First To Fight (The Empire's Corps Book 11) (30 page)

Well,
we
did.  We’d watched as post-battle assessment teams and sensitive site exploitation teams worked over our campsites, learning far too much about us from what we’d left behind when we’d departed.  Sherlock Holmes - a detective from an era few outside the corps knew had ever existed - would have been astonished at just how much they’d deduced about us.  It hadn't taken us long to learn how to sanitize our campsites, but even so it was hard to prevent them from learning
something
.

“It's a great weapon,” Joker said, giving his sword an experimental swing.  “I could use this in combat.”

I nodded in agreement.  The weapons were far from ceremonial.  There were no shortage of stories about marines who’d used their swords in combat, when the bullets ran out - or when they’d been barred from bringing firearms into the building.  Most people, used to the fancy soldiers in fancier uniforms they see during parades, assume that their weapons are plastic fakes.  It’s worked in our favour more than once.

“Put it away,” Southard ordered.  “Draw your weapons from the desk and then prepare for the parade.”

My rifle didn't feel
right
when I picked it up, although it took me several minutes to work out precisely what was wrong.  They’d removed the nametag I’d been so proud of, a year ago, leaving only the serial number in place.  I felt a pang I couldn't quite explain.  My name on a rifle, just like my name on a sword, could be far too revealing, yet I felt as if I’d lost something very dear to me.  I stared down at it for a long moment, then checked the pistol instinctively.  My name was gone from its butt too. 

“Draw ammunition,” Southard reminded us.  “You’re
marines
now.  We trust you with live ammunition.”

I nodded.  We'd fired off thousands upon thousands of rounds as we’d made our way through the Slaughterhouse, but we’d never been allowed to keep our weapons loaded when we weren't expected to use them.  Now ... now, I could carry my weapons locked and loaded, ready to fire, whenever I pleased.  Once I had the permit, I could even carry a weapon on Earth, although I knew it would be best to keep it out of sight.  Civilians would start screaming if they saw a
real
weapon, while the police might assume the worst and engage with deadly force.  They were not particularly well trained. 

“There isn't long before the parade,” Southard said, once we were assembled in the antechamber.  “I want you to know I’m proud of you.  You didn't lose a single member to the Crucible.”

They’d hammered the statistics into us, time and time again.  Only one in ten Boot Camp attendees went to the Slaughterhouse, while half of the troopers would quit, or claim a medical discharge, or die.  The best of platoons sometimes came apart when faced with the Crucible, perhaps through sheer bad luck.  A handful of early injuries could ruin the entire platoon.  The thought of having to go through it all again was horrific.

“What you forged, over the last year, will not last,” he added.  “Some of you will start advanced training, others will be classed as Combat Replacement Of War - CROWs - and slotted into units in need of new marines.  But you will
remember
each other as more than just buddies.  None of you would have made it through without all of you.”

We’d been lucky, I knew.  There were platoons that just failed to get any traction at all, even though all of their members had passed Boot Camp.  And others that had dissolved into mutual recriminations that had forced the Drill Instructors to break them up and start again, perhaps even discharging the worst of the offenders ...

But we’d made it.  And that was all that mattered.

Chapter Thirty

The Slaughterhouse is
the
event that binds marines - and even their auxiliaries - together and the bonds it forges can last for life.  Ed told me that he stayed in touch with his platoon mates until his final assignment to Avalon.  For older marines, their training platoon can serve as the building block of a chain that works its way through the entire corps.  It isn't uncommon for platoon mates to help each other out after their graduation ...

-Professor Leo Caesius

I’d never seen the parade ground before, not even when we were practicing marching up and down - or prancing around looking pretty, as Southard had put it.  Troopers simply weren't allowed into sections of the complex reserved for marines, not until we’d earned the right to enter.  Now, we marched through a gate and into a parade ground dominated by a reviewing stand, a large set of seats for the witnesses and the two ‘enemy’ companies that had harried us throughout our training.  I would later command one of them, at Officer Candidate School, but for the moment all I could do was admire them.  They’d been formidable foes.

Commandant Jeremy Damiani himself, surrounded by a handful of older men in dress uniforms, gazed down at us as we marched past him, while the crowds cheered.  They were mainly dependents - it was a point of honour for the marine dependents to attend each graduation parade - although there were a handful of retired marines amongst them.  There were no auxiliaries, as far as I knew; they rarely cared to attend graduation ceremonies.  They were reminders of what they’d been unable to achieve.  Very few people made a fuss about it.

“Present arms,” Southard bellowed, as we marched once around the field and then stopped in front of the stand.  “And ...
relax
!”

We relaxed slightly,
very
slightly.  I don’t think anyone could have told we were doing anything, but standing fully to attention.  The Commandant, who presumably
could
tell what we were doing, smiled as he stepped forward.  I couldn't help noticing that he was holding a small leather bag in one hand.

“Let me start by saying,” he said, “that it is a very great honour to be here, watching as these troopers take the final step to become marines.  They have undergone the most feared training course in the history of warfare, shedding all those who could not make it along the way.  I offer you my most sincere congratulations on your success.  Please join with me” - he looked up at the watching crowd - “in giving a hearty round of applause for these new marines.”

There was a roar of applause.  I felt ...
odd. 
I’d felt jealous, somewhat, at Boot Camp, when families and friends had been welcome to attend.  Here, there was no one who didn't have a strong link to the corps.  I felt almost as if I had a new family ... no, I
did
have a new family, one that would always be there for me.  Joker and the others were my brethren now, but so were the rest of the marines.

“These are hard times for the Empire,” Damiani said.  “The established order that we have fought so hard to defend, over the last three thousand years, has been badly weakened.  New challenges are springing up everywhere, while recruiting for the armed forces is at an all-time low.  Our society is decaying in front of us.  You have embarked upon a career that will be marked by hundreds, perhaps thousands, of thankless tasks.  You will be, at best, perpetually misunderstood by those you defend.  There will be times when you will ask yourselves if it is worth it.  All I can tell you is that your work, your determination - and, at times, your sacrifices - is geared towards protecting the civilians of the Empire.  It is to
them
that we owe our allegiance. “

He was blunt, perhaps too blunt.  If the speech became public knowledge, he might well be forced to resign.  But he went ahead anyway, showing the moral courage I’d been taught to develop on the Slaughterhouse.  It was only with the benefit of hindsight - after Damiani exiled me and my company to Avalon - that I realised he must have known the Empire was doomed, no matter what we did.  He was planting seeds for a post-Empire universe that wouldn't fall into barbarism.

“You will see the very worst of humanity,” he said.  “You will watch helplessly as the darkness falls over countless worlds.  But you will also see brave men and women, pinpricks of light, fighting desperately to hold back the darkness.  We exist to support them, to help them, to make it possible for them to save us all from chaos. 

“You - the poor bloody infantry - are the heart and soul of the Marine Corps.  I salute you.”

He saluted.  We saluted back.

Damiani reached into his bag.  “Marine Kehormatan, come forward.”

Sif stepped forward to a roar of approval from the crowd.  She was the only one whose name I remember - and only then because I thought it was unusual.  It wasn't until much later that I realised her entire family had been serving with honour for hundreds of years.  Damiani pinned a badge on her collar, then shook her hand.  Sif looked overwhelmed, almost, as she stepped back into line.

It was my turn soon enough.  “Marine Stalker, come forward.”

I found it hard to walk up to the Commandant, who was holding a dull gunmetal-grey box in his hand.  I’d inched forward against overwhelming fire, but this was harder ... somehow, I stepped up to him and stared as he opened the box, revealing a golden badge.  The Rifleman’s Tab glowed faintly against the metal; he picked it up, gently pressed it against my collar and secured it in place.  I was a marine.

There are a whole series of myths surrounding the Rifleman’s Tab, mostly nonsense.  The only important detail is that they’re made for each marine individually and the only way to get one is to graduate from the Slaughterhouse.  If a marine dies, on active service or in bed with his wife, the badge is returned to the Slaughterhouse and added to the memorial for fallen comrades.  Humans being humans, a single Rifleman’s Tab is worth billions of credits on the black market, but very few are available at any price.  The corps has a legal right to seize any stolen badge without warrant or compensation.

And it was mine.  No matter what happened, no matter what I did, it couldn't be taken from me until the day I died.

Damiani shook my hand.  It was the last time we met, face-to-face, until I was stationed on Earth.  Maybe he saw something special in me, maybe he didn’t; it doesn't matter.  He would go on to become Commandant of the Marine Corps - and, perhaps, the
last
person to bear that title.  And he was a good man.

“You are dismissed,” Damiani said, when every last one of us had received their tab.  “There is now two days of leave, after which you will be given your first assignment.”

The rush from the parade ground - also traditional - was probably best described as undignified.  Somehow, we ended up in the bar, where we found ourselves being congratulated by dozens of current and retired marines; they bought us hundreds of drinks, but none of us got drunk.  (I was relieved to discover that one of the treatments we were given negated the effects of alcohol and hard drugs; sadly, I think I was very much in the minority.)  The rest of that leave passed in a blur; two days later, feeling oddly unhappy to be bored, I found myself being shown into another office.

“Stalker,” Captain Garfunkel said.  I’d met him, briefly, during one of the psychological tests we’d undergone.  “Please, be seated.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Call me Sam,” he said.  “We’re both marines now.”

I doubted it.  I’d developed the habit of looking the instructors up on the datanet, when I had a free moment, and Sam Garfunkel had a combat record longer than my arm.  If he hadn’t suffered a major injury, judging by his file, he would probably have stayed on the front lines and left evaluating new-minted marines to others.  The idea of considering him to be anything other than my superior was absurd.

“You were assessed thoroughly as you passed through the course,” Garfunkel said.  “Your Drill Instructors agreed that you showed definite signs of leadership potential, although you would also make a good NCO.  You were quite good at taking the lead and equally good at offering ideas to your superiors, when you weren't in command.  However, we cannot send you to OCS until you have had at least five years in the field.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.  I’d known as much.  Every marine is a rifleman first; there was no way I’d be given a command assignment without first having served as a lowly rifleman.  It wasn't something I could argue, either.  A person without field experience in command is asking for trouble.  “Am I going to the field?”

“We believe there is no room for you to develop a more focused MOS” - Military Occupational Speciality - “at the moment,” Garfunkel said.  “You were not interested in serving as a combat medic, a combat engineer or an EOD officer.  Therefore” - he made a show of consulting his datapad, although I was sure he had it memorised - “we would like to offer you a posting to 453th Company, otherwise known as Webb’s Weavers.  They’ve lost several men on deployment recently and are in desperate need of CROWs.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.  Whatever he said, I knew I wasn't really being offered a choice.  “When do I ship out?”

“There’s a supply ship leaving for Moidart in two days,” Garfunkel said.  “You and the other CROWs will be on it.  Once you arrive, you will be integrated into the Weavers as soon as possible.  Captain Webb may wish to have you flown out to join them or have you wait at the base until the Weavers are rotated back behind the wire.  Dare I assume you wish to accept this assignment?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Very good,” Garfunkel said.  He tapped his terminal, then produced a datachip.  “You’ll report to the ship by 0800, Tuesday.  There’s a list of everything you’re expected to bring on the chip; if you’re having problems finding any of them, talk to the supply sergeants.”

He took a breath.  “Make sure you don’t miss the deadline or you will be in deep shit,” he added.  “At the very least, the cost of arranging transport will be taken out of your pay.  Trust me, that’s enough money to rent an apartment in Imperial City for a month.  You can report now, if you wish, or spend some more time in Liberty Town.  I’d advise taking the leave, myself.  You’ll find yourself wishing you had once you depart.”

I took the datachip when he held it out to me.  “Thank you, sir.”

“Thank me when you get back,” Garfunkel growled.  He cleared his throat.  “Do you want a word of advice?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“There’s a good chance that some of the CROWs travelling with you will be from your platoon,” he said.  “We do try to jumble platoons up as much as possible, but that isn’t always easy.  In the event of that happening, I advise you to spend time with the other CROWs too.  You may end up serving with them on the surface.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said.  I'd learned how to get along with my fellows, even if we cordially disliked one another.  “I’ll do my best.”

“Just make sure your best is good enough,” Garfunkel said.  “Good luck,
marine
.”

I stepped out of the office, torn between two different sets of emotions.  On the one hand, I was finally going to get a chance to put my training to work; on the other, I was going to go into very real danger.  There wouldn't be any Drill Instructors rigging the tests to make the prospect of a deadly accident less likely, not on a real battlefield.  There wouldn't be any simulated enemy soldiers or IEDs that blasted out ink, rather than terrifying explosions.  And an injury might be real ...

“Hey,” Joker said.  He was waiting outside.  “What did you get?”

“Moidart,” I said.  I knew nothing about the planet, save for its name, but it sounded like excitement, adventure and deadly danger.  Could it beat the Undercity?  I rather doubted it; I'd checked and even Terra Nova, humanity’s first colony world, didn't have anything like the crushing population density of Earth.  “Want me to wait for you?”

“Sure,” Joker said.

As a child - or a teenager - I would have leaned against the wall, but as a marine I stood at parade rest and waited.  Everyone who passed greeted me as
marine
- I doubted I would ever get tired of it - and saluted, formally.  I had to salute back, every time.  By the time Joker emerged, grinning from ear to ear, I was getting tired of
saluting
.  But it had to be endured, at least as long as we were in safe territory.