A Pride of Lions

by Mark Iles

  The corporal and other soldiers bellowed at the new recruits, as they marched empty handed in a long green line through the spaceport and then out into a bitterly cold reddish-brown desert. Hardly a bush grew in the frigid sand and rock. Even the occasional sturdy yellow blades of grass lurking at the side of the road appeared to be losing their lonely battle for survival. On and on they went, marching then doubling down the virtually endless highway, heading for God knew where, as a chill wind swept through their light clothing.

  Selena’s legs began to ache, and then her whole body. Her breath became ragged and she wondered if she was going to faint. Somehow she didn’t. Occasionally, black featureless cars hissed past, the occupants invisible through ebony windows.

  At length they reached a tall greystone fortress, no doubt left over from Earth’s colonial days. Those ancient and majestic walls were now crumbling, although here and there sections had been repaired. Overall the entire site reeked of age and decay. Radars scanned the skies and gun emplacements dotted the landscape, making Selena wonder what weapons were concealed within them. Despite looking old and decrepit, the fort still held that incredible aura of power, which Old Earth had wielded to such immeasurable effect when it once held sway over all human worlds—before the colonies had finally broken away and Earth’s sway over her former empire had crumpled, and the cradle of mankind had faded away into obscurity.

  They marched through the tall imposing grey-alloy gates and finally came to a stop in the gravelled fortress courtyard, before being dismissed and taken to a building next to the daunting walls. They were driven up long narrow stone stairways down which water ran in constant streams. Wrought-iron railings and banisters stood rusting from long years of neglect and a bitter wind breathed through the open arrow-slit windows, making Selena’s very bones ache.

  Eventually their platoon was shown into two narrow rooms, both of which had rows of five rusting metal-framed beds nestling along each of two walls with battered-looking wardrobes besides them.

  Selena stared in disbelief. “That’s not a bed,” she said after their escort had left. “It looks more like a badly wrecked car, with half a blanket on it.”

  Yung snorted, while someone else attempted a laugh.

  “Are these lockers supposed to be secure?” Kes asked, sitting on a mattress, only to disappear through it with a yell due to missing springs. Extracting himself with an embarrassed curse he stood again and continued red faced, “Mine hasn’t got a door.”

  “Don’t complain,” Selena replied, checking the springs on her own bed before dumping herself onto it. “From what I can see I haven’t even got a locker.”

  “I think that’s the point,” someone said. “We’re being shown what we’re worth, nothing. We’re absolutely dispensable.”

  It was a harsh introduction into the citadel’s cruel world. A lesson telling them that their basic training had begun and that no one apart from themselves really gave a damn.

  * * * *

  The training proved much harder than any of them imagined but Selena took to it with a will. Each morning they were shaken at five o’clock and taken for a run. If anyone was a little late in getting up, then their beds were turned over, with them still in it. After their run they took a freezing shower in a single large white-tiled room, with hard cakes of puce-coloured soap. When they’d dried and dressed they were taken outside, formed up and marched to breakfast where they ate ravenously. They were given fifteen minutes to eat their meals before being ordered outside, where they were lined up again and then marched onto the parade ground. There they were stood to attention while a short swarthy individual named Grundy, later nicknamed Grunty, strutted up and down their ranks and introduced himself as their drill sergeant. He screamed and shouted, inspected them and told them how worthless they were and how much he wished they’d taken the option of the death penalty, so he didn’t have to deal with their miserable souls. And only then did the day’s training begin in earnest.

  Many of the prisoners found it hard simply because of the thirty-eight-hour day and heavy gravity. The food was bland but good. The vegetables were locally grown and, if unidentifiable and tasteless, were at least nutritious; the meat was from imported stock and indigenous life forms. Simply put it was hot, filling and there was as much of it as they wanted.

  Mornings and late afternoons found them on strenuous physical training; which consisted of constant grid-sprints in the drill square with press-ups, sit-ups, burpees and V-sits. The trainees were made to run carrying other team members on their backs, huge wooden poles, or even stretchers with people or weights on them. They shimmied over canyons on single ropes and were taught to roll off the ropes and hang there by their hands, swinging back and forth, until they were told to regain their places and continue on. Once a troublesome recruit, too exhausted to get back on the ropes, simply hung there by his finger tips. The instructors took bets on how long he’d last and stood watching, laughing to themselves, until he could hold on no longer and disappeared with a long echoing scream into the shadowy depths of the canyon. Some days, they were fitted with harnesses and long ropes, that were then attached to vehicles which they had to drag until they couldn’t go on any further and collapsed into the dust while someone else took up their burdens and they were kicked to one side.

  The corporals constantly screamed and shouted at them, running back and forth between their ranks and reporting to the short and stocky, bulldog-like sergeant, who paced back and forth, eying them as though they were his next meal.

  Sometimes they just ran for what seemed like the hell of it, the distances gradually increasing, with Grunty and Bones driving them mercilessly and beating them with their batons if they slowed. They leapt over frightening drops to paths on the other side, over raging torrents that splashed constantly, making the places they landed slippery and treacherous, but to Selena’s surprise no one came to grief there.

  After lunch they usually had weapon handling, unarmed combat or basic infantry theory and tactics. Each day invariably ended on one of the numerous assault courses followed by a long-distance run, more often than not with fully loaded backpacks and weapons. They were beaten and shouted at, driven mercilessly, until they no longer thought about what they did but simply did it like automatons. They got slimmer, fitter, quicker at all they did and found their disappearing fat turning to muscle.

  After the first week, six had dropped out and had taken advantage of the alleged free tickets on offer to the mineral mines. There was much discussion on whether they actually got there or not, or whether they were simply spaced. But there was no evidence of this, it was simply rumour and they all knew better than to ask. One of their troop died of a heart attack. The instructors could have saved him but instead they just left him there to die in the frosted roadside. After all, Grunty said, what was the point? He might have been lucky enough to be sent to the mines, but it was unlikely he’d be any good there either – so it was more likely the death chamber for him. Whichever way you looked at it, he’d had it, and it was less hassle for everyone this way. He was dead, gone and forgotten. Another trainee had been left where he fell during a run, unconscious on the cold ice-covered ground. When they finished and gathered what little remaining strength they had, they went back for him, but his still and ice-dusted body said it all. Between them they carried their dead to the citadel’s furnace and threw them in without a word, slamming the heavy doors and watching through viewports as their friends were consumed by the flames. It was like looking into the very depths of Hell.

  * * * *

  During week seven they were marched into a room, where Grunty told them to sit at the desks. “I’m here to see teach you about the military structure,” he began. “You need to listen carefully, because I will be asking questions; and for each wrong answer, the person that gives it will receive five lashes.

  “Now, as you know, in the Federation’s military there’s the navy, the marines and there’s us. The marines are ship-bor
ne troops, whose number depends on the class of vessel they’re billeted on. A frigate or destroyer might only carry ten or so, or perhaps none at all; while an assault ship will carry several thousand and a carrier likewise. The army has numerous battalions whose members are volunteers, pure and simple. They sign up and after twenty-five years’ loyal service they can retire with a half million credit payoff, plus a permit to live on any world they wish; not to mention a healthy pension. But if they leave early they don’t get a penny of it. Quite an incentive to remain in, don’t you think? Then there’s us, the Penal Battalions, of which there are six. Yes, Yung, what is it?”

  “Sir, I’ve heard that the Penal Battalions are being expanded to ten. Is that correct?”

  “I’ve no idea, nor do I care. Moving on, the Federation’s territory is split into sectors – the army controlling each of them. Each sector has so many army troops and warships; while task groups and troop carriers, the marines and ourselves move between them going to wherever we’re needed. Each Penal Battalion consists of ten thousand men. Those are split into ten regiments of a thousand apiece, and in turn those are made up of ten centuries of one hundred men. Each century has platoons of ten men. The Penal Corps get a low basic pay and serve out their sentences of reparation, or they die in service. We’re cannon fodder, ladies and gents, pure and simple. We’re here to be thrown to the wolves, fed into the worst battles there are, simply to take the casualties the army does not want. We’re the toughest of the military units, because we train hard and don’t give a damn — we have nothing to lose. I can tell you here and now that if anyone of you decide to desert, you’ll be tracked down and executed on the spot. Philips, you look like you’re falling asleep! How many troops are there in a Penal Battalion?”

  “Er...”

  “Too slow, five lashes. Yung?”

  “Ten thousand.”

  “Correct, but you will address me as Sir or Sergeant! Five lashes. Now, when your service is complete, you’ll be pardoned of your crimes. You also get free cosmetic surgery and can settle where you wish, although not on any world in your home system. If you are discovered in your home system it’s immediate execution, or further servitude. It depends if we’re short of soldiers. There’s no pension or pay-off, but what you can save from your meagre pay is yours; so I suggest you start saving. There are also Special Forces, which incidentally includes all Penal Units. Some of these were formed from historic regiments, such as the old SAS, SBS, SEAL and Spetsnaz. These usually consist of four-man squads, including an officer of varied rank, an NCO and two others. Now, Dillon, tell me how many total men are in the Penal Battalions?”

  Selena thought quickly, “Sixty thousand, Sir.”

  “Correct.”

  “Philips, how many marines are there?”

  “No idea, Sir. You didn’t say. Tens of thousands?”

  “Correct.”

  And so the lecture went on.

  * * * *

  At the end of the twelfth week Selena and the others underwent surgery on their hands and feet, their knuckles being capped with a special alloy. Their finger and toe-nails were removed and replaced with a different alloy, this one transparent and indistinguishable from the real thing. Then they were injected with nanomites.

  A week or so later, the scars had healed and before long they began to train on these parts of their bodies. They dug their fingers back and forth into bowls of hot sand, then gravel. They punched and kicked heavy bags, which would enable them to smash an opponent or literally tear him to pieces if they wished. They were taught to break stones, wood and bricks with their bare hands; learned to fight with knives, swords, canes, pickaxe handles and crowbars. Then they took lessons in advanced weapons and anything that could conceivably be used to kill or maim. They were timed on stripping weapons blindfolded, putting them back together again and loading them so they were ready for action.

  They became inured to pain and inclement weather. During route marches they were stopped, told to strip off and forced to run naked through the rain, night-frost or as the summer progressed the day’s baking heat. They often carried heavy packs, the straps of their webbing, loaded rifles and platoon weapons chaffing their shoulders and backs into raw weeping wounds. The packs contained jerry-cans filled with water, which leaked terribly. The result was that the cans soon started to slosh from side to side, so they soon lost both balance and coordination. Those cruel straps continued to bite into the thick leathery skin that formed on their shoulders above taut bulging muscles, hurting but hardening their bodies until they bled unnoticed — as the nanomites continued their endless tasks of repairing their torn and battered bodies. Items of kit fell from ingeniously made webbing, which then had to be picked up and carried by hand over the miles. The relentless instructors always checked that their water bottles remained full to the brim; both at the beginning and end of each exercise, no matter what the temperature, and God help anyone foolish enough to drink any of the contents.

  The weeks and months passed until they were no longer simply men and women. Their unit acted as one, meshing together for the common good, each a link in a well trained killing machine. They realised then they were soldiers.

  As they progressed the instructors started giving them Cinderella leave, which meant they had to be back by midnight. Let out of their dorms occasionally, they went to the local bars and had a few beers, their meagre pay stretching that far. The first time she went out, Selena didn’t realise just how exhausted she was. After only three litres of the strong local beer she felt the alcohol hitting her and made her excuses; then staggered back to camp. She didn’t even recall getting into bed, or falling instantly asleep.

  Boom!

  The thunder flash exploded right next to her ear and brought Selena awake with a start. “What the f...?” she exclaimed, rolling out of bed and grabbing her rifle as she leapt to her feet. A face loomed in front of her shrieking her name. Without a thought Selena pulled her left hand with the rifle barrel in it towards her, while thrusting her right hand and the rifle butt into the side of the man’s face. Instantly pulling the weapon back towards her, she cocked it and smashed the barrel straight through the guy’s teeth and pulled the trigger. Luckily the weapon wasn’t loaded. Even as the empty click sounded, the screaming man was falling, holding his mouth. Rolling back and forth on the ground, he spat blood and teeth over the floor at Selena’s feet. In pure reflex she pulled her right foot back and aimed a kick at his throat.

  “Damn it, Dillon, what the hell are you doing?” Grunty bellowed.

  “Sorry, Sergeant,” Selena gasped, freezing as she came to her senses; she snapped to attention even as the lights came on. “I was asleep and just reacted.” She glanced down as the injured man was helped to his feet, clutching his mouth while blood ran freely between his fingers. The instructors eyed her warily as they led the man away.

  Hands clasped behind him the sergeant stood in front of her studying her silently for a moment. Then he chuckled and said, “Get this mess cleaned up, Dillon. I’ll speak to you in the morning.”

  Just then Bones noticed Yung standing behind Selena, a small hole in the front of her T-shirt. With a loud oath he strode forward and ripped the garment off her, pushing her backwards so that she fell onto her bed. Then he emptied her locker onto the floor, pulling it over so that it landed on top of her kit with a loud crash. Snarling into her face as she climbed back to her feet, Bones screamed that she was a total waste of space and if she didn’t pull herself together she’d be shipped off to the mines. Grabbing up the ruins of the T-shirt from the bed, he threw it into her face, blatantly ogling the spill from her bra and telling her she wasn’t worth a wank.

  When the instructors left, the sudden shocking silence seemed to drag on. Then Kes breathed a loud sigh of relief, looked at Selena and said, “For fuck’s sake, have you got a death wish or something?”

  “I didn’t mean to, it just happened. By the way, I was quite starting to like you, but now that bloody
hair of yours is coming back I’m rethinking my opinion.”

  “You really don’t like ginger people?” he asked, taken aback. “That’s gingerism.”

  “I like ’em fine, you idiot. It’s you I don’t like. Yung, are you okay?”

  Yung looked at Selena, her eyes somewhat distant as she pulled on a fresh T-shirt. Then, with Kes’s help she pulled her wardrobe up off the floor and back into position. “Yeah, I’m fine. You better clear up that blood and shit, and hope the guy with the missing teeth doesn’t bear a grudge.”

  None of the others said a word as they all cleared up. They kept their eyes averted from Selena, as if whatever might now happen to her might reflect on them too. Meanwhile, Yung remained silent and withdrawn. Selena grabbed a mop and began to clean the bloody mess from besides her bed.

  When the morning came, not a word was said; it was as if nothing untoward had happened.

  * * * *

  For the next few mornings they were made to run in their night attire, those that wore it, more often than not carrying their bedding and mattresses over their heads. Selena saw grown men and women crying in pain, their arms locked in agony. She sometimes tripped and fell from exhaustion but she wouldn’t let the instructors win and clambered back to her feet, where Yung and Kes dragged her on. Selena simply bit her lip, took a deep breath and staggered on. Stretchers loaded with full ammo boxes came next. They raced with them balanced on their shoulders in teams of eight for mile upon mile, their two groups of four swopping place time and again. The longer they ran the more frequent the swops between them came, as exhaustion and the agony caused by the cold metal handles and weight bouncing on their shoulders began to tell.