First To Fight (The Empire's Corps Book 11) (3 page)

One week before graduation, all hell broke loose.

It was rare for us to have a family dinner.  Our mother would get the rations from the local store, sell half of them to pay for her drug habit and leave the rest in the cupboards for when we felt peckish.  There was never enough, really; it wasn't unknown for older siblings to steal food from their younger siblings.  But Trevor was feeling full of himself for some reason and he’d actually paid for a
proper
dinner, one that tasted of something other than recycled cardboard.   We were just sitting down to eat when the door unlocked and a stream of masked gangsters raged into the apartment.  Trevor, it seemed, had alienated someone during his desperate struggle for power.  That person - and I never found out who - had decided to nip this upstart challenger in the bud.

Resistance was futile, but I tried.  I knocked one of them out before four more slammed me down and tied my hands and feet with duct tape.  Trevor was slammed down too, despite his fearsome reputation.  Dare, only seven, was thrown against the wall so hard that it cracked his skull.   He died instantly, I hope.  Linda and my mother were not so lucky.  By the time they died, they’d been raped so savagely that death would have come for them anyway.  And Trevor?  I had to watch as they cut him open and bled him to death. 

I don’t know why they left me alive, when they’d finally finished their ghastly task.  Perhaps they wanted someone to spread the word, just to make sure everyone
knew
they were bastards, or perhaps the drugs they were taking as they had their fun interfered with their thoughts.  It took me hours to wriggle free and, when I stumbled over to the cot, I discovered that my baby sister was dead.  They’d put a pillow over her head and ...

My family was dead.

The Undercity doesn't encourage you to care.  I knew people who had quite happily done horrific things to their families and gotten away with them.  Trevor probably
would
have sold his younger sisters for power, if he’d been asked.  And yet, I felt a pang as I stared down at their bodies.  None of them had
asked
to be born, nor to grow up in hell.  I forced myself to close their eyes, then step back from the bodies.  There was nothing else I could do for them.

I knew there was no point in reporting the crime.  No one would give a damn.  It wasn't as if anyone in the Undercity had
friends
.  Hell, I was sure the neighbours had heard the screams, but they’d done nothing.  And I knew there was no point in trying for revenge.  I didn't know who to target, let alone where to find them.  All I could do was shower, change into something clean and search the apartment for money before leaving and closing the door, one final time.  I have no doubt that our neighbours broke in the following day and took whatever they wanted, but I have no idea what happened to the bodies.  They were probably carried to the nearest trash chute and dumped in.

Using some of Trevor’s money, I boarded a tube and set off for the recruiting office.  I was an orphan, without parents.  There was no one to grant me permission to enlist - and no one who could object.  Maybe the military would take me ...

... Because, as I knew all too well, there was nowhere else to go.

Chapter Three

I am often asked why so few civilians from Earth joined the military, even when it was clear the military would offer them a better life.  To that, all I can say is that military service was not only roundly mocked on Earth, but also dismissed.  There was, in their view, nothing and no one worth fighting for.  The Grand Senate commanded neither respect nor loyalty.

-Professor Leo Caesius

I must have looked a sight on the tube as it progressed from the lower levels up to the more civilised sections of the CityBlock.  Maybe I had showered, maybe I had changed my clothes, but my eyes were haunted and my fists were clenched.  I was grimly aware of men eying me sharply and women inching away from me, as if I was a wolf who had come to prowl amongst the sheep.  I think I hated the upper-blockers at that moment, hated them more intensely than Trevor or the men who’d destroyed my family; the upper-blockers had lives and opportunities few of us could even dream about.  It wasn't until much later that I learned they had problems of their own.

It was a relief when I finally reached the recruiting stations.  There were a handful of recruiting stations, most showing glamorous posters of men in uniform or starships performing immensely dangerous manoeuvres.  The Imperial Navy, it seemed, was determined to milk the old line about all the nice girls liking spacers for as much as it could get, while the Imperial Army and Civil Guard talked about being all one could be.  Only the marines were different, their office decorated with a simple picture of a marine in a muddy field.  The sign on the door stated that the office was closed for the day, but it would be opening in a number of hours.  I had nowhere else to go, so I sat down on the step and closed my eyes.

I must have dozed off, for the next thing I remember was a man peering down at me.  He looked friendly enough, yet there was a
perceptiveness
in his gaze that bothered me at a very primal level.   I had the impression - and nothing I saw later ever belied it - that he could see right through me.  We stared at each other for a long moment, then I hastily stood and stepped aside, allowing him to open the office.

“I want to enlist,” I said.

He gave me a look that was neither welcoming nor unfriendly.  I felt an unaccustomed pit in my stomach as he looked me up and down, then beckoned me to step into the office.  Inside, it was dark and bland, almost Spartan.  The walls were bare, save for a single rank chart and a couple of medals.  I assumed, in the absence of other evidence, that they belonged to the man who’d met me.  He sat down behind a desk and pointed me to a chair, then tapped a terminal keyboard.  The system came to life with a contented hum.

“I am Recruiting Sergeant Muhammad Bakker,” he said, shortly.  “Before we begin, there is one piece of advice I want you to bear in mind at all times.  Never - ever - try to lie to me.”

“I won't,” I said. 

Somehow, I doubted Bakker would be fooled if I tried to lie.  There was something in the way he moved that spoke of an easy confidence, a self-certainty so strong that it had no need to justify itself.  I’d met men with more muscles, men who looked more intimidating ... and none of them had seemed so
capable
.  I wished, with a sudden bitter intensity, that some of our teachers had had that attitude.  Our schools might have actually been worth something.

“Good,” Bakker said.  He took my ID card and ran it through the scanner, then shrugged when no obvious red cards appeared.  “Tell me why you want to join the marines.”

I swallowed.  I had my reasons, but how could I put them into words?

“Because I want to be something more,” I said, finally.  “Because ... because I don’t want to remain stuck in the Undercity.”

Bakker lifted his eyebrows.  “And you feel the marines can offer you that chance?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.  The
sir
just slipped out automatically.  His attitude commanded respect, even from an Undercity brat.  “I don’t want to go back there.”

His eyebrows lifted again.  “Is this one of those enlistments when the recruit wants to be shipped out at once?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Explain,” he ordered.

I did, starting with my pathetic education and ending with the death of my family.  Bakker listened, saying nothing, as I went through the whole story, his face utterly expressionless.  I cursed myself mentally, wondering if I should have worked harder at school.  Maybe if I’d had better grades, no matter how pointless, he might have enlisted me on the spot.

“I see,” Bakker said, when I had finished.  “Do you have a criminal record?”

“No, sir,” I said.

“Very good,” he said.  He glanced at his terminal.  “Piss-poor academic standing, young man.”

“The tests are useless, sir,” I said.  His eyebrows rose, once again.  “All they do is test how well you can swallow, then spit back the material.  I forgot everything I was taught as soon as the test was over.”

“How true,” Bakker agreed.  He gave me a considering look.  “Can you read?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, irked.  It wasn't a stupid question - I doubted that more than ten percent of the Undercity’s inhabitants could even recite the alphabet - but it was annoying.  “I mastered reading at a very early age.”

He took a datapad from a drawer, tapped a switch and passed it to me.  “Read this out loud.”

I glanced down at the datapad, then started to read.  “I, insert your own name here, agree to submit myself for testing in line with the Military Readiness and Accountability Act,” I said.  “I understand that data collected ...”

Bakker held up a hand.  “Finish it silently, then summarise it for me.”

I felt sweat prickling down my back as I finished reading the document.  “It says ... it says that some of these tests can only be given with prior permission,” I said, carefully.  “And that I’m not allowed to be offended by the results.”

“Press your finger against the reader, if you agree,” Bakker said, tonelessly.  It was obvious that he considered the whole procedure to be bullshit.  “If you don’t agree, get out that door.”

“I agree,” I said.  I hesitated, then asked.  “Why do we have to do this?”

“Because you’re about to undergo a set of aptitude tests,” Bakker said, as he rose to his feet and walked around the desk.  He didn't make any attempt to loom over me, yet I still couldn't help feeling intimidated.  “By law, those tests can only be given with permission, as testing all children and teenagers is deemed unfair.  They will hopefully suggest your general suitability for the corps and what, if any, role you may be suited for.”

I didn't understand what I was being told until much later.  Aptitude tests measure both developed intelligence and how a person may react, if put into a number of different situations.  They could be used to separate a prospective computer expert from a prospective janitor and, as such, were considered unfair by the educational community.  It wouldn't do, they said, to tell a teenager that he or she wasn’t suited to be anything more than a cleaner or garbage disposal man.  It would only undermine their self-confidence.

“You clearly didn't take the standardised tests seriously,” Bakker said.  He led me through a hidden door and into another room.  It was empty, save for a computer sitting on a desk and a water dispenser placed against the wall.  “This test?  You
need
to take it seriously.  Give each question serious consideration before you answer, if there’s time.”

I blinked.  “If there’s time?”

“Some of these questions have a time limit,” Bakker said.  He sat down in front of the computer, then took me through a couple of sample questions.  “Even the others, the ones without a formal time limit ... we
will
be measuring just how long you take to answer them.”

He rose, motioning for me to sit down.  “Feel free to take water from the dispenser, if you like,” he added.  “Touch the keyboard when you’re ready to start.”

I stared at the computer, bracing myself, then tapped the switch.  The first question blinked up in front of me. 
Dave is smarter than Devon.  Who is stupider? 
I stared at it for a moment, then worked out that Devon was the stupider one of the pair.  There was nothing to tell me if I was right or wrong, merely the next question.  The first set were along the same lines, testing my ability to comprehend what I was seeing; the next set were far more complex.  I found myself sweating again as I answered them to the best of my ability, growing increasingly convinced that I was failing badly.  My food-deprived mind was starting to hurt and hurt badly.  By the time the series of questions finally came to an end, I was half-expecting to be unceremoniously booted out of the office.  Instead, Bakker returned and beckoned me through yet another door.

“I need to evaluate your results,” he said. 

He passed me a ration bar and a bottle of juice, then motioned for me to sit and wait.  I had the feeling it was another test, so I sat quietly and ate my ration bar slowly, savouring every morsel.  It tasted far better than the crud we’d been given in the Undercity.  Bakker sat on the other side of the room, tapping away at his datapad.  It felt like hours before he finally looked up at me and smiled, rather cruelly.

“You’ll be pleased to know you meet the minimum necessary requirements for Boot Camp,” he said.  “Do you still want to go?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.  “How well did I do?”

“You met the minimum requirements,” Bakker repeated, shortly.  It wasn't until much later that I learned I’d been placed in the top percentile.  “Have you finished your meal?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Stand against the wall,” he ordered.  “I need to take measurements, as well as a blood sample.  If you took any drugs prior to coming here, this is your one chance to tell me.”

“I didn't, sir,” I said.

“You’d be amazed at just how many idiots think they can fool a blood test,” Bakker said, as he picked up an injector tube.  I refused to show any sign of unease as he pressed it against my arm, withdrawing a small sample of blood.  “Do you have anything you want to confess to me now?”

“No, sir,” I said.

“Good,” Bakker said.  He put the blood sample in a machine I didn't recognise, then measured my height and weight manually.  “Decent enough, I suppose.  You really need to put a bit more weight on, but they’ll take care of that at Boot Camp.”

He turned back to the machine, then nodded.  “Your blood sample seems to be clear,” he added.  “Do you have any allergies that you know about?  Any medical problems?  Any genetic enhancement in the family?”

“No, sir,” I said.  Getting ill could be the kiss of death in the Undercity.  “If there was any enhancement, I don’t know about it.”

Bakker frowned.  “There are some traces of hackwork in your blood, but that’s true of most residents of Earth these days,” he said.  “It shouldn't be a problem, as it isn't flagging up any warning signs.  Boot Camp will do a full work-up, if necessary, but I don’t think it will stand in your way.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said, relieved.  “Hackwork?”

“Genetic engineering to fix a hereditary problem,” Bakker said, shortly.  “Your distant ancestors might have had a problem with hay fever, for example, and they might have spliced a modification into your DNA to ensure their descendants didn't have the same problem.”

He met my eyes.  “Your test results, both physical and mental, show that you can proceed forward from here,” he added, changing the subject.  “You may quit at any time, but you have to
tell
us you quit.  If you decide not to show up for the shuttle flight, you will be listed as a deserter and probably arrested.  It may also be counted against you if you wish to sign up for another branch of the military - and there will
not
be a second chance to join us.  We don’t want quitters.  Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. 

“There's a scheduled shuttle flight from here to Boot Camp tomorrow, then another two weeks from now,” Bakker said.  “You may, if you wish, leave on the second shuttle, but it’s unlikely I can offer you a later seat.”