Vengeance Enlisted

by James Scholes

  I hesitated, looked around. There was an elevator just beyond the stairs. I walked over to it; the doors opened. The elevator was empty. I stepped inside, hit the button for the promenade. Two seconds later and I was there. The steward was waiting at the top of the stairs with a smug grin on his face. He saw me exit the elevator and scowled.

  “New recruits shouldn’t be in the elevator,” he said.

  “Yes sir,” I saluted and walked off before he could say anything else. He was soon distracted by the last of the recruits running up the stairs, but he was still watching me so he didn’t get the chance to taunt them.

  I knew I had made an enemy, but what could I do? If the steward wanted to be an ass, then I couldn’t stop him. I would just have to deal with him.

  “Prepare to jump to hyperspace,” the intercom buzzed. The steward⁠—⁠in fact, all of the stewards⁠—⁠hurried off the deck, leaving only the new recruits. I frowned, suspected a trap.

  The promenade deck was probably the only place in the ship that was furnished like a luxury liner. Large triangular windows covered the walls, and fake stars glittered on the ceiling. The deck was carpeted and there were bar tables around the windows. There was a bar⁠—⁠closed for us recruits, of course⁠—⁠tucked away next to the elevator. This was where the Admiralty were entertained, and where the officers could relax in their downtime.

  I could see the curvature of the Earth through the windows. Our planet looked flat, too large to be real. The other battleships floated nearby. With a flash, one of them disappeared. It had jumped to hyperspace. Another flash and the second battleship was gone.

  My stomach twisted. We were next. And why had the stewards been in such a hurry to leave the deck?

  In an instant, I got my answer: the windows went white, then brighter than white, and then brighter still. People screamed. I screamed. It felt like the universe had opened up inside the deck. I felt light, heavy, hot, cold. Every sense went into overdrive. I lost all feeling and yet felt everything at the same time.

  It lasted… Well, it must have only lasted an instant and yet it felt like a lifetime. When I opened my eyes I was on the deck, surrounded by my own vomit⁠—⁠and everyone else’s. Worse, I had wet my pants. A quick check told me it had come out my rear, too. All the recruits were the same, covered in their own mess. They were moaning, all of us were. Some were crying.

  Then the stewards were there, armed with carts loaded with mops and carpet sweepers.

  “Welcome to deep space,” they said. “Now clean this mess up.”

  I vomited again and looked to the windows. There was nothing but stars out there.

  The Earth was gone.

  EIGHT

  And so we began training. Our first few weeks were much the same as our first hyperspace jump. They drilled us, and drilled us hard.

  Sarge⁠—⁠that’s what we called our drill sergeant⁠—⁠had us running miles, up and down the ship. Some days we just ran, and that was all we did. Up and down stairs, climbing metal girders, around the hanger forty times. We ran until we couldn’t feel our legs, and then we ran some more.

  The ship stank of too many bodies in the one space. The atmo-scrubbers couldn’t keep up with so many recruits working so hard. Some days we were too tired to take a shower. Other days there wasn’t enough water for one. Our clothes were stiff from old sweat, and we each only had two pairs. You had to wash them one at a time. If you forgot, the stewards would force you to wash them both at once and you would have to stand around naked waiting for them to dry. We were so exhausted that nobody even took a moment to stare⁠—⁠and, if they did, they certainly did not get a chance to stare for two moments.

  My body was changing. The last slithers of fat were quickly dispersed from under my skin and raw muscle returned in its place.

  “It’s the steroids in the food,” one of the recruits said. “They want us jacked up.”

  He must have been right, as I have never put on muscle so easily. My clothes looked like they had shrunk. Some of the guys ripped their shirts just leaning over. It was a common problem⁠—⁠part of the plan, even⁠—⁠as at the end of the third week we were issued fresh uniforms, each two sizes bigger than the last one.

  We were becoming machines in human form.

  Just like machines, we needed fuel. Carbs and protein, mostly. A bit of salt for flavour. I didn’t know much about food, anyway, so I didn’t mind the options available⁠—⁠in fact, I quite liked it. I was always too tired to do anything but shovel the stuff down my throat. It was only when I finished that I heard everybody complaining.

  “Same again.”

  “Always tastes the same.”

  “I hear they match the flavour profile to your genetics,” one of the recruits said. We were all Marine, but he was also known as Harrod. We sat together for no real reason. He was tall and slim; the steroids hadn’t had much of an effect on him, yet. Opposite him was Wilson, a heavy-set marine with curly hair that must have been blonde at one point but was now so thick with grease that it was almost black.

  “Then why does mine always taste like feet?”

  “Must be what you really like,” Harrod said with a laugh. Wilson wasn’t laughing: he was large enough that he clearly liked food⁠—⁠and he didn’t like this.

  I just kept eating.

  “I don’t like feet… Except on a woman.”

  “Yeah, I’m partial to women with feet as well,” Harrod said and then they both laughed. I just kept eating, but I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. I looked up.

  Taylor.

  He was standing there, carrying a tray of food. He had seen me, too, and was just staring at me. We hadn’t interacted at all since Beth had died. I had only seen him standing at the induction.

  He came up to me, which was a surprise. I had expected him to keep on moving, sit somewhere else. But Taylor walked right up to me with his plate of food and looked down at where I sat.

  “I… I just wanted to…”

  “Move along, marine.”

  Taylor’s mouth opened and closed a few times like a dying fish, and then he stiffened and moved on. His easy, casual bluster from Earth was gone⁠—⁠wiped out by a few weeks as a marine. In contrast, my own confidence was growing. I was bigger than I had ever been, and I felt more confident than I had felt since I was a child. I had the genetics to be an engineer, but that didn’t mean my genetics weren’t good enough to be a marine. On the contrary: I was relishing the simple decisions required of me. It was all purely physical; my mind was allowed to rest whilst my body did all the work. It was refreshing.

  “What was that about?” Harrod asked, reading the tension. He shared a look with Wilson.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Just something that should have stayed Earth-side.”

  Harrod and Wilson shared another look. Neither believed me, but they didn’t press it. We went back to eating.

  “Do you think the officers eat the same stuff as us?” Wilson asked.

  “Didn’t you know?” Harrod responded. “Their genetics require different sources of protein. Their bodies don’t break down this stuff. They need the best stuff.”

  “Figures,” Wilson said. “Officers and their superior genetics… My parents couldn’t afford that sequence. Looks like yours couldn’t, either.”

  “We do our bit for the war,” Harrod said. “Ain’t that right?” he was looking at me, but I didn’t answer.

  I was too busy thinking of Taylor… Thinking of revenge.

  NINE

  The Devastator was a large battleship. I am not an expert, but the general consensus was that it was a relic from before the current phase of the war. Battleships were smaller now, as the drive that powers them has been shrunk by the ever-smart engineers⁠—⁠a team I would never be a part of, not now.

  The Devastator’s jump drive had been retrofitted to incorporate the newer drives, which meant the space the previous jump drive had taken up was empty and had been converted into a
training zone.

  The zone ran the length of the ship and had been turned into an obstacle course. It had zero gravity along most of the course, but there were sections were the gravity of the battleship crept in, and it was impossible to remember where these gravity wells were as the course rotated and changed after each run-through. Massive gears and platforms spun around the edge of the training course, re-configuring the space for another run.

  The space was huge. Five hundred trainees could be training at any time, and they would never get within shouting range of one another.

  It was our turn. Harrod and Wilson were with me; I could see Taylor on the far side of the training zone, running through a different course. He was hardly more than a speck, but I knew it was him. His figure was burned in my memory.

  Neither team had started the course yet. It wasn’t a race, but I was determined to beat him, anyway.

  The hateful steward that had toyed with us during initiation was standing over us, on a higher platform. I had no idea what his name was⁠—⁠we always addressed him as marine⁠—⁠but in private we had a different name for him: asshole. We were standing below him. This section of the course was one of the areas with gravity, although it was not consistent and I could feel my left arm wanting to drift into space whilst my right foot felt heavier than normal. It was a disconcerting feeling, and even my heart was beating at a strange rhythm as my blood was pumping at an irregular rate from the different forces pulling at my veins.

  “Marines! You have ten minutes to complete the course. You will work as a team of three. Failure to complete this course within ten minutes is not an option. Begin!”

  Like a fool, I set off at a dead run. As soon as my foot left the platform I felt the effect of zero gravity. I shot upwards, spinning wildly. I could see the steward laughing at me. I flailed around to grab a handrail but there was nothing around me but air.

  “Wait!” Wilson shouted and he jumped up, grabbed my foot. Together we drifted in space but at least Wilson’s bulk had stopped me from spinning.

  “Nine and a half minutes remaining,” the steward said, coldly. I flushed red: my arrogance had cost us half a minute.

  “I’ll pull you down,” Harrod said and he moved slower still, but grabbed onto Wilson’s foot and directed him down to the platform whilst he held onto the platform I had leapt from.

  Another minute down, and we hadn’t moved a foot.

  “Hustle, hustle, hustle!” Wilson growled, sensing the same urgency. We had learned our mistake, though, and we moved slower. We worked as a team.

  Wilson went first. He slowly leapt into space and grabbed onto a pole that was twenty feet in front of us. When he had stopped spinning he kicked his legs towards us so we could use him as an anchor.

  Through this first obstacle, and now there was a metal tube suspended on cables. The purpose was clear: crawl through the tunnel.

  Harrod went first, and then Wilson and then me.

  The going was easy⁠—⁠at first. That was before our combined momentum took over and the tunnel started swaying and rolling. Harrod fell, landed so hard that blood sprayed from his mouth; tiny droplets of red hung in the air. Wilson looked back, tried to help. He only made things worse.

  “Watch out!” I shouted, but it was too late⁠—⁠Wilson’s legs were already floating in the void and he was out of control. The pipe we were in made a strange noise like an evil bell and then it really started spinning out of control.

  The metal pipe rushed up at me, hit me dead in the chest. I went flat. I could see out both ends of the tunnel and the world was going crazy. Harrod cried out, panicking about the blood floating inside his mouth. Wilson shouted as he spun out of control. It was chaos.

  I worked backwards, crawled towards the opening we had just entered through. Even though the tunnel was swinging through the air, I managed to hold on and climb around to the outside. I could see the cable supports snapping wildly, oscillating at an unpredictable rate.

  I grabbed the first one. It nearly tore my shoulder out of my socket and I lost my footing. I swung around and my back slammed into the metal of the tunnel. I let go, floated in the air for a second and then I laughed: there was no gravity here. I didn’t need to rush.

  But the clock was ticking.

  How much time did we have left? I had no idea. And Taylor? I looked across the training ground to where I knew Taylor to be. I could see… Well, not much. Were the struggling like we were struggling? I couldn’t tell. They were like ants over there.

  “Help!” Wilson shouted, snapped me out of my funk. I had to move⁠—⁠fast.

  I reached out, grabbed one cable and then the other. My bulk slowed the cables shaking around and the tunnel came back under control.

  “Go, go, go!” Harrod urged and the two inside the tunnel hurried out the far end before I joined them a moment later.

  We had hardly covered twenty per cent of the course, but we were fired up and ready.

  The next section was a piece of cake: a couple of poles that we had to climb around, leaping like chimpanzees through the air.

  I was almost enjoying myself. The last platform was just in front of us. I could see Harrod reaching for it, and Wilson was sailing through the air only a few feet behind. I was coming from the rear. There was a pole in front of me: I grabbed it and swung around, let go. Now I was sailing behind Wilson. It was effortless. Easy, even.

  Then the gravity well swung around and grabbed us, snatched us out of the air. I cried out as a hundred hands grabbed and squeezed me⁠—⁠at least, that was what it felt like.

  We fell.

  Wilson crashed into a platform and bounced awkwardly. He screamed.

  “My leg! My leg!” He was still falling and screaming at the same time.

  I hit the platform an instant later. My shoulder collapsed under the force of the blow and I bounced, kept falling⁠—⁠

  ⁠—⁠And then, just as abruptly, the gravity well swung around in the opposite direction and held me in place. I floated for just long enough to reach out and grab the platform. The gravity well kept moving. Gravity returned to my head, my stomach, my legs. Everything lurched to the side. It was all I could do to hold onto the platform. I had no idea what had happened to Harrod or Wilson, but I could hear Wilson screaming in pain above me.

  I pulled myself onto the platform and waited. The roving gravity well passed and weightlessness returned. I hovered there, just catching my breath. I was exhausted.

  A siren rang. We had failed.

  “Marines!” the asshole steward shouted. “You have failed. Get down to the gym⁠—⁠two hundred push-ups, three times.”

  “Ah, come on!” Harrod complained, clearly annoyed. The steward grinned sadistically.

  “Under double gravity!” he ordered. Harrod snarled, didn’t say anything. Wilson was still screaming about his leg⁠—⁠a robo-medic drifted over and carried him off.

  I was too tired to argue, but I did manage to look across the training ground towards Taylor. His team were celebrating completing their course.

  Of course they were. Bastard.

  TEN

  We didn’t get time to rest. No sooner had we completed our push-ups we were drilling again. Wilson was taken to the medic so Harrod and I were absorbed by another training unit.

  Of course, it was Taylor’s unit.

  Unfortunately, our training steward also came along: which meant we now had two assholes growling at us.

  “Alright marines,” the drill sergeant said when we were assigned to our next staging area. “This is the only time in your training that you will be firing live ammunition. Every other drill will involve blanks, so make sure to enjoy yourself and take note of the kick you’ll get from live rounds⁠—⁠your gun will behave differently with blanks. So make this session count, and no dicking around. Someone could die today: make sure that someone isn’t you.”

  I felt my palms go sweaty. Taylor must have sensed me staring at the back of his head as he turne
d around and we locked eyes. I turned away. I didn’t want him to see the murderous intent on my face.

  Live ammunition! And here was the target of my vengeance right in front of me. Could fate have finally dealt me a winning hand?

  I suppressed my excitement and tried my best to remain calm. I couldn’t just murder Taylor in front of everyone. It had to look like an accident. Plans started flowing through my mind: all I needed was a way for Taylor to stumble into the field of fire. I didn’t need to pull the trigger myself.

  “This way, marines,” the new steward ordered and we marched after him into a small rectangular room. The air smelled the way it did after a particularly nasty storm: there was unused energy in the air.

  Clearly, the space was a gun range: there was a holding pen where we had entered, and the rest of the space was divided into lines. There were targets⁠—⁠shot to all hell⁠—⁠spread throughout the space, not just at eye level but high in the ceiling and behind moving barricades. A small robot flew around randomly and shot out clouds of smoke at times to obscure the targets.

  “Alright marines: form into line and await your weapon,” our steward said and he jerked his thumb towards the half-height wall that split the pen from the range.

  We lined up. The second steward walked off and came back with a cart loaded with weapons on the top rack and energy clips on the bottom.

  “These babies are the TX-9700 assault rifles. They fire energy bolts at the rate of two-fifty rounds per second. The energy clips you will use each hold enough charge for ten-thousand rounds⁠—⁠that won’t last as long as you think it does.”

  The steward handed the energy clips out himself.

  “You have each been allocated four clips for this session. Keep track of them: this is live ammunition. Get these clips mixed up with blanks and someone dies.”

  “Yes sir!” We parroted back at him. I held the gun in one hand, the clips were stacked in the other. The gun was heavy, and so were the energy clips.