Marines (7 page)

We banked left and I suddenly got a view of the Protected Zone, its kilometer-high towers gleaming in the sun.  It was beautiful, and it seemed the very image of prosperity and vigor rather than the dying relic it truly was.  It was the last time I would see it for a long time, and when I finally did visit again I would be utterly and irrevocably changed, and New York wouldn't be  my home anymore.

The copter streaked across the sky, passing swiftly over the streets of Brooklyn.  I looked down on row after row of old, poorly maintained buildings.  Brooklyn appeared to be a moderately nicer version of the Bronx, with things not in quite the same desperate condition.  There were more people milling around in the streets, and I could make out a few trolleys running down the main thoroughfares, so it looked like Brooklyn still had some level of city services.  Nothing like the MPZ of course.

We were heading for a huge structure built in the middle of a large cleared area.  The outer perimeter was surrounded by a large plas-crete wall with several guarded entrances.  The building itself was trapezoidal, kind of like a pyramid with the top third sheared off. 

We landed on the roof and took an elevator down several levels.  Finally, Captain Jack broke the silence and said, "You've got to be tired.  Orientation starts tomorrow at 0500, so let's get you someplace you can get some rest."

He took me to a small windowless room with drab gray walls and a bunk.  The door closed behind him as he left, and I couldn't see any kind of controls to open it from inside.  Another cell, but far more comfortable than the last one I'd been in. 

I was exhausted, but also wired.  My body was a jumbled combination of adrenaline, fatigue, and wild emotions.  Anger, fear, confusion.  I'd been minutes from death, only to be whisked away at the last instant.  It was surreal and hard to get my head around.  I had no idea what to expect, and while I was well aware I'd be dead by now if it hadn't been for Captain Jack, I certainly didn't plan to whip myself up into a patriotic frenzy for the old Western Alliance.  Fatigue won out in the end, and I fell asleep pretty quickly and didn't stir until they woke me up to start whatever it was I was starting.

Basic training was everything you'd expect it to be, and then some.  But before I even got to camp, I experienced some of the busiest and most hectic days of my life. 

It started with a comprehensive medical exam, and I do mean an extensive one.  I was poked, probed, and prodded in every spot and orifice on my body.  They took samples and then more samples.  Blood, DNA, spinal fluid, urine, stool, skin, saliva, semen, blood marrow, and just about every variety of tissue in my body.  They put me through every manner of imaging and scanning device, and when they were through they plugged a bunch of monitors into me and put me through the most vigorous exercise I had ever experienced.

But they were after more than my body, and the physical tests were followed up by a series of mental and emotional exams.  I sat at a terminal for hours taking one test after another.  Some seemed to evaluate my logical responses, others just my store of knowledge.  Still others were completely baffling in purpose, asking odd questions like, "If mankind could possess only one, what is more valuable, an inexhaustible energy source or a drug that cures all disease?"

Then came the batteries of psych testing, and some of this was really bizarre.  It started with normal interviews, questions about my childhood, my beliefs, my thoughts on all sorts of things.  I got a little uncomfortable talking about my years with the gang, as I had done some really bad things.  But they didn't seem to care about that.  I guess being a teenage killer was good prep for a marine career.

They did a series of tests under a variety of stimuli.  I was drugged and questioned very aggressively about a wide and seemingly random variety of things.  I was stripped naked and strapped to a chair in a freezing cold room and interrogated for two hours about everything from my thoughts on the government to why I don't like sweet potatoes.  I couldn't even remember the last time I'd seen a sweet potato, but they managed to get me to confess to an aversion for the things.

 They finished up by sending in an officer to inform me that my testing indicated I was not suitable for marine service and that I was to be taken immediately to the Justice Center for my capital sentence to be carried out.  He then got up and walked out without a word while they monitored my reactions for 20 minutes before telling me it was only a test.

Sore, exhausted, and disoriented, I was finally taken back to my room and told I could sleep, which I did for the next 20 hours.  I woke up ravenously hungry, and I had just gotten up and started toward the door with the intention of banging on it until someone let me out, when it slid open and Captain Jack walked in.

"You look well rested," he said with an obnoxious little smile on his face.  I think he could see that I was trying to come up with something nasty to say, because before I could open my mouth he went on.  "Relax, Erik, we all got the same treatment you did...and we've all been through everything you're going to be dealing with."

I didn't catch the half mocking, half sympathetic tone at the time, but looking back it was definitely there.  Of course every marine starts the same way.  Every one of us goes through the same recruiting and training, and if we get through it, we all make our first assault as privates.  It was no different for me than for anyone else.

The whole thing struck me as odd when it was first explained to me.  I didn't have any military history education at the time, but if I'd thought about it at all I would have assumed that the senior officers were members of the political classes or some other privileged elite.  The terrestrial armed forces were set up that way, but that's not how the off-world military worked.  I'd learn a lot more about all of that much later on, but at the time I had no idea what to expect.

"So are you going to tell me what's next?  Hopefully breakfast."  Honestly, food was all I could really think about.  I hadn't eaten anything in days.

He smiled and let out a small laugh.  "Training is going to be the biggest challenge you've ever faced, but one thing we're not going to do is starve you to death.  Let's go."  He motioned toward the door.  "You're shipping out to camp tonight, and you've got a right to do it on a full stomach."

 I followed him through the door and down the same brightly lit corridor I barely remembered stumbling down the day before.  The walls were spotless, the floor was polished to a glossy shine.  One thing about the marines - everything was immaculate.  Much cleaner than the public areas of the Protected Zone, not to mention the filth of the outer sectors.

We walked past about a dozen doors just like the one leading to my room - no doubt more little cubbies filled with new recruits sleeping off various medical abuses and other wear and tear.  After a short walk we came to a large dining hall, filled with maybe 30 big tables that could each seat 10-12.  It was at most one-quarter full, and though my just awakened brain had focused on breakfast, we were actually catching the tail end of lunch.

Captain Jack wasn't kidding about the full stomach either.  Twenty-third century America was a land where virtually everything was rationed to some extent or another.  Things were better in the Protected Zone, of course, but food, clothes, and medicine were still subject to various controls and shortages.  So now, as a condemned criminal press-ganged into the military as my only escape from execution, I found myself for the first time in my life able to eat as much as I wanted without question. 

While I sat and doggedly attacked the slightly obscene pile of food in front of me, Captain Jack grazed on a salad of some sort and tried to keep enough of my attention to let me know what was ahead of me.

"So, after we eat we'll go down to the quartermaster, and you'll be issued your uniform and kit.  Then there are a couple of orientation sessions, and after those you can see how much damage you can do to the dinner menu before your transport leaves for New Houston."

So I ate as much as I could, on general principle once my hunger was sated, and then we went down to the quartermaster.  A few minutes later I walked out wearing my first uniform, a set of gray training fatigues that looked nothing like Captain Jack's crisp attire.  It was the only thing I would wear for a year. 

I was given three sets of fatigues, socks, boots, a grooming kit, a bedroll, towel, and a duffel bag to carry it all.  I was also given a personal data unit, but it was restricted, and the only things I could access were regulations and selected military history.

The orientation sessions were harmless but boring, and I'm pretty sure I dozed off once or twice during the video presentations.  The one thing I did note from the sessions, and this was something no one had mentioned to me up until then, was that the training regimen was six years.  Six years! 

Training for the Earthbound army was only three months.  Sure, it made sense that fighting in space required more skills, but six years?  What could possibly take that long?

So I'd be 23 years old before I even started to serve my active duty time, and 33 before I could get my discharge.  At 17 that seemed like an eternity.  Not that I had a choice.  Other than a bullet in the head.  Or more accurately, a lungful of poison gas.

After the orientation we went back to the dining hall, with about an hour to go before I had to be on the train.  I made a reasonable effort but didn't match my lunchtime performance.  I think Captain Jack was a little disappointed.

We stowed our trays, and I got 5 minutes for a quick bathroom break before we walked down to an assembly hall where I finally said my goodbyes to Captain Jack.  Watching him walk away I started to feel really alone.  I'd only known him for a few days, but he'd been the one thing I could latch on to.  Everything around me was unfamiliar, and things were happening quickly.  I really had no idea what to expect.  A few days ago I was in the Bronx, a member of the Wolfpack who lived by terrorizing a bunch of poor workers.  Now, after a close brush with death I was on my way to becoming a marine?  To fighting in space?  I couldn't get my mind to focus on anything.  I was in a state of shock.

The mag-train ride to New Houston was comfortable and quick.  Once we cleared the city the train accelerated to 500 kph, so we reached New Houston in less than five hours. 

The train car I was in was full of other recruits, all dressed in the same gray fatigues I was wearing.  They looked like a pretty motley bunch, but of course I looked that way too.  They were mostly men, but about 20% of them were women.  We all pretty much kept to ourselves, and there was very little conversation.  I don't know how they all ended up here, but most of them looked about as stunned as I was.

It was dark for most of the trip, which was disappointing.  I'd never been out of New York, and I would have loved to see some of the scenery.  With nothing much to do I slept through most of the ride, and I woke up to the announcement that we would be arriving in fifteen minutes.  The trained slowed, and we passed through a large plasti-crete wall and past two security towers before stopping at a long, open platform. 

"Alright boys and girls, up!  Let's get moving.  Now!"

I hadn't even noticed the sergeant enter the car, but there he was, standing in the doorway barking at us in a voice that seemed to be half hostility and half amusement.  People started getting up and moving toward the front of the car.  I reached up to grab my duffel, as about half the others were doing. 

"Don't forget your bags, kiddies!  The porters are all busy elsewhere, I'm afraid!  Now move your asses.  I want everyone out on that platform in three minutes!"

We stumbled out of the crowded car and out onto the platform, milling around aimlessly until the sergeant came over and yelled at us again until we managed to get into a fairly neat line.  We marched into one of the buildings where we went through a check in and orientation process that took several hours after which we were led into a large auditorium.

We'd only been sitting a minute when a man walked out onto the stage.  He was tall and muscular, with thick black hair speckled gray.  He wasn't dressed in the same gray fatigues as we and everyone else we'd seen were wearing.  He wore a spotless dark blue coat with polished silver buttons and one platinum star on each shoulder.  His neatly creased white pants were tucked into shiny black boots, and a short sword with an intricately carved hilt hung from his waist.

"Hello, and welcome to Camp Puller.  My name is Brigadier General Wesley Strummer.  As you can see, I've worn my dress blues in honor of your arrival.  Take a good look, because you probably won't see another uniform like this unless you graduate.  And less than half of you are going to make it that far."

He paused for a few minutes to let that sink in, then continued.  "If you don't graduate then you will go back where you came from, and for most of you that wasn't a very pleasant place.  Unless of course you die in training.  Which will happen to some of you.  Maybe a lot of you."

Again, he stopped and let us consider his words.  His voice was calm, almost gentle, but without so much as raising his voice he had everyone's complete attention.  You could have heard a pin drop in the room.

"Those of you who do graduate will join the most elite combat formation in the history of the world.  You will serve wherever you are needed, anywhere in explored space, and you will perform that service with valor and distinction.  And after you make your first assault, all of your past crimes and offenses will be wiped clean."

That was the first hopeful thing he'd said.  A bit of carrot to go with the stick.

"But first you have to complete training.  The regimen is unlike anything soldiers have experienced before, and when you have completed it you will be the deadliest human killing machines that have ever existed.

"But before you even begin your training proper, you are all going to the infirmary.  You have had varying health care priority levels, most of them pretty low, so you haven't had much medical care.  Well now you are going to have every treatable deficiency corrected.  Plus, we're going to make some improvements to the original design.  When we're done you will all see and hear better than any civilian, and you will have enhanced reflexes.