Burrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr! Jonathan Pasley opened his eyes, woken up once again by the annoying tone over the speakers. He groaned, not really wanting to move. The lights came on, blindingly bright. As his eyes adjusted, he looked around the room at the bleached walls and metal floor. The other Marines of his squad were there, wearily rising from their bunks.
They were Marines fresh out of boot camp, green as grass. They were also very tired. They had gone from stop to stop on a long string of space flights, finally ending up at September Station. It was a refit and repair station set back from the front line, but close enough to get a steady supply of ships. The Marines were waiting for assignment, probably to the next ship that came in. If they were assigned to a ship, they would get to go into the fight, the war against the Covenant. While it was true the Covenant were a superior force and they were likely to get killed, anything was better than sitting around waiting for the Covenant to find their planet. In the Marines, they had a chance to make some difference, or at least to take a few aliens down with them.
One of the Marines shuffled over near the door, stopping at a flat screen on the wall. He touched something on the screen, and a dock record came up. He straightened up quickly. "Hey, guys, wake up! We got a ship coming in today!" he announced. Instantly the Marines were crowded around the screen, pummeling the first man with questions. "What's the ship?" "What class is it?" "Think we'll get on it?"
Jonathan walked up behind the crowd, struggling to get a look at the screen. A different Marine stepped up, tapped a few icons, and then told everyone, "Looks like TWO ships comin' in, boys! We're bound to get on one of 'em!" A cheer went up. The man motioned for them to quiet down, looking closely at the schedules. "Uh-huh, we got the Orion - she's a destroyer," (another cheer), "and the Winter Moon, looks like a Halcyon class." The Marines had stopped listening at the mention of a destroyer-class vessel. Destroyers were one of the best ships in the Navy - tough, speedy, and armed to the teeth. They had two MAC cannons, twenty-six oversized Archer missile pods, and three Shiva nukes. They were in action everywhere. Most of the Marines were already thinking what it would be like on the Orion.
Pasley took a moment to consider the alternative. The other ship - the Winter Moon - was a Halcyon class vessel. He scratched his head a moment, straining his memory. Surely he'd heard something . . . then he remembered. They were the smallest vessel ever to receive the cruiser designation; Halcyons were the size of stretched frigates. They were slow, underpowered, and had relatively thin armor. In fact, they were forty years old, ancient in terms of ship design. They were tough, though. The hull was filled with honeycombing and hydraulic reinforcements, which made it nearly indestructible. They had been known to survive in battle with breaches to all compartments and ninety percent of their armor gone. Regardless of how tough they were, however, they could still be overwhelmed by Covenant plasma weapons, even if it took a little longer. It would be much preferable to be on a vessel that had a fighting chance to destroy the enemy.
Jonathan's thoughts were interrupted by a sound over the intercoms, an announcement: "All Marine platoons, report to assembly hall in ten minutes for assignment. Full uniform is mandatory." The Marines practically danced. "Yeah! No more waiting around on this godforsaken station!" someone cheered. They scrambled to grab their gear and get dressed, and jogged out toward the assembly hall.
Less than five minutes later (they had all rushed double-time), the Marines were assembled in neat lines. Each platoon tried to outdo the other with their order and discipline. All of them stuck out their chests and stood up straight, trying to look stoic. They stood proudly in crisp uniforms and snapped attention in unison when the Staff Sergeant stepped to the stage in front of them, holding a data pad. He cleared his throat before speaking.
"At ease!" They all shifted at once. "All right men, as you know we have two UNSC vessels coming in from the frontline, and some of you are going to get duty on them. We understand that both the Winter Moon and the Orion are in need of almost a full complement of Marines, not to mention quite a few other hands. The destroyer also needs pilots." Destroyers didn't often carry single-ship fighters. The Orion, apparently, was of a less-common design. "Pilots from Squadrons A and B, report to Docking Bay 3 for duty on the Orion."
Jonathan, standing in the rows and lines of Marines, stole a glance at his little brother. He had light brown hair and stood a little higher than the rest of the pilot, who were mostly women. Big for his age, David Pasley nonetheless had a talent for flying. He was one of the pilots in B Squadron, which meant he was on his way to war. And on a destroyer, no less. He caught David's eye and grinned encouragement. David smiled back.
The Staff Sergeant continued his orders: "Now we take care of the crew. All hands from Groups F through H report to Docking Bay 7 for duty on the Winter Moon. Groups I through M, and the 31st Engineers, report down at Docking Bay 3. All the rest of you ship crew, you're waiting for the next vessel. Is that clear?" he asked in a booming voice.
"Sir Yes sir!" hundreds of voices returned.
"All right, then. Dismissed!" he yelled back. The crewmen all flooded out of the assembly hall, leaving only the anxious Marines. Jonathan watched his brother go, hoping he, too might be assigned to the Orion.
"Okay, Marines, I want all of you in K Platoon..." all eyes shifted to K Platoon. Jonathan tensed. He was in K Platoon. "...to report to Bay 7," the Sergeant finished. Jonathan didn't listen to the rest of the Sergeant's orders. He was in a daze, not believing he was actually going into the war. Even if it was on a flying junk heap like the Winter Moon.
"You mean that thing actually flies?" someone asked, incredulously. Everyone in Docking Bay 7 took a long look at the Winter Moon, docked in space outside. Compared to other United Nations Space Command ships, she was small. But from where they were standing, she looked massive. She also looked like she was on her last legs. The armor plating was blackened and cracked in patches, and the portside emergency thrusters were used up. One of the launch bays had plates hastily welded over it, with yellow and black warning paint. There was a large hole in the underside of the ship, surrounded by plasma scorching. Jonathan wouldn't have been surprised if he heard the reactors could only go to 20 power.
"I hope it's a lot better inside than it is outside," someone else remarked. The Marines in Jonathan's platoon - K Platoon - shuffled over to the entrance to the boarding arm. A harassed-looking dockhand stood there. He addressed them, "You men K Platoon?"
The Corporal in charge spoke up: "Yes, sir. We've been ordered to report here for duty on the Winter Moon."
"Good," the dockhand replied, staring at a datapad, "it looks like she's due for some reinforcement." He didn't look at them, and they weren't sure whether he was talking to the Corporal or himself. "Not to mention some repairs," he continued, "that will take some time." He glanced back up at them. "Go on in, you men might as well get yourselves settled; she's gonna be in dock for at least 37 hours," he said, gesturing distractedly at the entrance to the docking arm. The Corporal thanked him and they were on their way inside.
After a long walk down the docking arm, the men emerged from the airlock into a hallway. It was empty. "That's odd," the Corporal noted, "there's nobody here to welcome us." It was strange that no one was there to give them orders.
"Where do we go?" Jonathan asked the Marine next to him.
He made a face and said, "How should I know?"
The Marines milled about until they were pushed into the halls by another groups of soldiers coming from the docking arm behind them. They, too, were in the middle of asking where they should go when someone spoke up, in a British accent. "Okay, recruits, what do they call you?" The speaker was a large, dark-skinned Lieutenant standing near the fringe of their group. Nobody had noticed him walk up. They stared at him, surprised, when the Corporal stumbled forward and found his voice.
"Sir, we are A and K Platoons, reporting for duty on the Winter Moon." He saluted the Lieutenant hastily.
The Lieutenant regarded them with amusement, and boomed out loudly: "That's good, boys, 'cause we're sorely in need of soldiers. Follow me, Platoons; we'll get you sorted out." With that, he proceeded down the hall and the Marines filed after him.
They emerged into a small chamber, with double doors in front of them. A small window was set into the wall nearby, with a pudgy-looking man behind it. The Brit Lieutenant turned to them and said, "Be advised, men, that there is a constant chance of battle here. Regulations aren't tight, but justice is swift and sure. And, you must be properly prepared for combat."
The pudgy man behind the window took over. "All you troops, step over here. We need to get you recorded and registered. Line up!" Jonathan got in a queue behind the other Marines, and the line slowly moved forward. Jonathan approached the window. The man behind it barely looked at him, belting out: "Name!"
Jonathan replied, "Private Jonathan Pasley, sir." He handed the man his military ID.
"In K Platoon, I see?" he asked.
"Yes, sir!" Pasley responded.
"All right, Private, move on through those doors there. Next!" he barked. Jonathan moved through the doors hesitantly. A nurse stood there, holding an arm out impatiently. "Okay, I'm gonna need that uniform."
"What?" Jonathan asked, surprised.
"The uniform. Take it off. Or do you want me to avert my eyes?" she sneered. Jonathan stripped to his boxers and gave the nurse the uniform. "Go on, over there," she pointed, already looking to the next soldier.
Jonathan walked over to the next station, where a soldier stood on a platform as metal columns rotated slowly around him, glowing blue. A medical tech watched nearby. There was a line. Jonathan stood at the back. An MP stood nearby. The next Marine stepped onto the panel, and the columns spun halfway around him before a shrill warning tone went off. The columns halted and turned blood-red.
The MP walked over to the tech's screen, examined it, and addressed the Marine, "You H. Johnson?" The Marine nodded, gulping. "Come with me," he said, and led Johnson out of the room. Then it was Jonathan's turn. The MP returned, and watched him suspiciously over his sunglasses. Jonathan cracked his knuckles nervously, wondering what had happened.
"Step on the white panel please," the tech asked, tapping a few keys. Jonathan stepped over onto the white floor plate. "Just stand still, hold your arms at your sides." Pasley watched as the columns spun slowly around him. "This is just a simple health test and drug scan," the tech said, still typing. Jonathan stole a glance at the MP, who was watching the screens carefully. Finally the columns stopped, and the tech said, "You're clean. Move on, recruit."
A medic caught his eye, and ordered: "Come on, Private, keep it moving. Sit down here," he gestured at a chair. Jonathan sat. The medic brought out an intimidating tool with three needles, and a pistol grip underneath. "We just have to give you a few shots," the medic said matter-of-factly, lowering the needle to Jonathan's arm.
"Immune system booster," he jabbed Jonathan's arm and pulled the trigger. A blue liquid shot into his veins. It felt like ice. The needles revolved, and another one came to the top. "A muscle tone enhancer," he stabbed again, and this one burned like wildfire. "...and a gland accelerator. Makes you produce more adrenaline." He stuck another needle in, pulled the trigger, and stood back. Jonathan immediately felt a sharp pain in his stomach, and a dizzying nausea. He bent double, suppressing a groan. "Don't worry, the pain's normal. It'll pass in a few minutes. You can leave, Private. Go through that door."
He stumbled his way through the doors, clutching his stomach. A desk sat nearby, with a crewman behind it. "C'mon! Walk it off!" he grated at Jonathan. "Get over here!" Jonathan straightened up painfully and made himself walk to the desk, which was covered in grayish uniforms. He looked Jonathan up and down, sizing him up, and handed him a uniform. "Next! Move faster! Drag your ass over here!" he yelled at the next stumbling recruit. Jonathan tripped his way over to the wall, where he steadied himself and waited for his head to stop spinning.
He struggled into the uniform and stood straight, forcing himself to ignore his wrenching gut. He hobbled down the hall into a chamber where most of the Marines were grouped, waiting. A few minutes later all of the Marines of the two platoons were assembled. The Brit-speaking Lieutenant was back, and stood at the head of the group. He spoke, "All right, boys, I'm Lieutenant Lewis. I'm gonna take you to the bunkrooms, and you can get a little R & R. Sounds good, right?" A few men mumbled a tired approval. "Right then, mount up!"
For the first time Jonathan noticed the small convoy behind the Lieutenant. An M112 Light Reconnaissance Vehicle led at the front, a four-wheel-drive armored beast of a jeep with four electric engines. The troops gave them the nickname 'Warthog'. Most were armed with chainguns, but this one had a bench seat instead. Behind the Warthog were three trucks. The M117B 'Cuatro' truck had a lengthened Warthog's body, but with a flatbed in back, surrounded by a rollcage. The Marines flooded to the Cuatros and piled in. They started with a peculiar whining rumble, and cruised slowly away.
Pasley sat in the back of a Cuatro, watching the scene around him groggily. The truck emerged from the small chamber into a massive one, and they turned onto a raised two-lane highway in the center. They were entering the motor pool. Rows of vehicles, Warthogs and Cuatros, stood in front of bays set into the wall. A few Pelicans sat in racks a hundred feet above, receiving attention from repair crew nearby. The motor pool was buzzing with activity, and small trams rushed around, laden with deckhands. They left the motor pool on the highway and drove for a few minutes. Jonathan watched the walls, thinking. The plates on the wall were pitted with age, and there were stains all over the road. Everything on the Winter Moon seemed battle-worn. Even the Cuatro he rode in was scratched and dented.
Jonathan looked up, startled, when the truck jolted off the road and stopped.
The Lt. yelled, "Everybody out!" and hopped out of the Warthog. The troops followed suit, and got out of the three Cuatros, snatching their gear. Before everyone was out, the Lt. ordered: "Follow me, men. Quick march!" He started to jog down a hallway nearby. The Marines ran after him. Jonathan jogged awkwardly, his heavy duffel bag in one hand. He stopped, slung it across his back, and sprinted to catch up. Soon they reached a set of double doors, which read 'Marine Quarters B' above them. The Lieutenant stopped in front, and waited for all of them to catch up before speaking.
"Men, you are no longer members of K or A Platoon. When you enter this room, you will be considered members of one of the finest companies on the ship, the 25th Tactical. We sustained heavy losses at the Battle of Sigma Octanus, so you men get to fill in the gaps. We're proud to have you." He made a salute and the men proudly saluted back. The Lt. flung the doors wide.
Jonathan expected to see at least a platoon of veterans sitting around, perhaps making jokes about the greenhorns. Instead he found there were only a few men at the corners of the room. They sat in dirty uniforms with haggard, gaunt faces. One or two raised their head at the other Marines' entry. The rest paid them no heed. The other Marines gawked. Surely these few men couldn't be the remains of a whole company?
"Right then, all of you are now soldiers in the 25th Tactical Company. Technically, you aren't crew members yet, so your time is free. Use it to get acquainted with the Winter Moon. Or grab yourself a bunk and rest up. Unless I missed my guess, we'll be in dock for a few days for repairs. I've got to check up on making sure you're all in, nice and official. I expect you to be ready for duty at any time!" They stood at ease and watched as the Lt. left the room.
The greenies eyed the ragged soldiers, and gravitated to the corner farthest from them. Jonathan chose a bunk relatively close to the veterans, but the vets ignored him and played cards. Undaunted, Pasley stuffed his duffel bag under the bunk and climbed into the bed, tired. He stared at the mattress of the bunk above, wondering how David was doing on the Orion. Before he knew it his eyes were closed and he was asleep.