First To Fight (The Empire's Corps Book 11) (27 page)

“There’s more coming,” Sif reported, as we fought to hold the line.  “Three more groups, including a number of heavily-armed men.”

“Shit,” Joker said.  “Squad Two; grenades.  I say again, grenades.”

I braced myself as the grenades were hurled over the interlocking shields, landing amidst the crowd.  Gas was already spewing from them, a translucent yellow cloud that was meant to knock out anyone who breathed even a tiny whiff of it.  We were immune, of course - several of the rioters had the bright idea of hurling our grenades back, which didn't do more than annoy us - but none of the rioters had any defence.  Several of them had been smart enough to carry wet cloths with them, which provided a limited degree of protection; the remainder, one by one, started to fall to the ground in front of us.  I knew far too many of the rioters would be injured when they landed, or when someone bigger landed on top of them.  It was hard to feel sorry for them, but I did.  They’d probably been told that we were withholding supplies until we were given control of the city.

“Squad One, drop shields and advance,” Joker ordered.  “Knock out the remaining protesters.”

I swung my shield to the side, then lunged forward.  A rioter, his face covered by a wet cloth, tried to jump at me; I knocked the cloth away from his mouth, then watched dispassionately as he sagged and fell to the ground.  It was hard to push forward without stamping on someone, but we had no choice.  One by one, we picked off the remaining rioters, the ones too stupid to flee while they had the chance.  But the other groups were still incoming ...

“Drop grenades on the other protestors,” Joker ordered.  It was a grim decision, all the more so as we had no real control outside the park, but there was no real choice.  “Pick up the ringleaders, if you can identify them, and move them back to the warehouse.  The remainder ...”

He broke off, clearly thinking hard.  What did we
do
with the remainder?  They were mainly starving civilians, not insurgents or legitimate combatants.  There were no legal or moral grounds for mass slaughter.  Leave them to wake up, which they would; the gas wouldn't last forever.  Or pick them up, dump them in a makeshift detention camp and put them to work for their food?  The briefing hadn't been clear about just who would take control of Chesty once the BLA was driven well away from the city.  No doubt the sudden collapse of the Blue Boys would leave a power vacuum for other militias to fight over.

“I’m forwarding this decision to higher,” Joker said, reluctantly.  I understood.  It was
just
possible that Southard expected
him
to come up with a solution.  “They can decide what to do with them.”

Orders came back, five minutes later.  We were to round up the male rioters and dump them in the trucks, then take the poor bastards to a detention camp.  The women and children were to be woken and told to go home and behave themselves.  We’d finish distributing the food once everything else was done.  Hopefully, it would be easier now the main troublemakers were gone.

“What a fucking realistic test,” Joker muttered, later.  The debriefing had pointed out that he had probably caused the riot, although - as Southard had admitted - there had been no good choices.  At least we hadn't faced a major assault.  “I keep forgetting.”

I nodded.  The exercises
were
realistic.  They had to be; Bainbridge had said as much, back when we’d started.  Hard training, easy mission; easy training, hard mission.  And yet, looking around Chesty - and a dozen other training areas - it was easy to forget that it was an exercise.  Which was, I supposed, the point.  They wanted to see how we behaved when we thought we were in very real danger.

We had the mission into Shithole a week later.  But that, I believe, is where I started.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

One very real difference between an exercise, however well designed, and real combat, is that the danger of death is minimised.  Not, I should add, removed altogether, but minimised.  It is therefore easy to regard the exercise as a game, rather than serious combat.  This leads to an attitude that allows the trainees to romp through the exercise, without learning much - if anything.  The Marine Corps works hard to make the exercises realistic to convince its recruits that they
are
in very real danger.  It’s the only way to test the young men and women before putting them into the fire.

-Professor Leo Caesius

“So tell me,” Doctor Juliet White said.  “Why did you want to join the Marine Corps?”

I tried hard - very hard - to keep the resentment off my face, but I don’t think I succeeded.  A week after the exercise in Shithole, the platoon had been rotated back to barracks and we’d been given a truly heroic reward of
three
days of leave.  I was less than pleased at being told I had to talk to Doctor White first - and even
less
pleased when I discovered that Doctor White was a psychologist, rather than a medical doctor.  Yes, she
had
been a marine auxiliary herself - not that anyone would know it if they looked at her - but I still didn't take her seriously.  I had very little respect for
any
headshrinkers.

“Because it was a chance to get away from my former life,” I said.  It wasn't something I
really
wanted to talk about, but I had a feeling that any evasive answers would be counted against me.  (And, by now, I’d practically been conditioned not to be openly dishonest.)  “It was an escape from the Undercity.”

“After your family was murdered,” Doctor White said.  “How do you feel about that, after your encounter with another attempted rape?”

I kept my voice as steady as I could.  “What happened to my mother and sisters, Doctor, was hardly
attempted
,” I said.  “They
were
raped and they
were
murdered.”

“That doesn't answer my question,” Doctor White said.  “And please, call me Juliet.”

“I still feel guilty about being unable to save them,
Doctor
,” I said.  I had no intention of calling her by name, not if I could avoid it.  Looking at her brought back all the old resentments; she looked middle-aged, warm and protected.  It was hard to believe she’d been within a light year of a combat zone.  “But I no longer feel helpless.”

“That’s good,” Doctor White said.  “And how tempted were you to pull the trigger, when you thought you were witnessing another rape?”

“Tempted,” I admitted.  I had come within seconds of pulling the trigger.  In hindsight, the limiters on the rifle would probably have cut in, saving their lives, but it had still been dangerous as hell.  I didn't
like
Young and never would, yet it was hard not to respect him for taking his life in his hands.  “But it was more important to take him for trial.”

Doctor White smiled.  “Do you really believe that, Edward?”

“Yes,” I said, honestly.  “We aren't angels,
Doctor
.  We do have our bad apples.  But if we punish them, if we are seen to punish them, we keep our reputation pure.”

Bainbridge had said that, nearly a year ago.  The Drill Instructors were good at recognising recruits who might go off the handle, but they weren't perfect.  Some of the most successful marines had later gone spectacularly bad; not many, not enough to weaken us, yet even
one
marine who went bad would be remembered longer than a thousand dedicated marines who died honourably.  Punishing the guilty - and making sure that everyone
saw
the corps punishing the guilty - was one way to save our reputation.  Trying to hide everything, the standard practice of the Civil Guard, was pointless.  Everyone knew the only real difference between the Civil Guard and the gangsters was that the Guardsmen wore uniforms.

“And yet, it might have been better if you
had
pulled the trigger,” Doctor White said.  “It would have saved us the cost of a trial.”

By now, I had learned to recognise a deliberately provocative statement.  Even so, it still made me angry.

“I would have been charged with murdering another marine - two marines,” I said.  Young and Hobbes
were
full marines, not troopers learning the tricks of the trade.  “Even if my superiors believed me, believed that they deserved to die, there would still have been problems.  And if they hadn't, I would have been executed myself.”

“True enough,” Doctor White agreed.  “Do you consider yourself ready to be a marine?”

I cursed, inwardly.  If I said yes, it would be taken as a sign of arrogance; if I said no, they’d take it into account (and hold it against me) when they considered moving the platoon into the final stage of training.  There
wasn't
a good answer.

Or so I thought.  “Is there a good answer?”

“There can be,” Doctor White said.  “But it depends on how you justify your answer.”

I took a breath.  “I think I am, yes,” I said.  “I no longer have any connections to the outside universe.”

“That seems a sharp answer,” Doctor White said.  “Do you have no empathy for the civilians?  The ones you must fight to defend?”

“I have a great deal of empathy,” I said.  It was true enough.  “But I don’t have any connections that would keep me from becoming a marine, or going anywhere in the service of the corps.”

It was true - and, in some ways, it
was
a genuine advantage.  Bainbridge had told us, before we graduated from Boot Camp, that prospective troopers were not expected to marry, at least before leaving the Slaughterhouse.  It was difficult to maintain any sort of relationship with light years between you and your partner, Bainbridge had said, and no civilians were allowed onto the Slaughterhouse unless they were married to marines or auxiliaries.  But, at the same time, it cut us off from the rest of the universe.

“An interesting answer,” Doctor White said.  “How
do
you feel about your brother?”

I refused to allow myself to be shaken by the sudden change in subject.  “I think he was a very weak person,” I said, curtly.  “He had
options
for leaving the Undercity, if he’d been prepared to take them; instead, he intended to work his way into the local gang structure and forge a life for himself.  In the end, his ambitions wiped out the entire family, save for me.”

Doctor White nodded.  “You may go,” she said.  “There's a shuttle to Liberty Town in an hour, if you want to take it.”

I blinked.  “Did I pass?”

“Your case is being constantly reviewed,” Doctor White said.  “That’s true of every trooper, by the way.  You are far from the only one with potential triggers in your past.  We need men who can deal out staggering levels of violence at one moment and then switch instantly to a peacekeeping mode, if necessary.  Some troopers are quietly removed from the course every year.”

She gave me a faint smile.  “You’ll have the answer soon enough,” she added.  “You may go.”

I nodded and left the office, my head spinning.  Had they devised the test just for me?  Or had they come up with a generic test for
every
marine, to see if we would cross the line when we were confronted with the ghosts of our pasts?  It bothered me all through the two days I spent in Liberty Town - I wandered through the museum, drank in a bar and listened to some of the stories from the retired marines - and nagged at my mind, even as I boarded the shuttle to return to barracks.  Just how carefully did they evaluate us?

Part of the answer came two weeks later, when we were marched five kilometres to yet another anonymous building.  Inside, we discovered an examination chamber, just like the ones we had used in Boot Camp.  Our normal Drill Instructors stayed at the rear as an officer I hadn't met stood on a wooden box to allow us to see him properly.  The fact that someone had written ‘explosives’ on the box was probably intended to catch our attention.  It worked.

“This is one of the most stressful parts of the Slaughterhouse,” he said.  He didn't introduce himself, unusually; indeed, I never saw him again.  “You are going to be writing peer evaluations for each of your platoon mates.  There are basic forms provided in the individual terminals, which you will fill out as necessary. 
Do not
leave any form unfilled.  If you have nothing to say, say so.”

There was an uncomfortable pause.  “From this moment on, you will not speak to any of your platoon mates until you have completed the peer evaluations,” he continued.  “We have had too many problems with platoons deliberately trying to rig the system, either to avoid losing anyone or to pick on someone unpopular within the platoon.  Any of you who speak from this moment onwards will be given, at the very least, a full week of punishment duty.

“You will enter the cubicles, fill out the forms and then leave,” he concluded.  “We strongly suggest you do not discuss your answers with anyone else, no matter how flattering - or insulting - you were.  There is no formal punishment for post-evaluation discussions, but you
will
have to deal with the consequences.  They could severely weaken your team.”

They could have warned us
, I thought, as we were shown to our cubicles. 
But that would have given us time to plan our answers
.

The door banged closed as soon as I entered; I sat down at the terminal, poured myself a glass of water and keyed a switch, bringing up the first peer evaluation form.  Joker’s name glared out at me, followed by a whole series of penetrating questions.  Did I have confidence in this trooper?  Did I trust this trooper?  Would I share a foxhole with this trooper?  What were this trooper’s strengths and weaknesses?  Did I believe this trooper should be allowed to graduate?

We could have planned our answers
, I thought, sourly. 
This way, we get honest results
.

I worked my way through Joker’s peer evaluation form, then moved on to Sif.  Oddly, despite my earlier fears, I
did
have faith in her.  Sif might not be the strongest in the platoon, but she plugged on gamely no matter what the Drill Instructors threw at us.  Privately, I had a feeling she would have kicked my ass soundly if she’d been a man.  And she was easily the best sniper amongst us. 

But would I share a foxhole with her?

Yes, I would; I decided.  She'd shown no hint of weakness, no suggestion she might break when confronted with
real
bullets.  (Or, at least, real bullets fired by people who genuinely wanted to kill us.)  I tried to think hard about her strengths and weakness before doing my best to give honest answers.  Her main strength was that she never gave up, no matter what happened; her weakness, perhaps, was that she tried too hard.  But was that really a weakness?  Joker and Bloodnok were just as good at suggesting alternate angles of approach as Sif.  More to the point, we couldn't survive as a unit if we always took the direct route to the target.  Charging madly into enemy fire would get us all killed.

I was tired and headachy when I finally staggered from the room, having filled out nine separate peer evaluation forms.  None of us looked very good when we returned to the lobby; Southard, who seemed to have forgotten that we were allowed to talk, growled at us to shut up as soon as we entered, then told us to sit down.  We did as we were told, silently grateful to him.  I didn’t want to talk about the answers I’d given and I don’t think anyone else really wanted to either.  We had, after all, been honest.

“The results will be evaluated over the coming week,” Southard told us, when we were all gathered in front of him.  “Should any of you have
failed
to earn the respect of your platoon mates, you will probably be switched to another platoon or recycled for a second try through the Slaughterhouse.  If you fail a
second
peer evaluation, you will be dropped from the course.  It is likely you will be offered a chance to join the auxiliaries or transfer to the Imperial Army.”