Going In For Guns: A Memoir of the Reaper Wars
Book 1: Intercept Course
Maj. Christopher "Nice Boots" Z. Valentine
Systems Alliance Marines Tactical Aerospace Command (ret.)
Systems Alliance Naval Intelligence (aux./ret.)
Citadel Office of Special Tactics and Reconnaissance (aux.)
I awoke to the clatter of an old-style galvanized steel trashcan smashing into the floor and tumbling across a concrete strip that was probably poured into the floor for precisely this purpose. Oh, and Penlan yelling at my little knot of trainees to get our worthless carcasses up at double speed.
What a surprise, right?
Okay, I admit, I had expected the yelling, but I had figured that the trashcan would be at least a century out of date. Obviously I had underestimated the tenacity of the Island's tradition and the opportunities that omni-forging gave the Island for maintaining it.
Here, I didn't do so well. I had real trouble with mornings back then. Despite the banging of the can and the awe-inspiring display of invective from the DIs, I was slow to wake. Cassia came to my rescue with a talon jab that wasn't hard enough to draw blood, but was plenty sharp enough to blast away my drowsiness.
I rolled away from the jab and came to my feet in a rush, limbs moving into a combat stance when Penlan bulled straight into what a recruit has no right to call personal space.
"What in the hell are you doing, recruit?" she thundered.
I swayed a bit as I fought the urge to launch myself away from Penlan while simultaneously shifting from combat footing to attention. I didn't fall over, which I will forever claim as a victory. As for having a coherent answer for Penlan, I was a little less successful.
"Ah, the recruit was trying to be energetic, ma'am," I said, wishing I could slap myself. I saw Milque snickering over Penlan's shoulder, only for another DI to start in on him.
"Well, be energetic right out the hatch, recruit! Boots on! Move!" She spun away from me, fast-marching towards some other lazybones.
I dove for my boots, throwing them on and banging the smart seals into place, grateful that laces had been replaced on practical footwear decades back. "The hell was that, Cassia?" I asked as I checked the seals.
"It got you awake, didn't it?" she asked. "Sorry."
I came to my feet, rolling my shoulders as we entered the press of recruits heading outside. "Apology accepted, but unneeded." I let a smile tug at the corner of my mouth. "It did wake me up."
"Ms. Coffee Fingers herself," said Idela from behind us.
"Take my chance to make a joke at the geezer's expense," said Milque. "Please, I insist."
"That's what happens when you dawdle around," said Tamberlane.
As Milque sputtered at the fact that Tamberlane had pulled one over on him, Ulvi pulled up even with me. "Ten will get you one that logs await us."
I chuckled. "That's a sucker bet if I ever heard one."
It was. The logs were waiting.
We did surprisingly little standing PT with those logs, only enough to focus us on the fact that we were doing PT before they goaded us into a run, screaming us onto different courses and into different groups. Our log was grouped in with Milque's log and three others. After a few minutes away from the others, we came to a building with a Lieutenant standing outside it.
We stopped, set the logs down, and caught our breath for a precious few seconds before the Lieutenant, whose lapel read Venkmann, ordered us inside in a much calmer tone.
Inside was the squad bay. It was a large room, with bunks lining both sides. Two footlockers sat at the base of each bunk. The floor was a bare red synthetic material with just a hint of shine, with faded black lines running next to each row of bunks. The lighting was harsh, almost certainly chosen to be disturbingly artificial. An open area at the back of the room, the quarterdeck, held a series of viewscreens and doors.
Lt. Venkmann followed us in. "You will find that one of these footlockers is marked with your name. Find it and stand in front of it."
There was a ragged chorus of "sir yes sir", followed by a louder one as the recruits who hadn't spoken up did so. I suppressed a groan as I realized that my bunk was right up near the quarterdeck. "Just perfect," I said to myself.
Ulvi, who turned out to be my bunkmate, stepped up next to me. "We shall be suffering together, no?"
Cassia looked at the lone single bunk that was her assignment and pressed her mandibles against her face tightly. "Lucky you." She was in the middle of the room, and right against the quarterdeck.
I blinked. Wait a second, I started to think, before Venkmann spoke up again.
"Very good recruits. You will now memorize your positions. Is that clear?" he asked, walking from his position at the door down towards the quarterdeck.
"Sir, yes, sir!" we yelled.
"Good. You will now move to the quarterdeck," at this he turned and pivoted," where I am now standing, in an orderly fashion. You will then sit down in bunk order, using the line printed on the deck as a guide. Is that clear?"
"Sir, yes, sir!"
"Do it."
We did. It ended up with us packed in with little room. I was wedged in pretty tightly between Cassia and Ulvi. A small aisle divided the recruits from each side of the bay. Lt. Venkmann stepped up to the front of the bay. "My name is 1st Lieutenant Venkmann, your series commander. You are now members of platoon 3124, follow series, Kilo Company, 3rd Recruit Battalion. You are currently located in Building 340, Squad Bay Bravo 3. Should you ever become lost, or separated from your platoon, give this information to any Marine, and they will direct you back to this location. I will now introduce to you the drill instructors who are responsible for your training."
Perhaps inevitably, the senior DI, wearing a shiny black leather belt, was Staff Sergeant Penlan.
After Venkmann administered the Drill Instructor's Creed, which had changed by maybe one word in the more than century and a half I had skipped, he turned and marched out of the squad bay. We didn't watch him leave. Penlan had started her speech.
"My name is Staff Sergeant Penlan! And I am your senior drill instructor." Penlan started walking up and down the aisle, looking back and forth at the recruits of Platoon 3124. "I am assisted in my duties by Staff Segeant Carter." She motioned behind her at Carter, not taking her eyes off of us.
Carter took one step forward. Staff Sergeant Carter dwarfed Penlan, who was by no means a short lady. A dark skinned man, his scars and iron-gray hair suggested a long service with the Corps.
Penlan went on without looking back. "Sergeant Harrison."
Harrison was a squat fireplug of a man, with red hair and pale skin awash in freckles. His face looked young. His eyes didn't. Like Carter before him, he stepped forward.
Again, Penlan gestured to the last DI. "And Sergeant Abbott."
Abbot was a short woman with platinum blonde hair, and malice in her eyes. I suppressed a shudder. She would be dangerous. Abbott stepped forward.
"Our mission," Penlan went on, "Is to train each of you to become a Systems Alliance Marine."
The three DIs with the blue webbed belts came to parade rest in unison.
"A Marine is characterized," said Penlan in a firm voice, "As one who possesses the highest in military virtues. They obey orders, respect their seniors, and strives, constantly, to be the best at everything they do. Discipline and spirit are the hallmarks of a Marine. Each of you can develop discipline and spirit. We will give every effort to train you, even after some of you have given up on yourselves.
"Starting now, you will treat me, and all other Marines with the highest level of respect. We have earned our place as Marines, and will accept nothing less from you. We will treat you as we do our fellow Marines: with firmness, fairness, dignity, and compassion. At no time will you be verbally abused by any Marine or recruit."
I wondered how well Abbott would stick to that promise.
Penlan wasn't done. "If anyone should abuse or mistreat you, I expect you to report such incidences to me or one of my drill instructors. Further, if you feel that I have mistreated you, I expect you to report this to your series commander, 1st Lieutenant Venkmann.
"My drill instructors and I will be with you every day, wherever you go. I have told you what my drill instructors will do.
"From you," shouted Penlan, causing some of platoon to start with a shock, "we demand the following! You will give a hundred percent of yourself at all times! Obey all orders! Quickly, willingly, and without question! Treat all Marines and recruits with courtesy and respect! You will not physically abuse, or verbally threaten, any Marine or recruit!
"Be completely honest in everything you do. A Marine never lies, cheats, or compromises. Respect the rights and properties of others. A Marine never steals.
"You must work hard to strengthen your body. Be proud of yourself, and the uniform that you wear. Above all else, never quit, and never give up! We offer you the challenge of recruit training, and the opportunity to earn the title of Systems Alliance Marine." All four of the DIs came to attention. Penlan executed a crisp about faced the others. "Drill instructors, take charge, and carry out the plan for the day."
Three hands came up to campaign cover brims in razor edged salutes. "Aye aye, Senior Drill Instructor!" the DIs bellowed.
Penlan returned the salute and marched through one of the doors adjoining the quarterdeck. The door hissed shut behind her.
Carter stepped forward with all the menace of a dreadnought bringing its spinal gun to bear. "When you are in recruit training," he rumbled, "you will use naval terminology. You are not sitting on the floor. It is a deck! These are not walls, they are bulkheads! Those windows," he stabbed a knife hand at them, "are portholes, and nothing else! You no longer go to the bathroom, you make head calls! You will learn during your time here at the Island that many other words you have used in your former life are incorrect! You will learn to adapt and speak as if you were a Marine! Am I understood?"
"Sir, yes sir!" we chorused.
"I cannot hear you, recruits!"
"SIR, YES SIR!" we bellowed.
"The next thing you are going to do, when I give you the command, is stand up and go to your racks without running, pushing, shoving, or injuring your fellow recruit. Do you understand me?"
"SIR, YES SIR!"
"Do so now!"
As we scrambled to our feet, the bluebelts dove into us like wolves into sheep, snarling invective. All hell broke loose.
Some minutes later, platoon 3124 stood, at attention, at the ends of their racks. Carter and the bluebelts jogged up and down the line, yelling out invective at anyone careless or stupid enough to deviate from attention. Finally, Carter turned to the bluebelts. "Covers and rifles," he said, before grabbing a pole and turning to the racks closest to the quarterdeck. "Recruits Hartwell, Valentine, Tereshkov, Tamberlane, and Idela! Front and center!" We rushed to stand before him, snapping back to attention. "You five have been chosen as platoon guide and squad leaders. Hartwell!" He held out the pole and gave it a quick twist, unfurling a small red and yellow flag. "This is the platoon guidon. You are now platoon guide. The guidon is your responsibility, and you will take it everywhere. You are now senior recruit!"
"Sir, yes sir!" said Cassia, taking the guidon.
"Valentine, Squad One," said Carter.
"Sir, yes sir!" I barked with a salute.
"Tereshkov, Squad Two. Tamberlane, Three. Idela, Four." The others affirmed their understanding, and Carter went on. "You will now remove your covers from your footlockers, as well as your rifles. Go!"
We did. The recruit cover was a standard Alliance blue beret, but in place of the arrowhead and stars of a proper Marine, the badge displayed our platoon number. It also broke to the left, rather than to the right, marking us out as recruits at a distance. My badge was marked with SL1 under the platoon number. Cassia's had PG, Ulvi's SL2…you get the idea. If you weren't a squad leader or the guide, you had your squad number on your badge in the same place.
I started to raise the beret to put it on, but paused, half-remembering a rule or tradition. It was a good move. Carter moved to the center of the squad bay with a rifle. "Recruits! You will notice that your rifles are equipped with a tactical harness!" He held up a set of straps, buckles, and magplates. "You will now put on your harness, with your rifle in the collapsed position on your right shoulder!" He suited actions to words. "Like so! Move!"
We moved. It was a little trickier than you'd expect. Plenty of recruits ended up getting the magplate array upside down, and had to strip it off and reposition it as the DIs screamed at them from ranges of a few inches. One poor recruit in Squad Three was so shaken by this that he ended up putting it on sideways the second time, only finally getting it right on the third try, fingers trembling as he fastened the final buckles. Even as he did, Carter was back in motion.
"Platoon guide and squad leaders, at attention on these marks facing the squad bay!" He pointed at five sets of footprints labled with numbers and a PG printed on the quarterdeck. "Move!"
We did so, doing our best to imitate the position of attention that they had drilled into us on our first night of arrival. I suppressed the urge to clasp my hands in front of me as if to hold a trumpet vertically in front of me. Abbott snapped at Idela to straighten up as Harrison stalked up and down the squad bay.
Carter wheeled to address the rest of the recruits. "You will notice that your cover's cap badge has your platoon number on it! Under this number is another number! This is your squad number! Look at it now!"
As the recruits did so, Abbott corrected the angle Cassia held the guidon at.
"You will form up at attention behind your recruit squad leaders. Do so now!" In the space of twenty seconds, I stood at the head of a formation of recruits. "You will now memorize your positions. Until and unless you are informed otherwise, these will be your positions for the duration of your stay on the Island." Carter clasped his hands behind his back. "Now, when commanded, you will exit the squad bay and fall back into this formation directly outside of this building. Upon leaving the building, you are to take your cover and place it upon your head." He paused a second. "Recruits, I despise an uncovered skull. Do you understand me?"
"Sir, yes sir!" we answered in chorus.
"Excellent. Break formation and reform outside! MOVE!"
We moved. So began my experience with Phase One.
Okay. We need to get this out of the way.
Penlan's line saying that we would not be abused was a lie. I'm of the opinion that DI school has a class devoted to not laughing at that absurd statement. Platoon 3124 was abused. So was every other platoon on the Island. So was every other member of the Systems Alliance Marine Corps, no matter where they did their training. I guarantee that if you join the Marines now, you will be abused.
And I don't have a problem with that.
I know that's a statement that probably makes some people look at me askance. But really, they haven't gone through boot.
You see, Penlan's line would probably be better rendered 'you will not be abused to no purpose'. It is the entire point of Phase One to break down the civilian you enter as, and start shaping the foundations of the Marine that you are to become. This requires being mistreated. Just as importantly, you are being inoculated to performing under stress. And frankly, that requires being stressed. The abuse that your DIs will pile on you is part and parcel of the experience. Hell, it's the core of the experience!
That's not to say that we were constantly getting our asses beat by the DIs. Physical violence from a DI to a recruit was rare, and honestly? Just about always deserved.
No, the abuse that we got was more creative than getting sucker punched in the gut, and having a gunnery sergeant yell "I've got your name, I've got your ass!" at you.
Though, in the interest of full disclosure, I did see Eklund get precisely that treatment when she got really lippy one day.
But really, beatings were inefficient. If you did something that needed you to hurt, you'd end up doing it to yourself. Quarterdecking, or so-called 'incentive training' has the distinct advantage of providing deep muscle pain while also squeezing in a bit of extra PT. And really, what is more quintessentially Marine than physical labor in the midst of a stressful situation?
But not all abuse is physical. The majority of the abuse we took was emotional, part of an environment calculated to wear you down, no matter who you were. There was never enough sleep, never enough time to shower worth a damn, never enough time to eat. The food was crap, the racks uncomfortable, and you could never ever do things to the satisfaction of the DIs, who would pounce on you for the most minor slights, screaming in their trademark 'frog voices', offering no sympathy or encouragement, demanding compliance.
Even when they didn't see anything wrong, they would find ways to keep the pressure on. We liked to call these creative little miseries 'fuck-fuck games'. They could range from 'sugar cookies', where you would be told to put sunscreen on your head followed by some of the Island's lovely sand, to what I refer to as 'picture pimping'.
For Cassia in particular, sugar cookies were excruciating. Sure, for the rest of us, it sucked to have the sand and sunscreen combination on our heads, and later on the rest of us as we sweat it off, but Cassia had it build up at the edges of and between her plates. And of course, there wasn't time to even get close to a proper shower. So it would build up, getting worse and worse.
And sugar cookies were Abbott's favorite little game. Even that would have been bearable, but Abbott was a firm believer in sharing punishment up the chain of command. So if a member of my squad, let's say Milque, was caught giving a less than perfect performance, he would get an invitation to turn himself into a fresh-baked dessert, as would I. As would Cassia. And if Beacham, for example, was the fuck-up, Tamberlane would have the chance to get a nice dusting. As would Cassia.
You get the picture.
Cassia didn't so much as object. By the end of the first week, she would start running for the Pit as soon as Abbott called out "Sugar Cookies!" without Abbott having to specifically order her. Not that Abbott wouldn't have ordered her.
Which led to me hearing the sound of running water in the darkened head as I pulled fire watch near the end of the second week. At first I ignored it. We were allowed head call during the sleep period, though the thought of giving up sleep you didn't have to was anathema. I spent the better part of each fire watch cursing mentally about the valuable rack time I was losing.
It was only when I heard the muffled cursing and yelp of pain over the water that I looked over the platoon's racks. Everyone was accounted for. With the exception of the platoon guide. The solo rack with the guidon brackets was empty.
"Damn," I breathed, then turned and went to check on my friend.
Inside the head, Cassia bent shirtless over a running sink. Her dog tags bounced gently against the old-fashioned porcelain of the sink as she stared at the drain, supporting herself with both taloned hands. Dark blue blood dripped along one mandible to disappear into the swirling water. "Idiot," she said.
"Who?" I asked, out of reflex.
Cassia jumped, spinning away from the sink and my voice, grabbing her shirt off another sink and holding it in front of her. Her mandibles spread wide, and her free hand came up, talons presented. Then her brain caught up to her reflexes and she relaxed just a little bit. "Chris?" she asked.
I nodded, forcing myself to keep from sinking into a fighting stance. Even with the darkness, she could hardly fail to recognize me. I was the only one in the platoon with glowing eyes, after all. "Yeah, it's me." I rapped my synthetic knuckles against the brushed steel helmet that was apparently maintained as an Island tradition for fire watch. "My turn for fire watch," I whispered.
Cassia slumped against a wall, burying her face in her talons. "I thought I was being quiet."
I gave a one-shoulder shrug that would have got me quarterdecked had a DI seen it. "It's quiet at night."
She hugged her knees to herself, refusing to look up at me.
I did my absolute best to not think of a famous Kubrick scene and moved over next to her. "What's wrong, Cassia?" When she shook her head and didn't answer, I blinked over to low-light.
The thicker skin of her scalp was abraded in places to a dusky blue and a deeper cobalt outlined her faceplate and fringe where a gummy mix of sand, sunscreen and blood didn't obscure the joint. My fingers twitched towards fists. Cassia jerked away from me just a bit.
"Oh," I said, dumbly. "Oh, Cassia."
"I don't even need the damn sunscreen," muttered Cassia as blood trickled from a tear behind her fringe.
I looked away from her fringe, only to see the sand and sunscreen mixture in the gaps between plates on her upper arms, her back, around her shoulder ridge…wherever I looked, pretty much. In spots, it had the blue of blood mixed in. "Cassia…" I started.
"I didn't want anyone to see me." She pressed the shirt to her face. "I thought I was quiet."
My words caught in my throat. Probably for the best, really.
"I thought I was quiet!" she hissed into the shirt. "Dammit, dammit, dammit!"
I gave up trying to say something that would help and put my flesh and blood hand on her shoulder ridge, sitting down next to her. She tensed for a moment before leaning into my palm.
"How do you do it, Chris?" she asked, placing her talons on my hand.
"Do what?" I asked, with honest confusion.
"You aren't breaking," she said, looking at me with wet eyes.
I blinked. I opened my mouth to say that I was breaking, but shut it. I wasn't. Not yet. And I didn't need to add another lie to my conscience. "Give it time," I said instead.
"What?" Cassia shook her head. "Give it time?"
I nodded. "I won't get through this without breaking."
Betrayal was plain on Cassia's face. "But…"
I gave Cassia the best smile I could muster. It wasn't much, hardly worth the word. "None of us will." The smile grew bitter. "Cassia, I chose psych for my college-level study. I did a couple of write-ups on basic training."
Her eyes went wide. "You know what's going on."
I shook my head. "Not like you're thinking. I only know the broad outlines." I tapped my temple with my free fingers. "But I know some of why."
Cassia's nose plates scrunched up. "They're trying to break us?"
"Yeah." I tongued a split in my lip that had reopened. "You've got to break down what was there before you build a Marine. Think about it."
She did. "There's so much stress here. I guess Marines need to deal with that." At my nod, she went on. "And there's no 'I' here, just the team. No questioning, just obedience."
"Right," I said. "And we're going to need to be willing to use violence as a primary solution. We need to be killers." I looked away from her at that. That, I reflected, won't be a problem for me.
Talons squeezed my hand, sharp points dimpling my flesh. "We'll need to not be ashamed of it," she whispered.
My head snapped around. "Wha…"
Cassia shook her head. "We don't have to talk about it, Chris."
"That's the problem with having smart friends," I muttered.
"What is?" she asked.
"They tend to be perceptive," I said, then gave my head a savage shake and looked down. "I didn't mean that."
Cassia looked at me for long seconds. "No," she said, finally. "You didn't."
I continued to pretend that I found the tiles fascinating.
"So it's okay to break," Cassia said slowly. "It's expected. We're all going to cry."
I nodded. "Yes."
"There's no shame in it. For any of us."
"Only what we bring in," I said.
She nodded. "But we can't give up. They won't let us."
"That's right." I flexed my alloy and synthskin hand.
"So there's no reason to just roll over," she said.
I looked up at her. My smile was weak, but it was real. "None I can think of."
There was a fire in Cassia's eyes as she looked at me. "We make them work for it?"
I nodded, squeezing her talons and letting the startings of a smirk drift across my lips. "Deal." I stood up, and pulled her to her feet. "Now let's get you cleaned and gelled. We've got another day in paradise ahead of us."
"Can't wait."
Of course it wasn't all close-order drill, fuck-fuck games and being quarterdecked, though there was plenty of that. We also got classes!
To this day, I can still recall more about the battles of the Chosin Reservoir, Fallujah, Ottawa, Shanxi, Elysium, and Torfan than anyone other than a military historian really has right to need to. Though, if I'm being perfectly fair, those last two examples probably have more to do with personally knowing some of the major players in each.
And I get it, really, I do. Having a common knowledge base and sense of pride about our service is important. But when you hang out closer to three standard deviations than two above average intelligence, rote learning where you don't ask questions, and answer questions in unison with your platoon is going to get annoying. It'll also get you quarterdecked if you let your annoyance show on your face.
So, you adapt, which is the point. And you pick up the really important information and memorize it, because you will need to show mastery of it. But, if you're like me, you'll start praying for the simple classes to end and for some physical training to start.
My favorite bit of physical training was actually introduced only a few days after I found Cassia bleeding in the head. We sat in 'the Pit', wearing BDUs, with our rifles arrayed with our covers just outside of the Pit. The Pit was just that, a large pit in the ground filled with sand. In the Pit, we weren't exposed to constant chastening. Here, we were taught, occasionally on an individual basis.
The Pit was where we were exposed to ACES.
Our primary ACES instructor was Master Sergeant Teresa Solomon, a dark-skinned woman with auburn hair who invariably reminded me of a panther whenever she made the slightest movement. I'd have backed her lethality with her bare hands against a Compact assassin any day of the week. She had earned her black belt with tabs for every species the Alliance had encountered honestly.
"Welcome to ACES instruction, recruits," she said. "Here's where you get to have some fun."
We all tried to keep from glancing at each other. Clearly, we were learning to avoid being quarterdecked.
Master Sergeant Solomon went on. "ACES stands for Alliance Combative Encounter System. It is a discipline meant to give you a series of effective options ranging across the continuum of force, no matter the number of attackers, the weapons you have, or the species your opponent happens to be." She gave us a toothy smile. "That's a tall order, and not one that I expect you to master in the time we have together. True mastery of ACES, like any martial art throughout the ages, is a lifelong devotion." There was a hint of the sardonic in her smile. "What we will be working on at the Island will be basic unarmed and rifle techniques for use against the most likely threat species you will encounter as Marines." She fired up her omni-tool to show us what she was talking about.
The first holo was of a snarling batarian, wearing a light hardsuit without a helmet. I stiffened, blinked, and his armor thickened to that of a dead man's as I felt the pop of his lower zygomatic arch crumpling under my sword's pommel before my tip cut half-blinded him in a spray of dark red blood and sparkling vitreous humor.
A talon jabbed into my side. "Chris," Cassia hissed, "are you alright?"
I blinked and came back to myself. "Fine," I muttered, trying to focus on Master Sergeant Solomon.
She was glaring at the projected batarian. "Recruits, a lot of old salty dogs will go on about the Hierarchy as if they were the Alliance's most important enemy. Make no mistake, they are wrong. These days the turians are our allies. And no matter what went down over Shanxi, this ugly bastard deserves far more hate than any turian." She turned back to us. "Recruits, I don't want you to have any illusions. Right now, the Batarian Hegemony is fighting a proxy war against us, using so-called privateers and terrorists. They are the enemy, and if you serve in combat, it will almost certainly be against these fuckers or their agents at least once in your career. They are our primary threat species.
"Next up," she switched the projected image to that of a scruffy looking man and woman, "is good old homo sapiens sapiens. One of the many duties the System Alliance Marine Corps has is that of policing Alliance colonies and spaceways, as well as wildcat colonies where practical. Pirates are a plague on society, and you will likely run into human pirates during a combat career as well. And there will be times where you will need to act as a traditional police force as well. It's rare, but it does happen, and you need to be prepared."
The next holo was of an asari maiden in a yellow hardsuit. I immediately recognized Eclipse's colors. Master Sergeant Solomon scowled. "For all that the asari like to brag about being a civilized, genteel people, a simply ridiculous number of maidens decide to get into piracy or mercenary work. You'll probably never face a real huntress, but you'll almost certainly have to knock some blue bint's block off." She shook her head.
"Our next contestant is everyone's favorite nightmare, the krogan." A translucent krogan roared silently at us. More than a few recruits jumped. "Now, I won't lie to you. There are a lot of krogan mercenaries and pirates out there, and they are a scary proposition to deal with. But they aren't quite as scary as people think they are, or they would like you to think. And thanks to a little event circa the ascension of the Last King of the Goths, there simply aren't that many in the galaxy." She tapped her omnitool and the roaring krogan was replaced by a snarling vorcha. "However, wherever you find organized krogan mercs, you're bound to find even more of these unlovely customers. Recruits, in close, vorcha are no joke. Don't let it happen if you can let it. Because the alternative is being faster, nastier, and more ruthless than a vorcha, which is a losing proposition. And they're covered in spikes and claws, just to make things harder." She rotated a shoulder in what looked like an unconscious reflex.
"Finally, we have the last two Council species, the turians and salarians. Both provide a unique set of challenges in hand-to-hand, and both do have presences in the various Terminus riff-raff, but they represent the least prevalent of the common threat species as far as the Corps is concerned. We will cover them, but they will not be the focus."
She shut down her omnitool. "I know that still sounds like a lot of material, but luckily, much of the techniques work no matter what species you're using them on, or only require minor tweaks. Besides, we have you for quite a while. No reason to coddle you." She clapped her hands together. "And in that spirit, let's get to work."
Our first day in the Pit was spent on stance, basic strikes, and basic blocks. The foundation of ACES reminded me of nothing so much as Krav Maga, which I already had some experience in. This really shouldn't have been a surprise, as krav maga had been designed to take advantage of natural reflexes, making it easier to learn. Krav was also a fundamentally reality-based martial art, exactly the kind of thing the fledgling Systems Alliance would use as the core of their new standardized system.
We started learning the strikes by throwing them at the air, much like you do in any martial arts class. The big difference was the kiai they required from us.
"Kill!" isn't the kind of kiai that leaves much doubt about what you're planning to do with what you're learning. But we weren't civilians anymore, and the quicker we lost the societal ingrained reflex against killing of any sort, the sooner we'd be effective Marines.
With my previous martial arts experience and my, let's say, diligent attitude, I took right to ACES, scaring a couple of recruits when we did pad work. I had the sincerity and intensity down, and already had practiced throwing effective strikes. Apparently having a glowing-eyed cyborg yell "Kill!" at you as he hammers the pad you're holding is an unnerving experience.
I wasn't the only one who took to ACES. Ulvi wasn't much of a kicker, but his punches were lightning quick and landed like sledgehammers. Tamberlane was really very effective in putting his considerable body weight behind his blows, and Eklund made me look lazy.
Cassia, due to her turian physiology, was given instruction in HCCS, the Hierarchy's equivalent to ACES.
Master Sergeant Solomon dragged Ulvi, Tamberlane, Eklund, and I aside as the platoon drilled on elbow strikes. "It's obvious that you lot have either some natural talent, experience, or previous training." I and the other three ACES standouts very studiously kept from looking at each other. This was not normal DI behavior. But then, Solomon hadn't treated us typically from the beginning. She'd bellow with the best of them when you got something wrong, but she was a much softer touch than the others, and corrected far more often than berated. "That's good, so long as you're willing to learn it our way."
"Ma'am, yes ma'am," said Ulvi and I in unison, followed shortly by Tamberlane. Eklund just goggled for a second.
Solomon seemed to smile slightly at Ulvi and my stereo responses, then turned to Eklund with a face that was outwardly pleasant. "What about you, Recruit Eklund?"
"Ah, ma'am, yes ma'am!" he stammered.
"Excellent. I'll be watching for you four to lead the way in ACES. I expect you to act as cadre for the others, got me?"
This time, our response was all in unison.
"Very good. You'll also be ending up as my partner for technique demonstrations more often than the others." She opened her omnitool. "These are technique manuals. I'll expect you to review them before the week is out." I felt the subtle pulse that let me know I had just received a file. "Keep up with my expectations, and you might end up on the ACES demonstration team for graduation. You'll also be working closely with Recruit Hartwell. It's a windfall for your platoon to have a turian, and we won't be wasting it."
"Ma'am, yes ma'am!"
She nodded. "Back to it, recruits. Oh, Tereshkov, Valentine."
We froze in the middle of turning to get back to practice. "Yes ma'am?"
"Get that knife fighter working," she ordered with a frown. "He should be standing out."
I followed her gaze. "Does the Master Sergeant mean Recruit Milque, ma'am?"
"That's the one." Solomon looked at us and nodded. "First test, recruits. Go get your pad. You need fifty strikes each." She walked off to correct Idela's form.
I indulged in a little sigh once I was sure that a DI wasn't looking. "No one said it would be easy."
Ulvi hefted the pad. "No they did not, my friend." I started in on my allotted strikes. "I think however, that as you are his squad leader, I will let you take the lead." He hid his smirk behind the rim of the pad.
"KILL!" I roared as I did my level best to knock Ulvi off his feet with a right straight. Dick.
"So they've got you playing sempai along with squad leader duty, Fearless Leader?" asked Milque as he relaxed on his rack during square-away time. "Man, sucks to be you."
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Your compassion is staggering, and it's senpai. Look, Solomon is onto you."
"Oh?" He sat up a bit and made a motion as if to brush away hair, then realized he was as bald as the rest of us and aborted the movement.
"She pegged you as a knife fighter and gave me the task of making sure you perform," I said.
"I'm not a…"
"Bullshit," I cut him off with a chop of my hand. "Not only are you, but you're a good one."
He pursed his lips. "And how did you come to that idea?"
I shrugged. "You move like a fighter. That's always been obvious. And I'm not going to second-guess Master Sergeant Solomon. As for being good," I said. "You don't have enough scars to be a bad one."
"I could be a dancer," he said.
I rolled my eyes.
"Yeah, that one sounded weak to me too," said Milque.
"I am sure that you would dance most prettily, Milque," said Ulvi as he walked up.
"Don't patronize me," said Milque with a grimace.
"But where are we supposed to find tights in his size?" I asked Ulvi.
"Perhaps an undersuit?" Ulvi tapped his chin. "I am sure the Drill Instructors would be most overjoyed to hear about Milque's idea of a dance recital."
"You are a bad man," said Milque, pointing at Ulvi. I chuckled. "And you are a bad man's friend."
"Me?" I asked, placing my hand to my chest. "I'm merely an adept comic partner."
Milque winced. "Ow. And it's astute comedic partner."
"Valentine is most certainly that as well," said Ulvi.
I shook my head. "More importantly, Milque, if Solomon has you pegged, you can bet the others do too."
He lay back on his rack. "So? It's not like I'm not doing what they ask."
"Just that and nothing more," I pointed out.
"And I'm not squad leader for my trouble," he said. Ulvi and I looked at each other. Milque sighed. "Guy I knew said to just cruise through boot. Standing out isn't a good idea, guys."
I bit my lip. "But you are standing out, Milque. As a slacker, too."
"Getting everything done, aren't I?" Milque asked.
I shook my head. "I guarantee you that they expect more from you."
"I've just got to get to flight school," he said. "I can't afford to crack up here."
"They will not entrust a ship to a slacker," said Ulvi.
"Look," said Milque, "I'll work a little harder in ACES, alright? Just drop it, okay?" He looked away.
I nodded and walked back to my rack, drumming my fingers on my artificial shoulder. That didn't feel like a victory.
A/N: I should really just give up on the concept of getting these chapters out on any kind of regular schedule. Not much to say about that, really, other than to thank Herr Wozzeck for his quick feedback when I tossed the finished draft at him.
Anyway, I hope you've enjoyed this chapter. Sorry for the wait.
As for a couple of guest reviews that I got since I last posted, Valentine is unlikely to pick up more cybernetics. As an Alliance soldier, he's going to have access to more wetware-type replacements (cloned tissue and such), and he's not going into a field where the Alliance would see fit to replace more of him with expensive cybernetics. I've hinted at the fact that cybernetic eyes are more widespread among Alliance pilots, but he's already got those. If you're looking forward to a story where the main character is a cyborg ninja badass like the N7 Shadow or Slayer from ME3's multiplayer, you're likely to be disappointed. That's not to say that Valentine's cybernetics won't give him advantages at times, but they're also a liability in other ways.
This also gets at the second guest review's question, which had to do with the possibility of Valentine gaining biotics or a similar ability with cybernetics. Technically possible, and we see it in Mass Effect Infiltrator and the Project Phoenix classes in multiplayer, but it's not going to happen in this story. Firstly, the only group we know that does that is Cerberus, and secondly, it's not in keeping with the kind of story I want to tell or the character I want to write. I will get into the idea of mass effect technology and how it relates to biotics, but it won't be in terms of Valentine becoming a cyber-biotic.
Anyway, I hope that you've enjoyed the latest chapter, and will stick around for the inevitable wait for the next one. As always, please feel free to share what you liked and what you didn't. I do promise, at the very least, to read and think about each review, even (or especially) the critical ones. If you have a question, I'm likely to answer it. And I'd be lying if I said that reviews don't at least help to motivate me. Thank you to all my readers, those returning and those who are new.
Next time, we'll finish Phase One and move onto Phase Two. Hopefully it should be good.
Until next time, readers!
-VDO
Another fine product from Valentine Diverse Optics
