“Let’s go, Echo! Let’s go!”
The sergeant was yelling for them to keep up. He had to slow his pace several times. Force himself to stay back when he was used to flying through the course. Other squads were already through the course and on the run.
This is your fault, babe.
Wild Man climbed up the opposite side of the gulch and picked up speed, hurling himself at the ten-foot wall and just barely grabbing the sergeant’s waiting hand, his rifle banging against his hip as he jostled up and over.
The landing was hard. Wild Man’s knees could feel the shock. His ankle twisted, but not badly. Nothing he couldn’t ignore. But that landing…
Wild Man looked around as he sprinted for the rope tower. The sands seemed to have been compacted since the last time he ran the course. Made harder. Probably by orders of that damn general, Tyrus Rechs.
That’s how Wild Man thought of the man who’d saved his life on New Vega.
That damned general.
It was how all the candidates thought of Rechs. Who’d proven himself to be worthy of every hard word ever spoken against him. He was mean. He was vicious. And his way was pursued with the steadfastness of a zealous pilgrim following the direct revelation of God.
No wonder the man had personally destroyed thousands if not millions of lives by nuking Savage-infested planets. Who else but a sonofabitch could do something like that? Who else but a self-righteous egotist like Tyrus Rechs could declare himself justified in destroying entire populations of colonists and Savages alike, leaving them all to burn side by side in the post-apocalyptic fire?
Nobody liked him.
The officers pretended to.
The NCOs seethed with controlled rage, their tolerance necessary for keeping order.
The admiral was seen dining with the general, but rarely. Only CSM Andres seemed to genuinely enjoy the general’s company. And Andres was almost as bad as Rechs himself.
“Hustle up, Echo!”
The sergeant had already caught up. Helped every member of the squad over the wall and sprinted back to the front, climbing up the rope net to the top of the tower structure as though he lived there. He turned at the structure’s zenith and called for the squad to move it. But not in that damned general’s way. In a different way.
The Wild Man huffed, feeling the net bend and sway in reaction to his weight. Having to pitch his neck and back so far out that if he craned to look straight above him, he would see the horizon.
Davis was struggling alongside him. He was glad she was in his squad. And he didn’t mind the other three men either. Kimbo was friendly. And the Johnson brothers, James and Randolph, were fine, too. Most of the time they only talked to each other, and they let Wild Man be. Didn’t get on him about the way he ran. His breathing heavy and his steps loud and clunking.
Wild Man turned to watch Davis climb past him as the sergeant hollered for them to “Keep going!”
He wanted to speak to her, but he knew his breath was coming in ragged pants that wouldn’t do well for even a passing remark. But he wanted to tell her how it seemed like the sergeant was yelling not because he was angry, like Rechs, but because he actually wanted them all to finish.
Wild Man liked that about Sergeant.
Sergeant. The NCO ought to have a name other than just Sergeant. He was LC-330 whenever an officer or the CSM addressed him. And rumor was that the candidates called him “Fast.”
Sergeant Fast. That would probably be okay so long as the sergeant didn’t mind it.
Who cares what any of these people think?
“I… care…” rasped the Wild Man.
Then you’re an idiot.
It was quiet for a long while after that. Wild Man kept climbing. Reached the top and went headfirst down the taut rope that led from the tower to a thick tree trunk in the ruined landscape along the obstacle course. Wild Man hated that part. Felt like the rope would break or bend and twirl and he’d fall into the sand pit below. A few days back a candidate broke a leg falling from the middle portion of the tightrope. Lost his grip while inching along and dropped like a ship without engines.
Wild Man didn’t know what happened to the candidate after that.
Don’t you love me, babe?
He nodded. Knowing that somehow, she would see it. Feeling that anticipation that came from her wanting his attention, his affection again. Just like the old times. The old fights. And the makeups that came with them. Sometimes those fights were worth it. Just for the way they made up.
Then do another one, babe. Leave and do another one. For me. If you love me, do it for me.
“Can’t.”
And then she stormed off for a long while.
The rest of the course wasn’t any easier. Some dirt got into Davis’s eye when a simulated mortar round sent some dirt into her face. She was squinting and crying. Rubbing and shaking her head. But it wouldn’t come out.
Her eye was red as blood.
Wild Man took his canteen and pulled her to the side of the course the moment they finished it. Right when they were supposed to be starting the six-miler. He tipped her head back and flushed the irritant out.
“Better?” he asked.
“Thank you, yes.”
And then Wild Man saw that Kimbo and the Johnson brothers had stopped and were watching them. Their heavy rucks heaved as the sweat poured down from beneath their helmets. Sergeant stood there, too.
“Sorry, Sergeant Fast,” Wild Man said, stowing his canteen and fumbling to get it back on his kit.
The sergeant nodded, thereby accepting his namesake. “Hustle up, Echo. Long run.”
A two-man all-terrain transport equipped with four omni-balls pulled beside the squad. Admiral Sulla was driving. And General Rechs was in the passenger seat, standing as the vehicle skidded to a halt, his face already red with anger.
“LC-330! What is the reason for your squad’s delay?”
The sergeant stood at attention, eyes forward. “No excuse, sir!”
“Then get your squad moving, Sergeant! Set the pace!”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
Sergeant Fast began to run, the rest of Echo Squad falling into place behind him. But it seemed to Wild Man that the sergeant wasn’t moving as fast he could. They were running hard, but this was not the speed the sergeant was known for.
Rechs had Casper drive the transport alongside the sergeant, who ran head up, looking straight ahead.
“Damn sorry turn of events, LC-330!” Rechs shouted at the sergeant’s ear. “Went from front of the pack to way back here. Makes me sick! Does it make you sick, too?”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
But Sergeant Fast didn’t increase his pace.
Whether the general noticed this was unknown. He arrived angry and he parted angry, warning Echo Squad that they were “expected at the range by oh-nine-hundred hours!”
Otherwise… don’t bother showing up at all.
As the transport carrying what constituted the highest brass the young Legion had to offer sped forward in a cloud of dust, everyone looked to the sergeant. Wondering if he would kick it into that extra gear he seemed to possess. Force them to run beyond their potential. Or force them to fall behind, pushing themselves to catch up with their squad leader when they could.
If they could.
Wild Man looked at the huffing faces of his buddies. Davis. The Johnsons. Kimbo. They were all middle-of-the-pack. At least, they had been in the early days of Legion training. But washouts had made a new order. And Echo Squad was now the bottom of the pile. Slow through the course. Slow on the runs.
You’re the screwups here, babe. And you’re the biggest screwup of all. You ain’t no Savage-killer. Not anymore. Not even for me. Ain’t no man, either… babe.
“Shut up,” Wild Man grunted.
Kimbo, who
didn’t understand, said, “Yeah, I hate the old man, too.”
“We’re… supposed to,” huffed Davis. “That’s… why… he drives… while… we run.”
The Johnson twins hoarsely whispered between themselves. Wild Man couldn’t make out what they were saying.
They were moving at a pace that, while slower than what Sergeant Fast was capable of, felt just as daunting. The weight of the gear and rifles made every step painful. Like they were sinking into the planet itself, driving themselves into its core with each stride like a hammer hitting a nail.
Kimbo shook his head. “Why… would he want us… to…?”
“Because he’s… a bastard,” Davis panted. “Isn’t he… Sergeant Fast?”
Wild Man knew she was right. He remembered what Tyrus Rechs was willing to do to all those people on New Vega. Trigger-nuke. Burn up everything. No chance. No hope. No mercy.
But he wanted to hear the sergeant say it. Wanted at that moment the permission to stop running and walk away from a table where the game was so obviously rigged against them.
Sergeant Fast dropped back into the midst of the company. His breathing sounded light and easy. He was only now beginning to perspire; light beadings of sweat formed beneath his helmet.
“Only one thing you can do to get back at a man like the general,” he said. “Prove him wrong.”
He picked up the pace. Only a little bit. But faster than what Echo Squad had been accustomed to. And it felt much faster given the kit and the heavy N-1s slung over their shoulders.
They kept up. Blisters pushed against boots. Lungs burned. Backs ached.
But they kept up.
* * *
Echo Squad was the last to arrive at the shooting range. Sergeant Fast fell back behind his men as they jogged to take a place facing a long platform that seemed to have been built out rough-sawn boards. The range had been constructed from the abundant timbers on Hardrock, and the sergeant could see more than a few familiar faces working on constructing what had to be a kill house.
These men weren’t Legion material. They were washouts. But the admiral kept them working toward the cause. Rumor was that they would form some sort of auxiliary force meant to support the Legion proper. If they chose to stick around.
None of the washouts would meet Sergeant Fast’s gaze. Even the men he’d gotten to know. Especially them. It made the sergeant’s stomach grow sick with pity, like he could feel the shame these men must now feel, seeing those who gutted it out ready to use their weapons. Ready to take on the next phase of Legion training.
Or maybe that was conjecture. Maybe they were secretly happy to not be running like slaves under the whip of a cruel master—the general—any longer. Maybe they felt the same pity for Sergeant Fast, too stupid to walk away from insanity.
“Here comes Echo Squad,” one of the candidates called out, faceless among the throng.
The comment sparked a ripple of guffaws and pocketed conversation.
Oh well. That was to be expected. Echo would shrug it off. Do better next time.
“Fitting name,” called out someone else—one of the other sergeants. LC-83. Charles Lower. Someone who knew better. “We all get here on time and then… the echo.”
He said it loud enough for everyone to hear. And the laughs were that much louder.
Echo Squad set their jaws. Trying to act like they didn’t notice. Or didn’t care.
“Hey, knock it off, Lower,” Sergeant Fast warned.
“Gotta be killing you, Fast,” the other replied. “Used to beat every candidate in this outfit. Dead last today. Sucks, huh?”
Fast walked stridently to the man, shoulders back, head held high. He spoke loud enough for everyone to hear, addressing the candidates as much as Sergeant Lower. “Echo Squad arrived on time and together. You won’t need just me to show up to save you from the Savages—you’ll want the whole squad.”
Lower shook with mock laughs, moving his shoulders up and down and looking for approval from the candidates he was expected to lead. Some of the men looked up, thrilled. Others looked away, aware that this… was not how it was supposed to be.
“Nah,” Lower maintained. “You’re the only one worth a damn, Fast. If First Platoon needs help, you have our permission to come solo.”
“You’re wrong,” Sergeant Fast said, getting inside Lower’s personal bubble of space. Standing a good six inches taller. Fast said those words loud enough for Echo Squad to hear. But what followed was just for his colleague. “And if you say another word about my team, I’ll knock every kelhorned tooth you have down your throat.”
There was an electric moment where it seemed a fight might break out, but that suspense was impaled by the bellowing voice of General Rechs.
“Captain Milker! What in the hell is happening between your platoons, Captain?”
“LC-330! LC-83! Is there a problem here?”
The two sergeants stepped apart.
“No, sir,” said Lower.
“The hell there isn’t,” Rechs growled, pacing the raised platform that formed the range stations like a predatory cat stuck in a cage. “Everybody on your feet!”
The candidates obeyed, many of them still wet with perspiration, their uniforms soaked in sweat under their arms and against their necks.
“LC-04!” Rechs boomed.
“Yes, sir!” Sergeant Greenhill replied.
“Get Chang notified to start serving chow.” Rechs put his hands on his hips. “Chang closes the galley in sixty minutes. What you make of the six miles back to the ship determines how much time you have left to cram grub down your necks. LC-83!”
“Yes, sir!” responded Sergeant Lower.
“Corporal. You are to lead both platoons back to Chang and have them ready to march back upon conclusion of the lunch hour. Is that clear, Corporal?”
Lower wavered a half-second, and then the realization of his demotion fell on him all at once.
“Yes, sir,” he said, barely hiding the venom in his heart.
“Good. Captain Milker—you and the rest of your NCOs are to forgo lunch and remain here with me until both platoons return.”
“Yes, sir!”
“CSM Andres, take the mule back to the Chang and make sure LC-83 doesn’t get my platoons lost.”
“Yes, sir!” Andres moved to the transport Rechs and Sulla arrived in and drove at breakneck speed past the column of waiting candidates.
“Corporal!” Rechs shouted, not hiding the annoyance in his voice. “You’re wasting time and depriving your platoons of the opportunity to eat. Move out, now!”
Corporal Lower hurried to the front of an already-formed column of Legion candidates. “Ranger Company… fall out!”
Sergeant Fast watched them run and then looked back to Rechs, who held his fisted pose of rage until the column of Legion candidates was out of his sight.
“Fall in,” called Admiral Sulla.
The remaining officers and NCOs did as they were told, standing below the raised platform that housed the shooting stations, each one numbered with ample room for the rangemaster to pace behind the shooters and observe their progress.
Sulla was standing next to a man so slim he seemed anorexic to Sergeant Fast. Makaffie. One of the soldiers from New Vega who’d decided the Legion wasn’t for him. It was Makaffie who had designed the N-1. And made the thing too damn heavy. Fast was sure of that. He’d always preferred pistols in his former life. Quick and useful for trouble that was up close. Which was how things usually happened out there running crews on remote planets where a starship was worth killing for. Fast had made more than one opportunistic colonist die trying to “commandeer” his ship.
But a rifle had its purpose. Especially in war. Particularly against the Savages. You didn’t want them too close. Fast had seen what they were capable of when it all boiled down to h
ands. The galaxy had discovered some powerful species since mankind started jumping through the stars, but Fast couldn’t think of any who could hold their own against a Savage marine in a wrestling match.
“This is the N-1 rifle,” Sulla began, showing them a weapon they’d been running with as though they’d never seen it before. “The forward and rear sights collapse in order…”
Fast saw out of the corner of his eye one of the men working on the kill house approaching General Rechs. A washout maybe, but Fast didn’t recognize him. Maybe he dropped in those first couple of days. Before the faces had the chance to make an impression.
The two men, general and laborer, started to converse. Fast could hear them talking.
“I want in the Legion sir,” said the laborer.
Not a washout, then.
Sulla continued talking. “The charge pack will provide eight shots before needing to be replaced. This is a semi-automatic weapon due to a tendency for a pack to disperse all its energy in a single blast in full-auto tests. R&D is working on a solution…”
Fast caught the tail end of Rechs’s reply to the laborer. “…late in the game.”
“I know sir, but…”
“In the event of an overload, you are to prime the…”
Fast saw the laborer nod, leave his tools and coworkers, and run off after the cloud of dust the candidates left on their run back to the Chang.
“Any questions?” Sulla concluded.
When no one provided them, the NCOs were invited to step up and demonstrate that they understood how to handle the weapon.
“Leave your issued N-1 below. You’ll be firing the weapons at the firing stations.”
Fast took a place at an empty station and stood, waiting for permission to take up the N-1 rifle waiting for him there. He was familiar enough with weapons to feel no apprehension. The N-1 weapon system seemed pretty much like a traditional gas-fired cartridge system. And while his didn’t come issued with a charge pack, he’d studied the weapon enough to understand its function.
Gods & Legionnaires (Galaxy's Edge: Savage Wars Book 2) Page 34
