” Joii said.

  Glad she broke the silence, Kevin lost his ability to speak. “That’s good. I mean, he’s a lucky guy.”

  She glared at him. “What are you talking about?” she asked. “I expected to hear from you. I would’ve stayed in my bunk and got some extra sleep if I’d known Mister Super Slick was going to chat me up.”

  “The free time thing caught me off guard. I just went to sleep.”

  “Foster said you have been acting weird.”

  Kevin looked across several seats at Foster, who was sleeping with his head on Chaf’s shoulder.

  “What do you mean,
weird?”

  “He said you don’t talk unless it is about the Sirens,” she said.

  “I have twin siblings, boy and girl, babies of the family. Teenagers now. They disappeared just before I enlisted.”

  “You think a Siren took them,” she said.

  “I’m not crazy or superstitious. Listen, it is hard to talk about because I can’t do anything to find them.”

  “I didn’t say you were crazy,” she said.

  “Then what?” he asked.

  “I don’t think the Sirens are the bad guys.”

  The bus stopped. Yang bounded onboard as though he had been waiting to surprise them the entire trip. His campaign hat looked serious and Kevin wondered if he had been doing push-ups to give his shirt sleeves that extra bit of tightness.

  “Off the bus, recruits. Do it now.” He didn’t yell. This stop was all business and the corporal seemed ready to remind anyone who forgot.

  “We’ll talk later,” Joii said as they lined up and filed off the bus.

  Despite three full days of instruction on the Military Standard Rail Gun, Priest started them in the classroom, an old place with lingering odors of pine cleaner and gun oil. There were windows high up, just out of daydreaming reach but perfect to allow sunlight to create beams of dust motes. Priest stood in the cathedral of boredom with a sly smile on his hard face.

  Kevin wanted to examine the tall desks that lacked chairs or benches, but stood at parade rest with Training Platoon 8970.

  “Corporal Yang,” Priest said.

  Yang stepped forward, his right hand behind his back in classic drill instructor form, using the knife edge of his left hand to emphasize his words. “Each recruit will take one half step back and stand ready to receive instruction. Do it now.”

  Training Platoon 8970 complied.

  “You will study the control strip on the edge of the desk in front of you until the very simple controls are understood.” He waited a ten count. “Do you understand how to operate the work desk?”

  “Yes, sir,” the class said.