by Marko Kloos
I nod at the tattoo.
“Where are you from, Corporal?”
She glances at the tattoo and shakes the sleeve of her CDU fatigue jacket over it to cover it up.
“Pittsburgh. 23-East.” She looks at my wrist, which is free of skin art. “You?”
“Boston. 7-North. Never ran the alleys, though.”
“It’s harsh,” she says. “But you know how it goes in the Clusters. This is much better. Real food. My own cot. And I don’t have to worry about someone round the corner ready to jack me for my two-k cals.”
I do know what life is like in the Clusters, and I know the kind of shit the girls in the gangs have to deal with every day. I know that getting jacked for her ration wasn’t the worst thing she had to worry about back home, not by a long shot. But I also know that she doesn’t really know just what she traded in exchange for this temporary status of relative safety. Or maybe she does, and made the trade gladly. A lot of these new recruits from the worst PRCs are far tougher than I ever was.
“Well, good luck, Corporal,” I say and put my empty bottle onto the bar. “Maybe I’ll see you in the Fleet in a few months when you drive my bus for a drop.”
“Can I ask you a question, Sergeant?” she asks as I turn to leave.
“Go ahead,” I say.
For a moment, she drops the tough-kid swagger and the unconcerned expression, and I can get a glimpse of the tense girl underneath. She hesitates for a moment or two before continuing in a slightly lower voice, even though the T-pop music in the place is almost drop-ship-engine loud, and nobody around us pays even the slightest bit of attention to our conversation.
“We heard rumors about a big op coming up.”
“Soon,” I tell her. “Right after this training cycle.”
“Shit.” She looks a little relieved and deflated at the same time. “Is it Mars?”
I shrug in reply.
“It’s Mars,” she says. “Fuck.”
“Pay attention at Combat Flight School,” I say. “First assault wave, they’ll send everything that can ferry troops down to the surface. You’ll have forty mudlegs in the back who rely on you to get them down in one piece so they can fight those bastards. And then you and your gunner will be the main support for your platoon. Just like your old job in HD, only with bigger targets.”
“Nothing to it,” she says and lets out a shaky little laugh.
“Plenty to it,” I say. “But you’ll get it done. And you’ll enjoy blowing those spindly motherfuckers apart. And if it turns out to be that day, you make sure you don’t have a single round left in your bird before you go in. Because fuck ’em, that’s why.”
She nods solemnly.
“Because fuck ’em,” she repeats. “Damn straight.”
“You’ll be all right,” I say. “Just get your grunts on the ground.”
“Yes, Sergeant. Thanks for the intel.”
“Don’t spread it around,” I say, even though I know that she’ll start doing just that before I’ve even made it out of the NCO club.
The female corporal from the Pittsburgh PRCs walks off with her bottle of crummy soy beer, and I watch her make her way through the crowd.
Twelve weeks, I think.
Where do I want to find myself in twelve weeks? In the back of a drop ship descending into the Mars atmosphere, with that young corporal or someone just like her in the pilot seat, and more of these green kids in charge of my platoon’s squads and fire teams? Or do I try to help shuffle the odds for the assault in our favor, even just a little bit, by joining the recon team?
And if I decide to go with the recon mission, how much of my motivation is the desire to just be somewhere else when we start stuffing the meat grinder with all these new troops?
Or you could be at the tip of the spear again, I hear Major Masoud’s voice in my head.
As I look over the crowd, all these young and newly minted corporals and sergeants, I concede to myself that despite all the bitching over the years, I took the nutcase track because deep down inside, I like it out there on the tip of the spear. I feel more alive on a hostile world in battle armor hundreds of kilometers from the nearest support ship, and billions of kilometers from the rest of humanity, than I do anywhere else. And I’ve never once had a shitty dream while I was deployed.
Back in the quarters I share with Halley, I check on my wife, who is fast asleep in the bedroom, or at least pretending to be. I slide the door to the bedroom shut again and sit down at the network terminal between the kitchen nook and the living room. Then I pull Major Masoud’s network access code card out of my pocket and let the terminal scan it.
BANDWIDTH ALLOCATION REQUESTED flashes on the screen for about a second and a half before the line changes to PRIORITY ALLOCATION GRANTED—CONNECTING.
It’s 2100 hours already, and I expect to be connected to a static image of the recipient asking me to leave a video message, but when the screen changes to a video feed, it’s the live Major Masoud, in his worn but pressed CDU fatigues, sitting at a desk in what looks like a staff office.
“Sergeant Grayson,” he says when he sees my video feed. “You’ve considered my offer.”
“I have, sir,” I say.
“And what is it going to be?”
I take a breath and let it out slowly before I continue.
“I’ll accept the assignment. Under one condition.”
Major Masoud raises an eyebrow almost imperceptibly.
“Condition,” he says. “Well, what’s your condition.” He doesn’t inflect the word like a question.
“I want to recruit my own command staff. Platoon sergeant, squad leaders, platoon guide. You can pick the rest, but let me choose my own senior NCOs.”
He looks at me with an unreadable expression for a long moment.
“You have specific people in mind?”
“I do,” I say. “Proven personnel.”
“I have a hard time scraping together a full NCO complement as it is. You can pick your own sergeants, unless I’ve already slotted them in somewhere else in the company.”
“That’s unlikely, sir. Thank you.”
“And they have to be fully drop-qualified and in a suitable MOS, of course.”
“The ones I have in mind wear gold drop badges, sir.”
“Then talk to them and get me their names and personnel numbers if they accept. No later than Monday morning, Sergeant, or I’ll fill the slots otherwise.”
“How soon will I have to report to LDO Academy?”
Major Masoud checks something on his screen.
“Monday morning,” he says. “I am putting you in a priority slot. You’ll get orders for Newport first thing in the morning. And your fast-track commission is going into effect by Friday so you can meet the prereqs.”
“That’s fast,” I say.
“We have no time to waste,” Major Masoud replies. “It’s amazing how quickly you can cut through paperwork bullshit when the wolf is at the door, Sergeant.”
He checks his chrono.
“Have those names and numbers to me by Monday,” he says. “Earlier, if possible. And pack your gear for Newport. You’ll be wearing stars before the weekend.”
“Yes, sir. You’ll have the roster by Monday.”
Major Masoud nods and terminates the connection without ceremony.
I didn’t hear the sliding door opening behind me, but I sense Halley’s presence in the doorway of the bedroom. I turn around in my chair to see her looking at me with a mocking little smile, arms crossed in front of her chest.
“Lankies on parade,” she says.
“Right down fucking Broadway,” I agree.
“Well.” She leans against the doorframe and tips her head toward the darkened bedroom behind her. “Why don’t you wash up and come to bed with me, Lieutenant. Looks like I won’t be seeing you again for a while after this weekend. Might as well make the best of short time.”
I think about a snarky reply, but then decide agains
t it. I know Halley is still pissed off, but I’m glad she’s not pissed at me, or at least not too much.
“Yes, ma’am,” I reply and get out of my chair, leaving the second, unopened bottle of soy beer on the little terminal desk. Sometimes, the smartest possible thing to do is to shut up and do as you’re told.
CHAPTER 11
Lieutenant Colonel Laroux unfastens my epaulette loops and pulls the rank sleeves off them. He hands them to the master sergeant standing slightly behind him and takes a new set out of his pocket. The new rank sleeves each bear a four-pointed star standing on a point, the post-reform unified rank symbol of a second lieutenant. He sticks the new sleeves onto my epaulettes, fastens them again, and then pounds his hand down on each rank sleeve firmly and ceremonially. Then he holds out his hand.
“Congratulations, Lieutenant Grayson. Welcome to the NAC officer corps.”
I shake his hand, careful to calibrate the force of the grip to match his own.
“Thank you, sir.”
We are in his office, back at the Depot’s headquarters building. My berth in the platoon building is cleared out, and my gear is waiting for transport to the airfield, where someone is going to toss it onto a shuttle bound for the East Coast. With some luck, my gear bag may even arrive at the LDO Academy in Newport before I get there on Monday.
Lieutenant Colonel Laroux takes a folder from the master sergeant and opens it.
“Your commissioning certificate,” he says. “I wish you good luck in this new chapter in your career.”
He closes the folder and hands it to me.
“Thank you, sir.”
“You did good work here at the Depot,” the lieutenant colonel says. “Three tours as a platoon sergeant. Your personnel sheet has nothing but good marks. I hate to lose you to the Fleet again.”
“Yes, sir. I apologize for making you find a new platoon sergeant for 1552 two weeks in.”
“Orders are orders . . . Lieutenant.” I can tell from the tiny pause before the Lieutenant that he meant to say Sergeant. I suspect it will take me a good while longer than that to think of myself as an officer.
“A priority assignment means that you have more important things to do for the Corps. And you sure as hell put in your time down here this year. Bet you are glad to be going into the black again.”
You have no idea, I think.
I tuck the folder under my arm, stand at attention, and salute the commanding officer of what is now my former training battalion. He returns the salute almost casually.
“Best of luck to you, Lieutenant. Dismissed.”
I turn on my heel and leave the CO’s office. When I am outside, I breathe a small sigh of relief. Whatever lies ahead, I am officially done with NACRD Orem, and between my boot camp and the year I’ve spent here training new troops, I’ve had more than my fill of the place, this dusty and busy patch of military property where I’ve spent more time than in any single place since I left the PRC what feels like half a lifetime ago.
It’s Friday morning, not even two hours past morning chow. Under normal circumstances, I’d rejoice in a longer-than-usual weekend. But I have to report to the LDO Academy for my officer indoctrination on Monday, so I won’t have time to go up to Luna to spend the weekend with my wife. Not if I want to try to recruit my squad leaders in person. I could send them messages via MilNet and backdoor channels, but it’s harder to turn someone down in person.
On the way to the shuttle pad, I get out my PDP and scroll through my notes until I reach the short list of candidates for platoon leadership positions I put together after Major Masoud offered me the assignment. I decide to sort them from easiest to hardest to convince, and start with the low-hanging fruit first.
The shuttle to Lejeune is full to the last seat on a Friday, and I am glad to be on the ground again two hours later, even if the heat out here in coastal North Carolina is much more humid and oppressive than the dry desert air at Orem.
Camp Lejeune has been around for almost two hundred years. It used to be a wet-navy Marine base in the old United States, back before the NAC even existed. In the new Corps, it’s the largest Earthside base for the Spaceborne Infantry, the main training facility and home for most of the SI troopers not currently assigned to Fleet ships or colonial bases. I’ve been here only a few times on exercises, years ago, and the base is so massive in its sprawl that it’s all new to me again when I try to find my way around.
I walk into the company building of Alpha Company of the Spaceborne Infantry’s 25th Colonial Expeditionary Unit right around chow time. As I step through the double automatic doors at the entrance, two NCOs, a staff sergeant and a corporal, walk out and salute me in passing. It takes me a second to recognize what they’re doing even as I reflexively return the salute. I glance at the stars on my epaulette sleeves, which still vaguely make me feel as if I am committing some sort of fraud.
The company office is staffed by a lone corporal at the moment. He’s sorting printouts into mail slots when I walk into the room.
“Good morning, sir,” he says.
“Good morning,” I return. “Lieutenant Grayson, Fleet. I’m looking for one of your NCOs.”
“Yes, sir,” the corporal says. “Who is it you’re looking for?”
“Gunnery Sergeant Philbrick. I was told the company’s in garrison this week. Please tell me I won’t have to hoof it up into orbit to catch them at SOI or something.”
“No, sir.” The corporal checks the large personnel status screen on the wall of the company office. “Gunny Philbrick is out at the firing range with First Platoon this morning.”
“Great,” I say. “How long a walk is that?”
“Range Four is right by the beach. Ten klicks, sir.”
“Great,” I say again, with a little more emphasis.
“The mess sergeant is going to run out lunch to First Platoon in a few, sir. You can hitch a ride with him if you want.”
“Do I ever,” I reply.
The firing range is just a few dunes away from the Atlantic Ocean, which I have not seen in years, except from space. The breeze is warm and muggy, and out on the water, I can see cargo vessels in the distance, their solar sails reflecting the diffused sunlight poking through the perpetually overcast sky here by the big eastern metroplexes. There are a few wet-navy warships, too, fast hydrofoil corvettes from the HD’s naval arm, making high-speed runs across the waves and dragging rooster tails of water spray.
I can tell from the thundering reports coming from the range lanes that the First Platoon is live-firing their anti-LHO weapons today. I don the ear protection offered to me by the mess driver and walk over to the safety zone of the live-fire range.
Range Four has five large firing lanes, hemmed in by massive earthen berms on three sides. Most of the small-arms training in the Commonwealth Defense Corps is done on computerized ranges with simulated rounds and holographic targets, but simulator ranges are still no full substitute for firing actual live rounds at destructible targets. No matter how good they make the simulations, there’s nothing like launching real tungsten and high explosives and feeling your weapon buck with the recoil of a caseless propellant charge.
There’s an SI trooper with an M-90 rifle in each of the firing lanes, and short lines of more troopers waiting their turn behind the firing positions. I watch from the edge of the safety zone as the SI troopers fire their rifles at distant polymer targets that are geometric approximations of Lanky shapes. The sand underneath the firing stations bounces with the muzzle blasts from the rifles every time a trooper fires a shot.
Another group of SI troopers are sitting together in the middle of the safety zone, and there are NCOs standing near them and supervising their charges. Gunnery Sergeant Philbrick is standing near the ammo-issue booth by the firing lanes with another sergeant. The sergeant with him sees me stepping up to the safety zone and points me out to Philbrick. He turns around and startles.
“Take over for a minute, Staff Sergeant,” he say
s to the trooper next to him. “You have the deck.”
“I have the deck,” the staff sergeant confirms. Philbrick trots over to the edge of the safety zone and extends his hand with a grin. Then he sees my rank insignia and smoothly converts the attempted handshake to a salute.
“Lieutenant Grayson,” he says. “Good God, they got you, too?”
I return the salute, feeling slightly silly. Up until this morning, we were equals in rank and pay grade.
“It appears that way,” I say. “Just wait. Your turn is coming.”
“Not in a million years.” Philbrick laughs.
“That’s what I said, too. My wife is going to make fun of me for months after all my shit talk about officer commissions.”
“Field promotion? You an LDO now?”
I nod. “I’m getting a platoon.”
“Better you than me,” he says. “But at least you’re a mustang. NCO experience makes good lieutenants.”
“Let’s hope.”
Behind Philbrick, the troopers on the firing line open up with their anti-Lanky rifles again. The sledgehammer reports bounce off the berms and reverberate back to where we are standing. Without hearing protection, I’d be deaf for days. Philbrick nods to the rear of the range, and we walk away from the safety zone. I lead the way and go over to the nearest sand dunes to get a view of the ocean again.
“Lovely day,” I say. “I never get to come out to the water anymore. Not since I enlisted.”
“I don’t care for it,” Philbrick says. “I’m from Vermont. Went to boot camp right there at PI.” He nods down the beach to the south, where I know NACRD Parris Island sits on the same coastline, two-hundred-odd kilometers away. The Commonwealth Defense Corps only has four recruit depots—Orem, Parris Island, San Diego, and San Antonio. Like everything else in the military, they have informal rankings stacking them up against each other for desirability. San Diego is considered the best draw of the lot, followed by Orem and San Antonio. Parris Island is the roughest of the four, but the troops who graduate from PI have a defiant sense of pride about having weathered the short end of the stick.
