First To Fight (The Empire's Corps Book 11) (8 page)

It was, I later learned, one of the weaknesses of the training program.  A person could quit, or commit one of the headshots, but they couldn't be dismissed without good cause.  The Drill Instructors had plenty of ways to urge someone to quit, yet they couldn't
force
them to take that step.  As long as Viper met the bare minimal requirements, it was impossible to do more than keep holding him back until he got the hint.

“I don’t care,” Viper said.

“Well, you fucking should,” I snapped.  “Every fucking day, we go out into the exercise grounds and fucking depend on each and every fucking one of us to do our fucking share!”

Viper smirked.  “Do you get a credit for every time you swear?”

I clenched my fists.  Maybe he’d had extra training, but I could take him.  I was
sure
I could take him ...

... And then what?  Burn up my career just to take down his?

“Tell me something,” I said.  “There isn't a person in the platoon who doesn't know you’re a fucking loser.  What do you think is going to happen when you get out there in the pit and face all of us?  Either shape the fuck up or quit.  You can go to the Drills now and quit.  No one will think any less of you.”

Viper’s eyes flashed.  “Do you think I want to be here?”

That, I have to admit, stunned me.  Who in their right mind would go to Boot Camp if they didn't
want
to go to Boot Camp?  Even Posh, despite his background, freely admitted he’d hoped for a military career.  Hell, it wasn't as if it was
difficult
to get into the Civil Guard - although, if the Drill Instructors were telling the truth, Viper was probably overqualified on the grounds he could string more than two words together into a reasonably coherent statement. 

“If you don’t want to be here, then quit,” I snarled.  I didn't want to hear a sob story.  I’d heard enough of them on Earth.  Viper had more opportunities than I’d ever had and if he didn't want to make use of them ... well, that was his problem, not mine.  “Go to the Drill Instructors and quit!  But don’t keep fucking things up for us!”

I turned and strode back to my bunk, cursing him under my breath.  We were supposed to get somewhere between seven to eight hours of sleep each night, but the Drill Instructors had a nasty habit of sometimes waking us up early, just to see who would snap.  I was just closing my eyes when Viper stalked past me and climbed into his own bunk.  He didn't look happy ... I wondered, suddenly, if it was a mistake to sleep so close to him.  But there was a Drill Instructor at the far end of the room ...

In hindsight, maybe we should have complained about Viper.  He wasn't physically weak, unlike Professor, or mentally challenged; he was deliberately not giving us his all.  There were no excuses for his conduct - and besides, he’d had over two months of training before being held back.  But none of us really wanted to go sneaking to the Drill Instructors, not when the situation was so sensitive.  Bitching about our fellows might not make any of us look very good. 

And, when Viper started to shape up, I told myself that our little talk had actually worked and maybe we’d actually get some use out of him.  Maybe the thought of being completely isolated, of being completely alienated from the rest of the squad, had convinced him to put his own problems aside.  I liked to think I’d made a very real difference ...

But that too was a mistake. 

Chapter Eight

It is difficult to exaggerate just how stressful recruit training can actually be. The typical Core Worlds recruit may never have been away from home before, let alone had to rely on a band of complete strangers.  Drill Instructors are trained to watch for signs of trouble, but many teenagers and young adults from Earth are skilled at hiding their feelings.  A minor problem, therefore, can become a great deal more dangerous before it is exposed.

-Professor Leo Caesius

“Well,” Doctor Jenna Amundsen said, as I entered the examination room.  “How are you feeling?”

Odd
, I thought.  The doctor wasn't the prettiest woman I’d ever seen, but it was the first time I’d seen a woman for three weeks. 
I look at you and I feel nothing
.

I wasn't stupid enough to say that out loud, of course.  “This recruit is fine,” I said.  Regular medical check-ups were part of our training, but we resented them hugely.  “No problems at all.”

“Glad to hear it,” the doctor said.  “Take off your clothes, then lie down on the table.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, automatically.  ‘Sir’ seemed to be the default term of address for both male and female superiors.  “How long will this take?”

“As long as it takes,” Jenna said, giving me a sympathetic smile.  “I’ll be a quick as I can.”

I sighed inwardly as I removed my uniform.  In theory, we were entitled to half an hour of free time each day, but in practice we rarely got to make any real use of it.  There was reading to do, exercises to catch up on ... and the Drill Instructors kept us hopping.  I’d heard that some of the recruits were complaining loudly about not having time to write home, something that would have annoyed me too if I’d had anyone to write to.  As soon as I was naked, I clambered up onto the table and lay down.  Oddly, I no longer felt nervous at being naked in front of anyone, even a doctor.

“You had the last set of injections the day you entered Boot Camp,” the doctor said, poking and prodding at my growing muscles.  “Did you notice any ill effects?”

“No, sir,” I said.

“Good,” the doctor said.  “It’s very rare that anyone gets any effect at all, but it needs to be watched.”

I nodded, curtly.  Malingering was not encouraged, unsurprisingly, but we had been warned not to conceal
any
health condition from the Drill Instructors.  Better safe than sorry, they said, although few of us would have dared to malinger.  If the medics believed you were malingering, you were doomed when you were sent back to the platoon.  Even Viper, for all his faults, wouldn't have claimed to be ill unless he could prove it.

She prodded my chest, then nodded to herself.  “No problems with breathing?  Or muscular problems?”

“Just aches and pains as we push ourselves forwards,” I said.  “Pain is weakness leaving the body.”

“In some ways,” Jenna agreed.  It was one of Bainbridge’s favourite sayings.  He said it at least four times a day, normally while supervising our push-ups.  “On the other hand, everyone has limits and we need to make sure you’re not crossing yours.”

She poked me one final time, then ordered me to roll over.  I did as I was told, then shivered as her hands walked down my back and upper legs.  There was nothing remotely erotic about it, just a sense that she was checking my development against a file stored in her head.  I sat up as soon as she was done, then watched as she produced a device that looked like a large gun and placed it on the table next to me.  It looked silly, in a way, as if it were a ray gun from a bad movie, but somehow I found it ominous.

“You appear to be developing within acceptable limits,” Jenna said.  “You’re cleared to proceed to the next stage of training.”

I breathed a sigh of relief.  “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, giving me a faint smile.  “I’m afraid I have to inject the side of your neck, now.  This may sting a little.”

She picked up the gun-like device and held it against my neck before I could object, then pulled the trigger.  There was a stab of pain, as if someone had jabbed my skin with a pin, which faded rapidly as she pulled the device away from me.  When I touched the skin, I felt an odd lump just below the surface.  It felt as if she’d stuck something in me.

“It shouldn't cause you any problems,” Jenna said.  “The pain should be gone within an hour, but if it gets worse or reoccurs inform your Drill Instructor at once.  This can be quite serious, if something goes badly wrong.”

I swallowed.  “What did you do to me ... ah, to this recruit?”

“The Drill Instructors will explain tonight,” Jenna said.  She nodded towards a chair on the other side of the room.  “Sit there and open your mouth.”

I eyed her warily, then obeyed.  Jenna sat down next to me and peered into my mouth, using a small device to shine a spotlight into the darkened recesses of my teeth.  I suddenly wished I’d had time to brush my teeth before the appointment, or something to make my breath smell better; I cringed in embarrassment at the thought of her smelling the remains of the ration bars we’d been given for dinner.  Jenna didn't say anything; she merely inspected my mouth, then nodded curtly to herself.

“No change from the last report,” she said.  “Have you been having problems with your teeth?”

“No, sir,” I said.  “I believe this recruit was vaccinated against tooth decay.”

“The vaccines aren't always effective, not the ones on Earth,” Jenna warned.  “There hasn't been any genuinely comprehensive program of vaccination for centuries, recruit.”

She shrugged.  “Still, there doesn't seem to be any problem,” she added.  Her face curved into a mischievous smile.  “If you have a few knocked out in the pit, we can replace them within hours.

“This recruit was told that anything that wasn't immediately fatal could be fixed,” I said.  “Is that actually true?”

Jenna made a show of considering it.  “Minor injuries, yes; we can heal those at once,” she said, slowly.  “Anything more serious ... yes, we can heal it, but you would need time to recover and you might find yourself recycled back to an earlier training cycle.  I’ve known marines who had their legs blown off and replaced.  They returned to duty, eventually, but it took them months to get used to their new limbs.  We can pretty much replace everything, save for the brain.”

I smiled.  “Could you grow me a whole new body?”

“Technically, yes; legally, no,” Jenna said.  “We can grow you a new pair of arms or legs, if necessary, but growing a full-body clone to serve as a walking transplant is illegal.  You’d be killing your genetic brother just so you could have his body.  There are brain transplants, occasionally, but they rely on having a suitable donor.”

“And they’re rare,” I guessed.

“Of course,” Jenna said.  She took another blood sample as she spoke, then dropped it in the analyser.  “Would you die so that someone else can have your body?”

“This recruit has seen flicks where that happens,” I said.  The analyser bleeped, reporting that I was clean of forbidden drugs.  “It never ends well.”

“No, it doesn't,” Jenna agreed.  She removed the tube from the analyser and dropped it into a metal container.  “Get dressed, recruit, and inform the Drill Instructors that they can send the next one in.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.  I’d forgotten I was naked.  “Nothing to worry about, then?”

“You’re healthy and fit,” Jenna said.  “Try not to get injured when you start martial arts training.”

I nodded, then finished dressing and headed out the hatch.  The rest of the platoon was supposed to be in the barracks, but I wasn't surprised to see half of them outside, performing various exercises as they were supervised by the Drill Instructors.  Johnston was watching Viper with dark eyes, shouting encouragement as the recruit worked his way through a series of push-ups.  It didn't look as if either of them was having fun.  I reported to Bainbridge, who promptly ordered me to do another fifty push-ups.  They were
very
good at finding excuses for punishment exercises.

“All right, ladies,” he said, half an hour (and innumerable push-ups) later.  “Line up, single file!”

We snapped to attention.  The Drill Instructors had somehow managed to become more and more critical as the days went by, snapping at us for something they would have let pass a week earlier.  I’d found myself checking and rechecking the bunk every day, just to make sure there wasn't something they could use as an excuse for more punishment exercises.  And yet, no matter how hard I tried, there was always something they could use.  If I hadn't thought it was all worthwhile - and there was nowhere else to go - I would have quit in disgust.

“I trust you all have a pain in the neck now,” he said.  “Is there any of you who
wasn't
given an injection into the neck?”

There was a long pause.  No one spoke.

“Stand to attention, recruit,” Bainbridge bellowed.  Professor had made the mistake of scratching the side of his neck.  “It won’t come out no matter how much you stroke it!”

We would have sniggered, but we knew better.  Bainbridge wouldn't hesitate to punish anyone who showed amusement at another person getting in trouble, no matter how funny it was.  We were meant to be a team, after all, and laughing at our fellows wouldn't build a sense of camaraderie.  Or so we had been told.

“You have been implanted,” Bainbridge continued, in a slightly quieter voice.  “I’ll spare your innocent minds the technical details, recruits; all you really have to know is that the implant will, when queried, send out a pulse reporting your location to the base’s sensors.  If you manage to get lost on the track, we can and we will find you - or your body.  There are recruits, men and women just like you, who have been swept away by sudden downpours on the training grounds.  Their lives were lost, but their bodies were recovered and buried with full honours.”

He paused, his features shifting into something more intimidating.  “Headshot Fifty,” he added, coldly.  “Accessing the implants and using them to cheat on the training field.”

I swallowed.  None of us liked being reminded of the headshots, the offences that could get us kicked out of Boot Camp, but the Drill Instructors did so frequently.  Headshot Fifty hadn't made much sense to me at the time, although I hadn't had the nerve to ask the Drill Instructors to clarify.  What implants?  But I understood now.

“You will be working with all manner of devices intended to make enemy lives miserable,” Bainbridge said, after a long moment.  “Some of those devices - which we will go over in greater detail later - are designed to track radio signals.  You can, if you felt like cheating, use them to track your fellows on the training field.  Why do we not permit you to try?”

He looked from face to face, then pointed a finger at Thug.  “Explain.”

Thug hesitated.  “This recruit thinks it would be cheating,” he said.  “It wouldn’t be fair.”

“And yet I have told you that if you’re not cheating, you’re not trying,” Bainbridge said.  He looked from face to face again, then pointed a finger at Professor.  “Why is this particular brand of cheating not allowed?”

Professor frowned.  “This recruit thinks that the enemy, in a real combat situation, will not have implanted troops, sir.”

“Correct,” Bainbridge said.  He scowled at us all.  “You cannot assume the enemy will be kind enough to broadcast his location to the entire universe.  Our opponents know that emitting any form of betraying energy leads to certain death.  The Imperial Navy is good at tracking morons on the ground and dropping rocks on their heads.  I will not allow you to develop the lazy habit of tracking your fellows when the fog of war will envelop any actual deployment.  Do you understand me?”

“YES, SIR,” we bellowed.

He was right, of course.  Most of my career, prior to Avalon, was spent on worlds where we could call in fire support from the Imperial Navy, if necessary.  Our enemies were good - very good - at hiding from prying eyes, knowing that a moment of weakness would spell doom.  Even without the starships, drones could track radio messages and call in long-range strikes from field artillery.  The enemy would know to be very careful.