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.)

Phase Two started with competition. It was quite a shock after so much time focusing on the platoon to be reminded that there were even other platoons on the base. Of course, we had the intellectual knowledge of other platoons, but we didn't feel it in the same way. It also marked a shift in goals between living up to impossible standards and beating the other platoons. We had all broken. Now it was time to teach us what we needed to know and rekindle our fighting spirit.

There's really not anything to say about the initial drill competition. Shed of Shusett, Platoon 3124 performed very nicely indeed, taking the lead in Kilo Company's follow series. We were now the top dogs, and everyone would be gunning for us. We were just fine with that. When Lieutenant Venkmann announced that we had won initial drill, not even the fact that we had just made Abbott look good could get us down.

The fact that the next day had us taking a written test, on the other hand? That dampened some spirits. I was too amused by the fact that we were actually using paper test sheets to be that put out. Besides, I've never really had a problem with tests.

It did have a pretty broad subject base, covering everything from first-aid and small unit leadership to customs and courtesies. It was all applicable, though. Every single thing on there was something we had been taught, and would need to know as Marines.

Despite the platoon's best efforts, we did have some failures on that first test. That wasn't pleasant.

"You disgust me, recruit!" spat Sergeant Harrison in Tamberlane's face as we stood at attention in the squad bay. "Bad enough that any ONE of you would fail the test, but for a squad leader? Absolutely unforgivable!"

Tamberlane stood stiff as a board, looking ready to dig a hole and pull it in after him. Similar scenes played out as Carter and Abbott hurled invective at our other failures.

I didn't have the attention to give them, as Penlan stepped up in front of me. "Recruit Valentine," she said in a very steady voice. "your platoonmates have failed in an examination, including a squad leader. This displeases me. Their failure says that I have failed to teach them." She paused for a second. "Recruit Valentine, do you have any conception of why these failures have besmirched the honor of the platoon?"

I took a deep breath. "Ma'am, the recruit thinks that he has been negligent in setting platoon priorities for extra training. Too much focus was put on skills, and not enough on academic review, ma'am."

Penlan scowled. "You were awfully quick with that answer, recruit." A knife hand jabbed at my chest. "Explain."

"Ma'am, the recruit immediately started reflection on what he could have done better as soon as he heard he failed, ma'am," I said.

"You passed, recruit," she snarled.

"Ma'am, respectfully, the recruit did not," I said, both amazed that I was saying this without prompting, and that I actually believed it. "The recruit was responsible for his platoonmates, and he failed them. The fact that academic review is hard to gauge progress in and unfulfilling compared to physical skills practice led him to devalue it. He also mistakenly attributed his confidence with academics to the platoon as a whole. While more review may not have solved the issue, it very well may have, and should have been attempted, ma'am."

Penlan stared into my eyes. I stared back, grateful for once that people found it hard to read my emotions in the cybernetics. "Recruit Valentine," she said, raising her voice. "You are relieved as platoon guide." With that, she turned on her heel and stalked into her office.

I wasn't the only one who was relieved of my position. All of the squad leaders were dropped as well. This change was not welcome. Much of the platoon gave me credit for our improved performance, and me being dropped to Squad 3's automatic rifleman was widely thought of as a bad move. No one was less happy than Milque, who had been moved to the solo bed and now took his turn as platoon guide.

"I'm sorry, man," said Tamberlane, nearly tearing up. "That was my fault. If I hadn't failed, you wouldn't have gotten axed."

"Now that I think of it," I said, moving my locker back to a bunk I'd be sharing with Ulvi, "I probably shouldn't have thumbed that grenade to arm and dove on it like that. I practically forced Penlan to relieve me by interrupting her and taking responsibility like that." I grunted as I finally got the locker set and stood. "Besides," I said, jabbing a thumb at Ulvi. "Now I have a bunkmate again."

Ulvi grinned. "The most handsome one in the platoon."

"Yeah," I said. "I still haven't found the time to calibrate my eyes." That got a little chuckle out of Tamberlane. "Anyway, we sweat more to bleed less. This is still training." I clapped Tamberlane on the shoulder. "No one's dead, discharged, or in sick bay. So long as we learn from it, it was worth it."

Tamberlane gave a weak smile before moving to his bunk and pulling out review materials. I grabbed my boots and a rag. No time to stay idle.

"So how do you think Milque will do?" asked Ulvi as he checked his helmet's neck seals.

"You're asking me?" I said as I considered a toe scuff.

"Yes." Ulvi hung up the helmet.

"I really don't know," I said, buffing away the scuff. "The platoon should be just fine if we keep on keeping on."

"You don't think that Milque will try and shake things up?" he asked.

"And attract any more attention than he has to?" I shook my head. "No way."

"I suppose you are right."

"Everyone seems to think that I am," I said, holding up the rejuvenated boot. "Behold. The perfect boot."

"Very nice." Ulvi was about to say more, but that's when a DI decided to play a rousing round of 'shoe scramble' with us. So much for my perfect boot.

A few days later, following a retest that thankfully had no failures, we enjoyed the pleasure of a ten kilometer hike in full battle rattle, punctuated with random triggering of our hardsuits' cooling systems on full icy blast to "protect us from heat casing". This brisk morning and afternoon's walk took us all over the Island, finally depositing us near our new home, the grassy fields of the Island's rifle range. That, of course, meant that it was time to start learning how to shoot.

This sounds a lot more exciting than it was. You see, at the Island, you don't just get issued an ammo block and range time before being left to figure it out for yourself. That would be dangerous and ineffective. Instead, you get lectures, theory, and the joys of "snapping in". For the uninitiated, snapping in consists of a week of practicing firing positions, sight picture, and trigger pull with unloaded rifles. This lovely process is known as 'grass week', due to the amount of time you spend in the fields of the Island's firing ranges, both in and out of hardsuits.

Now as much as I'm complaining about it, grass week does work. I still remember how to field strip and clean an M7A4, blindfolded if necessary. I remember how to adjust its integral close-quarters and 4x magnification sighting systems. I remember my rifle safety. I remember how to prioritize bone support. I even remember my rifle's serial number. 285507, if you're curious. Spending so much time on a critical skill like marksmanship only makes sense. Every Marine a rifleman, after all. And learning your rifle handling without live weapons will inevitably save lives. You practice as if your Lancers are loaded, as there is no such thing as an unloaded weapon, but there's always going to some fool that sweeps a fellow trainee with their muzzle and gets their whole platoon the opportunity to practice prone position in nothing more than their tactical rigging.

I won't name names, but suffice to say that I hate sand fleas. That incident landed me right back in the platoon guide slot too.

Following grass week, we had firing week, which was filled with what you'd think. The platoon split into two teams, with one half shooting while the other half marked targets down in the pits at the end of the range.

Sure, you could easily use self-updating holotargets, but as I've mentioned a few times, tradition is strong at the Island. Besides, you learn something important in the pits.

A series of bullwhips cracked over my head as my platoonmates opened fire, loud even through the hearing protection of my hardsuit. I looked up to see an irritatingly tight group in the target. Milque might not have been much for rifle safety, but he was a hell of a shot.

Ulvi gave me a concerned look as I flinched away from the fire. I tried to hide it, but it was all too obvious that he had caught it. Nothing for it. I reached up to haul the target down, sighing. "Ah, memories," I said in an attempt at a breezy tone.

Ulvi's frown made it clear that my attempt was a wasted effort. He marked the latest hit and we raised the target again. "Will you…" he started

I cut him off. "I'm fine." I forced myself to remain still at the latest shot. I pulled the target back down. More ridiculous placement.

Ulvi nodded. "As you say, my friend." Target marked, we sent it up again.

Being on the other end of the rifle was far superior, in my opinion.

I know, right? 'Better to shoot than get shot at.' A galaxy-shaking observation.

Yeah, shut up. I'd rather be the one slinging tungsten than catching it. And given that I've DONE both, consider me an informed opinion.

Sadly, I'm not that good at it.

Oh, I'm not a danger to myself and others. I know the loud end is pointed at the enemy. You don't make it through the Island without becoming proficient with a rifle. But I lack that natural talent that sets the Vakarians and Westens of the galaxy apart. I have to cheat like mad to even approach that kind of shooting.

And this deficiency in my skill set led to me frowning down at my rifle as if it had betrayed me.

"What the hell am I doing wrong?" I muttered.

"You are overthinking," said Ulvi from beside me, before squeezing off a shot.

I resettled myself behind the rifle. "Story of my life."

The hell of it was, Ulvi was right. I kept trying to optimize my shooting just that one little bit more and ended up with pulled shot after pulled shot. I really needed to just execute on the same thing over and over again. My experimentation was worthless without a proper grasp of the fundamentals. Unfortunately, thinking is a habit I've never been able to break myself of, and I had less than a week to un-fuck myself for the Table One quals.

I only barely made it. If it wasn't for the range coaches, I probably wouldn't have, no matter how many sleepless hours I spent reviewing the fundamentals in my head. I shuddered to think of what it would have been like to have to shoot the course with old fashioned iron sights. But the coaches weren't going to just let a little thing like a lack of talent rob the Corps of another warm body.

I deliberately kept myself from tracking my points as I shot, so I was as surprised as anyone else when I scraped together a 209, which could put me in contention for an Expert qualification if I did exceedingly well on Table 2.

I didn't hold out much hope for my chances on the combat sim course, having been outshot by all of my closest friends. Of course Milque didn't pull a single shot, sitting on a 250, but Cassia managed a 223 and Ulvi sat at 215. The real surprise in the platoon was Idela and his 242, though. The kid had never picked up a rifle before, but he picked up the skill without any trouble whatsoever, leaving Tamberlane and his colonial experience shame-faced.

Team week actually was a nice break after the stress, or at least my stress, over qualifying. Lectures were at a minimum, as was PT. Even Abbott had backed off on the invective by this point. This did not keep some people from complaining, however.

"Laundry," whined Milque. "Why'd it have be laundry?" He and I, along with the rest of first and second squads were working in the Island's expansive laundry facility.

"Because Penlan noticed that you're always dirty and figured you could use the extra practice maintaining your uniforms," said Idela. "Shaddup and soldier."

I winced. That word 'soldier' could draw down wrath from a DI. Luckily the industrial sized washing machines made enough noise to drown it out. Probably the only reason Milque felt safe whining, come to think of it.

"I remember when you were a timid little guy," said Milque. "Where did it all go so wrong?"

I swung a bag of dirty uniform blouses into Milque's gut, earning an oof. "It is the grunt's eternal prerogative to complain."

"So you're on my side. This is bitch work." Despite the complaint, he started loading the nearest open washer.

"No," I said. "We don't get to complain."

"Oh?" said Idela with a raised eyebrow.

"Of course not," I said. "Grunt is the lofty exalted status we may one day achieve. Until then…" I shrugged.

"Shit flows downhill," sighed Milque.

"And downhill's where we are," finished Idela.

Milque looked around the room. "What a lovely snapshot of the future."

"You didn't think we were going to do scut work?" I asked. "The Alliance is already paying you. Might as well get their money's worth."

"Boy, I'm looking forward to getting out of boot," said Milque.

"So you can complain when you get these details?" I asked.

He nodded. "It's not much of a dream, but it's mine, dammit."

"Achievable goals, that's the key," said Idela in what I had a sneaking suspicion was an imitation of my 'sage' tone.

I shook my head as I bent down for another sack of laundry. "That enlistment contract should come with a big disclaimer about 'collateral duties'."

"Bright red and flashing," agreed Milque as I passed the sack to him.

"Recruit Valentine!"

I popped my head up to see Master Sergeant Solomon with the advanced ACES students and Cassia. "Aye, Master Sergeant!" I said as I came to attention.

"At ease, Valentine." She jerked a thumb at the other recruits. "You're with us. ACES session."

I had to suppress my smile. Laundry or ACES? I knew which one I preferred. "Aye aye, Master Sergeant."

"Lucky son of a bitch," muttered Milque as he ducked below the rim of the washer.

Had I known what was going to happen, I might very well have traded places with him right there and then.

"Alright recruits, we will be working on inter-species technique today," said Solomon after we had made our way to the ACES pit with advanced students from other platoons in our series. "And we've got a treat for you. Some of you have worked with Recruit Hartwell before. But none of you have had the pleasure of sparring against our guest instructor for today."

An enormous krogan bull lumbered his way over to the pit. He stood over two meters tall and still had the green marks of youth on his skin. His hump was actually somewhat small for the species. His crest, on the other hand, was well defined, looking like nothing so much as an outcropping of silver ore that had been painted with streaks of bronze and blue. I estimated him at 200 kilos of malevolently grinning lizardy violence. I had the unpleasant feeling that someone was going to end up in the broke-dick platoon by the end of the day.

"This charming gentleman is Raik Tarr," said Solomon, with absolutely no concern. "If you recruits follow the EUCC, you may recognize him as the Rhode Island Knight's first-round draft pick last season." She turned to him. "Sorry about how the play-offs went."

"We'll get 'em next year," he rumbled.

And a proper British tar is he, I thought. Incredibly, Tarr had a London accent.

"Looking forward to it," said Solomon before turning back to us. "Now, recruits, Mr. Raik is a civilian, so you do not salute him, but you will follow all of his instructions. Is that understood?"

"Aye, Master Sergeant!"

"Very good. First, the obvious. Despite what I told you during ACES introduction, you do not want to take on a krogan bare-handed. You are not as strong or heavy as a krogan, and are far more fragile. If you can avoid engaging a krogan in close, so much the better. Your rifle can and will kill any species know given enough fire. If you are a biotic, use it. There are very few krogan biotics left, and you should be absolutely ruthless in exploiting this advantage. Later in your training, if you learn offensive applications of your omni, you should practice integrating them into your ACES. A B-E condensate spray has saved my life before, and a flash-forged blade tends to carry enough heat to do major thermal damage in addition to the physical wound. Monoblades can also work." She gestured to Tarr. "But krogan are very good at soaking up punishment and continuing the fight. Worse, let's say that you lost the fight and are now dead, despite opening a couple of his arteries. With a batarian, you'd have the satisfaction of knowing that the blink would be following you in a minute or so. Not with this guy. Perhaps a krogan's greatest advantage is that he can take crippling injuries and heal back to combat effective. Maybe not for the next fight, but within a few months? And this is without medical attention.

"So," said Solomon. "To recap, a krogan is bigger, heavier, stronger, tougher, and can recover from injury better than you can."

Tarr's grin grew wider as recruits shifted uncomfortably. "I'm pretty fast, too."

Solomon nodded. "Good point. Lots of people seem to think that krogan are slow. And there's some truth to this. Krogan are not slower, as a rule, but humans tend to accelerate better, by virtue of the difference in mass." A smile played at the corner of Solomon's mouth. "I'm sure you're wondering by now how you are supposed to take on a krogan."

Tarr chuckled. "After that speech, I'm starting to wonder."

Solomon did smile at this. "Well, I could demonstrate."

Tarr snorted and backed off a bit, squaring off with Solomon. Then he charged, arms wide. If I didn't have previous training and much improved eyes, I probably wouldn't have followed it. It really wasn't anything other than a beautifully timed diagonal step and wrist lock, with a little extra encouragement from an open palm to the upper arm.

Tarr went down with a whump, throwing up a bow wave of sand. Solomon dug fingers into joints and applied pressure, locking Tarr's body down before miming a series of kicks to the exposed eye and just under his silver ore crest.

"Holy shit," whispered a recruit from platoon 3121. We all thought it.

Solomon released Tarr, who snorted and shook his head, shaking off sand and disorientation. "Now, the follow-up there is more advanced technique, but you should be able to figure out the main strategy from that demonstration." She looked at us, expectantly. Advanced ACES classes were far more Socratically run.

Some of us raised our hands. Jollete was picked. "Joints, Master Sergeant."

"Very good. Anything else?" She looked at the hands, picking me. "Valentine?"

"Center of gravity and tactics, Master Sergeant," I said.

"Just so." Solomon smiled. "Tarr, did we work that out before?"

"No," he grumbled. "No, we didn't."

"What were you trying?"

"I was intending to either force you to the ground or deliver a headbutt. Possibly just grab and squeeze." Tarr rolled his shoulders.

"Any of which would likely be decisive," said Solomon. "And you started with a charge."

"Instinct," he said.

"Exactly." Solomon straightened her BDUs. "Recruits, a krogan will charge you more often than not. If he's blood raging, he will, full stop. For dealing with a blood raging krogan, I've always been partial to close air support."

We all chuckled.

"Right. Now a krogan charges for two basic reasons. One, Mr. Raik has already pointed out. The other is that it works. Barring biotics, powersuits, or being an elcor, you are not going to stop a charging krogan. There's just too much momentum. So you don't." Solomon's smile was predatory. "After all, why waste all that lovely kinetic energy he's put into play? You aren't going to be hitting him hard enough for him to care. Let him hit himself." She looked back to the krogan. "How hard did you hit?"

Tarr frowned. "Hard enough to rattle me long enough for you to do whatever it was you did to my arm."

Solomon looked back to us. "Which is harder than you or I would be able to strike, recruits. So that's the basic rule if you have to fight a krogan bare-handed. Use his force against him. Now, there are some advantages we have against a krogan in this. First is flexibility." She opened her omni-tool and projected a full-size krogan skeleton.

I don't know if you've ever seen a krogan skeleton, but it is intimidating. Their ribcage looks more like articulated plate than the frame work we humans have, and everything is damned thick. Well, there is the exception of the frontal bone of the skull, but that's hiding behind the crest, so who cares? Elcor may be stronger, and yahg may be more intimidating, but I've never met an organic sentient that could take more punishment than a krogan.

"I can see why punching would do little," muttered Ulvi.

"This coming from the biotic," I responded from the side of my mouth.

Solomon pointed at the skeleton's shoulder. "Recruits, if you look at the shoulder, you will see a quirk of krogan biology, and why you will hardly ever see a krogan with a dislocated shoulder."

We all looked closer. The ball in the ball-and socket joint was captive to the socket. Huh, I thought. That's odd.

"This general pattern of joint reinforcement is repeated throughout the krogan body, with joints of all sorts being reinforced in exchange for range of motion. Observe." At this, Solomon and Tarr started a series of stretches. The difference was striking. "This makes krogan particularly vulnerable to joint manipulation, though extremely resistant to joint destruction."

Trade-offs, I thought, though all things considered, the krogan probably had the better end of the deal, given they could crumple a human skull with a single headbutt.

"Finally," said Solomon, "We come to center of gravity. Simply put, a krogan is going to be top-heavy. Mr. Raik is actually blessed with a relatively low center of gravity for his species."

Tarr chuckled. "Humps count against weight class just like muscle. You would not believe what I have to do to keep it down."

"Probably not," she said. "But Mr. Raik's case is atypical to say the least. A large hump is considered a status symbol in krogan society, so most krogan cultivate one. And this raises their center of gravity."

I could feel the shorter, squatter recruits around me practically radiating glee. A shorter fighter is often advantaged by taking things to the ground, where they partially nullify their opponent's reach advantage. This whole center-of-gravity exploitation was their bread and butter.

"Now, they become even more vulnerable in the charge, which is an inherently off-balance technique. Again, you will you use your opponent's mass and momentum against them." She looked over the crowd. "Some of you are already thinking of how to apply your knowledge to krogan. Do not think of them as human. It will get you killed." She nodded at Tarr, who obliged her with a bearhug.

"Now, I can off-balance Mr. Raik from this position." As she said it, she demonstrated, tipping Tarr to the side. "I could even possibly throw him. But it doesn't matter. Belly-to-belly like this, I've lost. He can headbutt me or just squeeze, and that's it. A krogan is strong enough to shatter your ribs and break your back like that." They broke away.

"I could also bite your head," offered Tarr.

Solomon flinched, looking shocked for the first time. "Where did you get that one?"

"Some vid actor a couple centuries back. Before my time, but my teammate likes his vids," he said. "Heh. That yellow jumpsuit he wore looks like something Devlon would make."

Couldn't be, I thought. No way.

Solomon shook herself. "Well, with a set of teeth like yours, that probably would work. In any case, you cannot afford to wrestle with a krogan, recruits. Nor can you afford to let a krogan's mass settle on you. So shoulder throws and most sacrifice throws are bad ideas. Trying to pin a krogan on their back is a poor idea as well. A rounded back makes it an exercise in frustration, even if you were strong enough." She clapped her hands. "So. We will be practicing joint locks to start, followed by an overview of potentially accessible vulnerable areas. Yes, even krogan have vulnerable areas. Following this, you will all have a chance to spar with Mr. Raik."

"Don't worry," he said. "I won't bite." A shudder ran through the crowd.

"Recruit Hartwell will also be providing a chance to work on anti-turian technique," said Solomon, as if she hadn't heard Tarr's comment. "Now, let's begin."

For all that the Master Sergeant could manhandle a krogan, the techniques we learned were less than confidence-inspiring. But then, there's only so much you can do to make up an over 100 kilo mass difference, especially when the big guy has hide fit to soak up any human's punch. I almost wished that I was one of the first to spar with Tarr. At least then I wouldn't have to hear the all-too frequent calls for a corpsman. Lucky Johnson. Instead, Ulvi, Eklund, and I were part of the group working with Cassia.

Which probably seems backwards. After all, as her platoonmates, we got the most chance to spar with her. Our anti-turian techniques were the best out of the recruits. But that was the point. Cassia was essentially doing bearpit training to build her endurance. If she wanted to be an Alliance Marine, she had to have the combat endurance of one, a rough feat for a turian. Not that she was complaining, pressuring Jollete with a rolling talon combination before lunging in with a knee to his gut that folded him forward, allowing her to throw him to the sand.

Ulvi pulled Jollete to his feet as Eklund stalked forward. Cassia only had time for three puffing breaths before Eklund shot a low kick at her forward leg. Leaning in, she took it on the base of her knee spur, only for Eklund to grab her wrist and yank her further forward.

Cassia's response was to present her talon tips so that if she kept pulling, Eklund might catch a raking strike. The brunette redirected the pull past her back, but it off-balanced her to do so, and Cassia simply bore the smaller woman to the ground, accepting a glancing blow to land a much more solid strike to Eklund's jaw with the back of her talons. As Eklund reeled, Cassia laid her forearm against the other woman's throat, earning a tap-out.

Ulvi may have given Cassia a few extra seconds before he entered, but what were a few extra breaths between friends? Still, as soon as he did start, it was a blistering combination of jabs and straights targeting the face that forced Cassia to go talons out and arms tight in her defense. Ulvi didn't pause, shifting focus to her body with some switch-ups to keep her honest.

She attempted to break Ulvi's rhythm with some conservative strikes, but was punished for breaking her guard with a hook to the side of the head, sending her reeling. Ulvi followed, only to be stopped by a sloppy back kick that opened up the range some. Regaining her base, Cassia took the initiative, only for Ulvi to demonstrate his superior mastery of the guard, blunting the effectiveness of her flurry before bursting in with an elbow that she slid to the side of, setting Ulvi up for a quick and dirty hip throw.

Ulvi grinned from the ground at me. It wasn't really a decisive move, but hell with it.

My turn.

I pulled Ulvi up off the ground, swapping places in the fight with him. Waiting for Cassia to turn around before I engaged her, I nearly took a foot to the gut as she launched another of those back kicks at me. This one was much sharper than the one she had interrupted Ulvi with, but I slipped to her back as she recovered the kick, aiming to get control of her far arm and shoulder.

Instead, she dove away, attempting to gain space and roll to her feet. My reflexive front kick tagged her in the gut, laying her out flat, head towards me. Before she could recover, I lunged forward, punching towards her face. Hey, she was the one who had kicked at me when I was letting her get set.

Cassia rolled up onto her side towards my centerline, dodging the punch, then rolled back into my forearm. I went with it, shifting my weight back to bring my back leg around in a kick that numbed one of her arms. I pulled my arm back from her grab, then shot in, aiming a knee for her shoulder. It landed flush on her shoulder ridge, which would have been a poor target on a male turian. Cassia's eyes, mouth, and mandibles popped wide, and she was so stunned by the blow that she didn't struggle as I established a choke, rolling her over onto her face for control.

"Ow," she groaned from under me, which would have been harder if I had really been putting pressure on the chokehold.

"Recruit Hartwell, are you able to continue?" asked Solomon from over my shoulder. I hadn't even noticed her approach, too busy with the spar.

"Aye, Master Sergeant," she said.

"Well go on then." Cassia bucked and struggled under me, but between my greater mass and my control of her neck and a number of joints, she was going nowhere. "Thought so. Good job, Valentine. Let her up."

I did, forcing my breathing into an even rhythm. "Aye, Master Sergeant."

"Next time, just kick them when they're down, though," Solomon said.

I winced. "Aye, Master Sergeant."

Cassia climbed to her feet, favoring her left shoulder and arm, breathing heavily.

"Recruit Hartwell?"

Cassia pulled herself straight. "Good to go, Master Sergeant."

"Excellent. Take a break. You'll be taking a round with Mr. Raik and then working technique with some of the less advanced recruits." Solomon spun on her heel and walked back towards the krogan. "Break's over, Tarr! Get back to work."

As the krogan chucked and his latest victim gulped, Cassia nearly collapsed on the spot, only for Ulvi and me to tuck our shoulders in under her arms and keep her on her feet. "Easy, my friend," said Ulvi. "Let us get you a nice patch of open ground."

"Yeah," I said. "We screwed up this one pretty good."

Cassia's head hung forward in exhaustion. "Ugh. You totally owe me a shoulder massage after that knee, Chris."

"Take a rain check on that?" I asked as we lowered her to a seat at the edge of the Pit. "I don't think it's a good idea to massage something I just drove a knee into."

"It's a date," she said, groaning. She looked up to see Tarr hurling a recruit through the air. "How long do I get to rest before I have to fight him?"

"No idea," said Ulvi, looking at the giant battle turtle. His clenched fists had the faintest blue aura around them. "What is your plan?" he asked me.

"Not die?" I shrugged. "I figured on attempting a takedown like Master Sergeant Solomon, probably screwing it up, and feeling some kind of pain."

"He has stopped charging," pointed out Ulvi.

"Son of a bitch," I groused. "That's going to make things interesting." I watched Tarr smash the poor recruit straight through his guard. "I'm thinking back of the knee. If I can get past him, I should at least be able to drop him to the ground with that and a little luck. After that, I don't know."

"Recruit Tereshkov!" yelled Solomon. "You're up!"

"Good luck, buddy," I said.

"Thank you, my friend," Ulvi replied as he climbed to his feet.

"Don't die," said Cassia.

"But of course." Ulvi smiled and punched his own palm. "The galaxy could not bear the loss of my good looks." He walked over to face Tarr, stopping only for Solomon to give him some hushed orders.

The krogan smacked his chest twice and spread his arms with a grin. "Well, come on then."

Ulvi charged him.

It was hard to say who was the more shocked, the recruits or Tarr. It sure wasn't Solomon, though, who had the look of a well-fed predator on her face when Ulvi's blue-glowing hook knocked Tarr's head to the side in a roar of surprise.

Not that it really hurt him. The bull's head snapped back, only for Ulvi to land an uppercut on the point of the krogan's chin, closing Tarr's mouth in a clack of teeth. Tarr swiped at Ulvi, trying to box him in, but Ulvi bobbed under the arm, circling to the outside, hammering body blows into the krogan's flank.

Ulvi never made much of his biotics. After all, as he said, a L1 wasn't anything to make a big deal over. L1s were 'proof of concept', with sharply limited ability. But eezo nodules were eezo nodules, and limited didn't mean worthless. Ulvi didn't just stick to punching because he had learned his fighting in bare-knuckle boxing matches. It was also how he had learned to apply his biotics.

When Tarr spun and smashed his arm towards Ulvi, too quick to dodge, Ulvi simply tightened his guard, sunk his weight, and glowed all over. The krogan's massive arm slammed into Ulvi, who didn't move. In that moment, I realized why some people thought biotics were the destined evolution of mankind.

As Tarr pulled back his strike, Ulvi stepped forward and rocked the big guy with a one-two shot that blazed like a welding torch. I actually saw orange blood fly as Ulvi split the krogan's lip. A rain of blows followed, attempting to keep the momentum of the fight firmly in Ulvi's corner.

Of course, Ulvi wasn't the first biotic Tarr had fought, or even close to the strongest. The EUCC is lousy with them. With a bellow that felt like a shove to the chest where I was sitting, Tarr surged forward through the punishment Ulvi was dishing out, rising up and bearing Ulvi to the ground.

Tarr's crest rose and fell in a massive headbutt that sent sand flying.

Cassia and I shot to our feet as the recruits let out a massive gasp.

Ulvi lay beside the crater Tarr's crest had put in the Pit's sand with a shocked look on his face. "I suspect that could have gone better."

"Huh, you took me straight on for almost a minute." Tarr offered his hand to Ulvi, who clasped it, accepting the help up. "Pretty good for a human. You've got a quad."

Solomon frowned. "I hate to break up the good feelings, but you lost sight of your tactics at the end, recruit."

Ulvi drew himself to attention. "Aye, Master Sergeant."

"Straight on is a losing game against a krogan, even for you."

"Aye, Master Sergeant."

"Right, go drain a Paragade. You'll need it." Solomon turned away from him. "Eklund, you're up!"

Ulvi grabbed one of the drinks and returned to where Cassia and I stood, doing a brave job of pretending he hadn't just been slammed to the ground by 204 kilos of professional fighter.

"Now how are we supposed to follow that?" asked Cassia.

"You did set the bar pretty high, man." I shook my head, looking at my friend. "Where did that come from?"

"One gets in tussles from time to time," said Ulvi with an air of modesty.

"That was not a tussle," said Cassia.

I nodded. "We thought you had blood raged him for a second there, Ulvi."

Ulvi put his palm on his chest. "A lovable character like me? Never."

I rolled my eyes. "Of course not."

Cassia sighed. "I suppose they wouldn't bring him in if it was that easy for him to fall into a blood rage. They don't want to kill us in training."

Ulvi put a finger on his nose and pointed at Cassia with a smile. Even as he did this, Eklund noisily evacuated her stomach after taking Tarr's fist to her gut.

"Valentine!"

Cassia looked at my bleak expression. "Good luck, Chris."

I snatched Ulvi's Paragade, stealing a swig. "Here goes nothing."

Solomon had precious little advice for me. "Remember the tactics, and don't hold anything back. He can take it. Welcome to the worst case."

That wasn't much comfort, standing in front of Tarr. He topped me by a third of a meter, was probably twice as broad, more than doubled my mass, and was God only knows times stronger. And of course he was grinning. Nothing with prey-style eyes should be able to make you feel like it wants to eat you, but hey, Tuchanka.

"You," I said, "are scarier than a shotgun."

As he opened his mouth to respond, I flipped a gout of sand up into his face with a kick.

Tarr coughed and choked. Even a krogan doesn't take well to a spray of sand to the windpipe. Even better, the spray of sand hit his left eye, blinding him on one side for a few crucial seconds. I darted forward to take advantage.

Even blind and coughing, Tarr had enough presence of mind to know that I'd go for the blind side, and swiped for me. I wish I could say that he missed by a mile, but it was entirely too close. Had I tried to pass outside, he probably would have got me.

Good thing that I juked and dove between his legs, huh?

As his brain tried to process what had just happened with an eloquent 'huh?', I reached up with my artificial left arm and caught a hold of his right wrist, bearing down for all I was worth before shooting my heel up into the back of his knee and yanking at his arm.

It worked great. I've yet to find a knee that reacts well to a kick to the fleshy side. Tarr's leg crumpled under him, and he fell to the sand with a surprised grunt.

He didn't lose a beat, rolling onto his side to face me, yanking his arm back to draw me closer. I went with it, using the yank to deliver a kick to his throat. His eyes widened as the toe of my boot dug into the relatively soft hide under his chin, smashing into something in there that restarted his gagging.

That bought me the second I needed to stomp kick him right behind and below the edge of his crest, ripping my foot forward towards his nose. I figured that while his crest was good at cushioning blows from the front, it might not be so good at being shoved the other way.

I was right. That actually got a bellow of pain, which, in retrospect, probably should have been a warning sign. But I was way too jazzed on adrenaline to think about anything other than the second-to-second fighting. In that spirit, I torqued his wrist in what I hoped was the correct way to lock out his shoulder and kicked him in the eye as hard as I could.

He roared at least as loudly as he had at Ulvi, twisting himself to his feet. I found myself flying, just barely hanging on by virtue of my Gilgamesh. Contorting in midair, I jabbed my heels into the sand, twisting both of us to the ground again, tumbling opposite ways as I lost my grip on his wrist.

For the first time since Dewey had calibrated my senses on Arcturus, I felt discomfort in my fingers. Clenching and unclenching my fist, I reassured myself that my hand would still work. And really, the pain was a pleasant form of symmetry. The rest of my body hadn't enjoyed the tumble across the sand. I was a mess of abrasions and imminent bruises. But my limbs all worked, and as I came to my feet, I wondered if I hadn't perhaps come off better.

Tarr's right arm was hanging mostly limp, and it looked like I might have put his right eye out of commission as well, its lid tightly closed. If you think this took the fight out of him, you don't know krogan. Tarr snorted and charged.

"TSAI!" As he got close, I stepped left and twisted, firing off a left straight with my prosthetic even as he ducked and tried to turn into me. It was then that I got another object lesson in the meaning of the words 'combat chassis'.

There was a deafening CRACK and I skidded back a few inches, making furrows in the sand. The discomfort in my fingers had upgraded itself to throbbing pain.

And Tarr's silver ore crest had a bleeding orange crack running through it from just behind his right eye up to its tip. Time seemed to stand still for a second.

Then Tarr's injured right eye flew open, despite the crack my boot had put in its shell, pupil wide and shot through with orange veins. "URRRAH!"

Oh fuck. I snapped my left arm up to protect my head, just before Tarr's formerly limp right arm smashed into me like an aircar, sending me flying into the other recruits.

I must have blacked out for a second because the next thing I remember was lying on top of Johnson, hurting all over with no discrimination between organic and synthetic parts, and looking up at Raik Tarr in the middle of a blood rage I had touched off.

My mind was filled with something Solomon had said earlier. For dealing with a blood raging krogan, I've always been partial to close air support. My tongue poked at a loose tooth, then at a place where another tooth should be. I tasted blood. Man, Doc Dewey is going to kill me for what I did to the Gilgamesh.

Somehow, it didn't occur to me that Raik Tarr was going to beat him to the punch.

A/N: 8 months. Eight flipping months! Ugh. Boot camp continues to be a writing challenge for me. But hey, at least this chapter gave me the opportunity to write some fight scenes. Actually, it was the first third of the chapter that was the real struggle, and it shows, I think. Sadly, this chapter is unbetaed, as my normal guy was unavailable and I really didn't want to tack any more time onto the wait. Any and all mistakes, goofs, and fuck-ups are mine and mine alone this time. That's right, we're writing without a safety net.

In any case, it's pretty much Phase three ahead, and then we're done with boot! (Yes, Valentine is going to survive. It's a memoir, isn't it?) You have no idea how excited I am to get to that point. Anyway, I hope this chapter was enjoyable enough, even if it did take forever to come out. Thank you all for reading, faving, following, and reviewing.

Till next time!

-VDO

Another fine product from Valentine Diverse Optics