* * * * *
"No one should be able to do the things this kid can do, Norio. I've met infantry captains who stopped artillery rounds with energy shields. I've seen pilots who've pulled off twenty gee turns without suffering from ill effects. Shit, I've even watched footage of a woman throwing an eighteen ton tank eighty feet. But what that guy did just isn't human, Norio! He went through those men like they were sacks of meat! Off the record let me say, fuck am I ever glad he's on our side."

- Jurain Army General Toshimiato Illiasa to Juraian Intelligence Bureau Captain Norio Aokami upon viewing holographic footage of a wetworks performed by Special External Operations Executive's operative 'Dark One'

* * * * *


Chapter 3:-
"Semper Fidelis"
"I, _____, do solemnly affirm / swear that I will support and defend the Empire of Jurai against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the Emperor-King of Jurai and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me Tsunami, Goddess of Creation."

Act 1
'Barrack Room Ballads'

"If it moves, salute it. If it stays still, paint it."
- British Army saying

All Juraian military recruits, no matter their branch, have to attend a twelve week basic training course at one of the numerous 'Crash Camps' dotted across the Imperial planets.
Everything from proper cleanliness, marching, hand-to-hand and rifle training is mastered there, under the tuition of soldiers whose one sole purpose in life is to make their recruits' lives a living hell.

If the recruit manages to survive that, keep himself from taking the 'Long Walk' back home, being kicked out, or being back-squaded and thereby having to take the course again, he's shipped off to one of his branch's special 'advanced' training establishments.
Army has two training facilities, one on the lower Juraian steppes, the other a few miles south of Capital City and in the only marsh on the entirety of Jurai. It's just like the Army to do that. Always going for aesthetics over substance. Their recruits train for eighteen years as a minimum, even more if they take a specialist occupation, like medic or engineer.

The Navy has a lot of bases, most of them in the Bahn'i Sector. You might have heard of it, it's an entire solar system that was bought by Jurai simply for training Naval troops. Twenty years minimum training, pilots even longer. 85% of pilots are female. That's because they've got better hand to eye coordination and a better head for maths than their male counterparts. I suppose if I'd been better at maths I'd be flying one of those nimble little spaceship things. Naval Intelligence Directorate trainees - the navy's personal reconnaissance and information collection unit - are trained at a 'secret location' in International Space.
Anyway, the Royal Bodyguards train for VIP protection and base security at a camp inside the Royal Palace itself. Their Marines train with Army Commandos on a geo-stabilised asteroid that circles a quad-star system on the outer rim. VIP Protection units only train for sixteen months, followed by a total indoctrination of a further eighteen. The Intelligence Bureau, the only branch totally attuned for Intelligence collection and analysis, teaches recruits 'tradecraft' for however long it needs to be drilled into their thick skulls.

And finally the SEOE does all of those courses, and more. Consecutively. They never get to brag about this of course, because they don't officially exist. And most of their operatives are legally dead anyway. I bet you've got no idea what I'm talking about, do you? Neither did I...
I wouldn't have believed what I'm about to say either. Because, everyone's heard of the Intelligence Bureau at least, but no one's really heard of Special Operations...

There's a reason for that.

No one wants to.

Basic Training Camp 040-32, situated two miles south west of Dujiin Forest was a densely plotted collection of wood huts, shacks and tents crowded around a single massive Juraian Holy Tree that's interior had been hollowed into a command centre of sorts. In fact, the tree and its HQ innards were the only permanent thing in the entire camp. Everything else could be collapsed, moved or destroyed at a moments notice. It kept the trainees on the bounce when they had to mobilise and transport the facility to a new area, as the officers proved quite readily.
The entire camp seemed to have been built on the principle of 'aesthetics breed complacency'. The grass that usually grew so thick and tall had been concreted over, the buildings were made of some alien wood, built using planks instead of being carved whole from a trunk.

Jiro stepped off the bus just outside the wood mesh fence of the camp. Hefting his bag across his shoulder, he looked around. About two dozen other recruits had stepped off the bus with him, all looked to be as worried as he was, if not more so. He was wearing his most comfortable pair of trousers, with a knee-length over-shirt. Some of the others were wearing kimonos or school uniforms. One man was wearing a J'haroia Dress. The black wool brushed the ground and the man's eyes shone out from beneath the hood. Jiro didn't give him a second glance. Any idiot wearing expensive clothes like that at a military boot camp deserved anything he got. Where did he think he was? A catwalk?
In front of them, the wood gate opened. Two privates stood on either side of the gap, cradling rifles. A third man walked through carrying a clipboard. He stopped before the group and, without a word, looked at the clipboard's papers. The new recruits waited, until he began calling out names, ticking off those who replied, and gathered the group up. Leading them past the gate and around a maze of wood shanty buildings, they stopped in a dusty courtyard, flanked by two long buildings. There the soldier told them to line up.

A ragged, snake of a line stretched across the concrete. Thirty men stood, arms at sides, looking about themselves in moderate interest. Jiro sniffed loudly.

"SECTIONS! FALL IN!"

Every face suddenly snapped forward and Jiro jumped a good inch off the floor. A broad-shouldered, mean-looking man in battle dress was marching towards them. His uniform looked like it had been sewn that morning, completely at odds to the screwed up mess that the recruits were wearing. Jiro looked down at himself and wondered where he could get a trouser press. His face whipped back up when another voice bellowed;

"LOOK LIVELY, YOU MISERABLE LITTLE WORMS!"

The man stopped marching and standing a few yards in front of the line, gave a sharp nod to the Private who had told them to fall in. Up close he looked even more intimidating. Craggy faced and clean shaven, uniform's collar brace -or choker, as it was known- tightened to the point of perfection and the two pom-poms (one on either side of his lapel) stood out snow-white. He was tall as well, a little taller than Jiro himself and Jiro was a good five foot eleven; bigger than the average and quite a height in Juraian society.

The man swept the line with his gaze and then tapped the swagger cane he was carrying against his calf. "I am Corporal Fukashimo, your dual-section leader. However, you will simply call me, or anyone else with two of these," He pointed to his pom-poms with his free hand, "Corporal. That is because you are our personal property. When we tell you to do something you will- WHAT THE HELL DO YOU FIND SO FUNNY?"
Jiro held his breath. Somewhere to his left someone was sniggering. The Corporal looked off down the line at the perpetrator and then marched toward him. Carefully, making sure he wasn't noticed, Jiro turned his head a little to see what was going on. A few others did the same.
The Corporal had stopped in front of the recruit, the one who had been wearing the J'haroia Dress, and whose stomach was now heaving under barely suppressed chuckles. "Do you have some kind of problem?" the corporal asked.
"No," struggled the man.
"'NO,' what?"
"No, sir."
The Corporal practically went livid. His swagger cane swung up to a point just beneath the man's nose. "No, SIR?!" His eyes flashed. "NO, SIR?! I'M A SIR, NOW AM I? HOW MANY CHEVRONS DO YOU SEE HERE?" he bellowed, his free hand once again going up to the white fluffy balls on his tunic.
The man fumbled, his laughing long forgotten. "Two, si- erm..."
"OF COURSE IT'S TWO! I'M A CORPORAL, NOT AN OFFICER! DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT?" The corporal turned to a private who had been waiting off to the side, "Private, take this man's name. Have him put down for extra duties." He turned back just in time to see the trainee's shadowed eyes scowling at him. "Oho! And now you think you can eyeball me, eh? Do you fancy me, is that it? You want to have sex with me, do you? You some kind of raving homo?"
"No, corporal."
"I'll keep my eye on you," snapped the Corporal. "One false move and I'll be down on you like a ton of oak." He turned back to the private, "After you've taken his name, give him six laps of the camp." He looked the no longer laughing recruit up and down like he was something that had been walked into the carpet by accident. "We'll make a soldier out of you yet. Boy." The last word was said with such spite, such pure heartfelt rancour, that Jiro felt himself begin to sweat.

As the man was led away, the corporal marched back to the front of the section.
"As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, I am Corporal Fukashimo. You will be divided in half into Four and Five Section of Basic Training Camp 040-32. Four Section will be under the command of Lance Corporal Shin-zo, Five Section under Lance Corporal Rio. You will call them corporal, unless specifically told to by them."
He gave a spin of the swagger cane and pointed it at the group. "You are here because you signed up for it. You are here because you want to be here. Personally, me, my men and my captain couldn't care less. Today, we'll give you a break. We will teach you how to make your beds and how to wash. Once you begin to smell like soldiers and begin to look like soldiers, then you can begin to act like soldiers. After we've done that, maybe we can get onto actually using you for something. Like mine disposal. Or target practice.
"Once you've wrapped your heads around those complexities, you'll be doing drill. If you survive that, you might be allowed a weapon. Though I doubt my Lances would allow you with anything more dangerous than a butter-knife." The Corporal's lip curled back into a snarl. His eyes moved across the men one by one. "By the King's beard," he muttered, but perfectly loud, "I have never seen such an ugly bunch of grotesque, gobby, putrid little street-urchin in all my years. How you scum are allowed into the armed forces I have no idea. Perhaps the gene pool's becoming a little cluttered; that's the only reason, if you're the best we can have."
He shook his head, "Privates. Halve this rabble, give them beds and get them out of my sight before they give me nightmares."

Two soldiers stepped from the sides of the courtyard. They stormed up to the line, "Call out numbers," bellowed one of them. He pointed at the man at the end of the line, "From you."
"One!" cried the man at the end.
"Two!"
"Three!"
And so on, until the man near the middle cried out 'fifteen!' and the two privates roughly moved the fifteen and sixteenth men apart. Jiro found himself being led toward one of the larger shacks. On the outside of it, screwed onto the wall near the door, was a brass plate with "IV" engraved on it. Jiro had no idea what that meant, but before he could worry about it, he was in the building.

The inside of the wooden billets were just as stark as the outside. Floorboards and badly whitewashed walls. The beds were spaced evenly along the walls, eight on one side, seven on the other with the space for the eighth taken up by the door. Next to each bed was a metal locker, about five foot eight high. The recruits stood by one of the metal bed frames, now their personal one. A single white mattress sat on each bed frame. "Eyes front! Attenshun!" roared the man who came in through the door. He was wearing the same uniform as Corporal Fukashimo, but only had one pom-pom on his breast. He paced up and down the centre of the room between the beds and the men. With each step, his swagger cane clicked against the wooden floor. "I am Lance Corporal Shin-zo. I will be in charge of your section, Four Section. You will answer everything with Corporal. Do you understand?"
"Yes corporal," came fifteen voices in reply.
"I can't hear you."
"YES, CORPORAL," shouted the men.
Shin-zo stopped walking. His cane shot out, prodding the closest man in the ribs. "Do you understand?"
"YES, CORPORAL!" screamed the man.
Apparently happy, the Lance Corporal restarted his marching. "I will not be let down by you. If you do something wrong, that's a black mark against me and a gold star for Five Section. And if Five Section gets more gold stars, I get punished by my sergeant for letting you people slack off. And that means I punish you."
Jiro's bed was the one farthest from the door, and the Lance Corporal stopped suddenly in front of the man who owned the bed to Jiro's left. "You!" he snapped, "What are you here for?"
"R-R-Royal Mar-r-r-ines, corporal," stuttered the man.
"R-R-R-R-R-R-R-Royal Mar-r-r-r-r-ines?" he imitated. "Do you mean Royal Marines?"
"Y-y-yes, corporal." Sweat stood out on the recruit's brow.
There was a pause. "Right. Well, see that cupboard over there?" The Lance Corporal pointed at a cupboard at the furthest point from the door and by the wall near Jiro's own bed. "Get out one of the blankets in there and bring it over to me," he ordered. The man did as he was told and brought a blanket out. Shin-zo took it off him and held it out. It was a dark green and looked like it had been made from wire wool.

"This," said the Lance Corporal, "Is your bed blanket. It goes on your bed box." He threw the blanket down on the mattress closest to him and waved away the man standing next to it. "Now crowd around and watch this."
The billet's occupants moved over to watch as he spread it out, creased it down the centre and then folded the sides down into the bed box's (as the bed was called) frame.
When he was done he touched the head end of the bed with his swagger cane. "Note, the blanket is laid and then is folded exactly eleven inches down from the top. The outward points are exactly parallel, creases and all. Did you see how it was done? Do you want me to show it again?"
There were a few nods and he repeated the actions, talking the group through it. "Get it now?" he said when he was done. All the men agreed.
"Good. Because I expect you to do it exactly like this every morning. If it is wrong..." He left it hanging. "Once you get your kit from the QM, I'll teach you how to lay that out along with it." He looked at the group. "And just to stop Trainee Omitisha here from sleeping on the floor tonight and leaving my good work on show for the morrow," He grabbed the underside of the bed box's frame, "I will do this."
He lifted the entire bed box and tipped it over, the mattress spilling out and lying in a mess along with the blanket. He wiped his hands together. "Ten minutes, I'll be back. I expect beds to be made and everyone ready to collect dress uniforms from the Quarter Master." He put his swagger cane under his arm and sauntered to the door, opened it and then looked back at the wide-eyed section. "Good afternoon, gentlemen."

* * * * *

Jiro's bed box lay upside down at the end of the room, along with two others and a locker. The Lance Corporal had proved slightly upset at the group's efforts. After throwing the worst bed box down the room, he had picked two others randomly, and then when one of those random victims had complained, grabbed the top of the man's locker, pulled it over and with a series of pushes and pulls slammed it, repeatedly, into the far wall.
Nobody had complained after that.
When he'd finished his brazen display of annoyance, he left again. When the door closed the fifteen men looked at each other and then silently set about working the beds and lockers back into place.

When it was returned to its rightful position, Jiro sat on his bed. There was a deep scratch running across the foot of the bed frame, the paint chipped off and gun-bolt metal shone underneath. He'd need to find some paint and set that right, he decided and then pulled his bag onto the mattress. He took his reading book out and put it on the end of the bed. The novel, 'The Pirates of Fiñataz' and its cover, complete with blaster wielding buxom space-pirate, stared at him. He didn't usually read and he didn't expect to have the chance, but he'd prefer to read than do nothing, and so he put his hand back in the bag. He took the photograph frame out and looked at it. Blushing, he looked around him the other members of Four Section were putting their possessions in their lockers and taking no notice of him, so he didn't feel as self-conscious as he usually did in these circumstances.
Glad no one was watching him, he stood up and opened the locker, then put the novel in along with the photograph.
It was nothing more than a cutting from a magazine in a cheap wood frame, but he gave it pride of place, nicely stood up at the back. He loved those eyes, the way they smiled along with the rest of the face. What was that word? He thought about it for a second. Ruby? Scarlet?
Ruby eyes. That would do. He ran his hand across the photograph, letting his hands linger for a second, and then, realising someone was behind him, slammed the door shut. He span around.

The man looked at him quizzically. "Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you." The glimmer of a smile.
Jiro looked at him. He was wearing a loose fitting kimono and appeared practically nondescript in ever way. Actually, on second thought, he was quite old. Well, quite old compared to the rest of the Section. He had to be at least eight-hundred years old. The man gave Jiro a sidelong glance when he didn't continue the conversation. "Just because they call it Basic Training doesn't mean it's going to be easy." he said, with that same half smile and held out his hand. "Parishi Tahito."
Jiro looked around the room. All the other occupants were unpacking or trying to fix their lockers. At the far end of the room was a single bed-box, its contents laid out perfectly. Even from the distance, Jiro could see the blanket was folded as near to the correct eleven inches as could be judged. He looked back at Parishi and took the proffered limb. "Jiro. Just Jiro."
"Well, Just Jiro, welcome to hell. What are you in for?" The smile widened, all the teeth showing.
Jiro said nothing. He turned back to his locker and twisted its key, locking the door. The tumblers clicked.
"Oh. A quiet one," said Parishi. He stood there, silently watching.
"Signals Intelligence," said Jiro finally.

'Signals Intelligence,' he thought as he said it, 'What sort of lie's that?' For all intents and purposes, he was an enlisted Signalman, it being written down on his application sheets and all. Not even the base's officers knew the truth, although Jiro had been informed that some people would put two and two together and come up with four and a half. Close enough to get him seen as some kind of spy... but not hitting the nail on the head and getting the full implications of what he was really entering.
In fact, Jiro couldn't be sure he knew what he was going in for anyway. "You'll find out when you need to know," as the the Instructor had said. Whatever it was though, he knew full well that the normal Intelligence services were pretty open about who their agents were during training (one of them being six beds away), and didn't feel the need to hide their men behind the facade of communications technicians.
Behind him, he heard Parishi turn on his heel and start back toward his bed. "Signals, eh?" he said before he did, "Me too."

Jiro let out a hoarse breath and waited a few seconds before he unlocked his locker again. The photograph's smiling face made him feel better, calmer. "Parishi," he muttered into the locker's metal innards. He looked toward the other Signals trainee, who was talking to another recruit near his bed box. If there was one thing Jiro had always been, it was paranoid. And when your Instructor tells you trust no one, you generally listen. At least, Jiro did.
"I'll be keeping my eye on you, Parishi," he said quietly.
The locker slammed shut.

* * * * *

"What do you think of this?" asked Recruit Land Mechanic Kittarn. Jiro looked at the hologram projected in the other man's hands.
"Scrap?" he hazarded.
Kittarn snapped the projector closed. "That was a picture of my girlfriend," uttered the man, "You really know how to make a man feel happy, Jiro."

Jiro, who had been standing over the man's bed-box, shrugged absently and walked back over to his own bed. The settling in period of eight days had been reached, the point at which military psychologists believed a group of strangers would no longer feel compelled to keep away from each other. The rest of the section lounged around, either on their beds or on the floor. Some reading, others talking in hushed whispers.

However, the bonding between the group had failed to come for Jiro. He wasn't ignored as such, or even disliked, it was just that people seemed to prefer to keep out of his way. Not that he was bothered, there was something about personal freedom that made him feel better about himself.

Laying down on his mattress he reached under his pillow and took out his novel. He opened it where the bookmark had been placed, and continued from where he had left it.

"The space pirate stood over him, her sensuous curves accentuated by the emergency lights. She held the blaster in her well-manicured hands, and Lozzio felt a chill run through him as she languidly raised the weapon. 'Stand and deliver. Your money or your life.' the criminal decreed, with a flick of her head. Rich, red hair cascaded down to rest on her shoulders and around her ample bo-"

"SECTION! ATTENSHUN! SPOT INSPECTION!"

Jiro tossed the book onto the bed and leapt up, standing by the side of his bed, arms tight against his sides. The other occupants of the room stood where they had stopped, some even in the middle of the aisle. The door on the other side of the room had banged open like a hurricane had hit it, which it might well have been. Lance Corporal Shin-zo was standing to attention by its frame, in a steadfast salute.
The two men who walked through the door gave the billet a casual glance and moved in. Corporal Fukashimo and the gruff Sergeant Maino marched in, the former a few steps behind the latter.

"This is Four Section is it, Corporal?" asked the sergeant. He moved over to the nearest bed box.
"That is correct sir."
Maino stopped looking at the bed box and reached into his pocket, removing a white glove. He slipped it on and, wiggling the fingers, moved over to the nearby locker, brushing past the man standing in front of it.
He ran his finger along the top and looked at the digit. "What the hells?" He spun around to the recruit next to him. "Is this your bed box and locker?"
"Yes, sergeant," came the reply.
"THEN WHAT THE HELLS' THIS?" The sergeant shoved his finger in front of the man's face.
"Dust, sergeant."
"DUST?! YOU MEAN TO TELL ME THAT'S DUST?! RUDDY DUST, IS IT?"
The recruit's lip quivered for a moment. "Yes, sergeant."
"IT'S NOT DUST! IT'S SHIT! YOU'RE SHIT! FROM NOW ON YOU'RE GOING TO CALL YOURSELF 'SHIT'! WHAT ARE YOU?"
"Shit, sergeant."

The sergeant bent down and looked under the bed. Came up holding something. "What's this?"
"My drinking mug, sergeant."
"What's your mug doing under your bed box?"
"I put it there, sergeant. For safe keeping."
The sergeant looked at the mug for a second. Then wound up his arm and threw it through the window over the bed, scattering glass across the concrete outside. The mug bounced once, then landed splitting it in two. Those pieces ricocheted across the courtyard, splintering. It came to rest in a hundred fragments.
"Not very safe was it, Shit?"
He didn't wait for an answer but continued down the aisle. "I will continue this examination when I return. You will stand at attention until I do so... got that?"
"YES, SERGEANT!" called out the billet's recruits.
"Jiro. Major's Office. Now," the sergeant said. His swagger cane had snapped out to point at Jiro, and had then whipped across to the door.
"Yes, sergeant," squeaked Jiro. He walked all the way to the Majors Office, legs feeling like they had been substituted for rubber, and Maino tailing behind.

Major Fukaita carried, what was to Jiro, the intolerable air of superiority that only officers and teachers seemed to have. He looked, physically, no more different from his underlings than a queen bee looks when compared to her subjects, although somewhere in his distinguished military career he had taken a blaster shot across the side of his face, leaving him with only one ear. There were a good number of witty puns about that, which went around the Sections' ablutions when the NCOs weren't listening.
Although he was the highest ranking officer in the camp his office was just as sparse as the rest of the facility's rooms. No carpet, no finish to the carved walls and only a desk and a pair of filing cabinets made it look like anyone actually worked in it.

Jiro marched in through the office door, double pace, and stood in the centre of the room, legs still pumping up and down as he marched on the spot. Behind him he heard the sergeant move in and take a place beside one of the dull walls.
"Thank you, Recruit. You can stop marching now," came a voice from the desk over to his left. Jiro stopped marching, coming to attention.
"Stand easy," came the voice, "And wheel left."
Jiro twisted on the spot, his boots giving off a squeak on the polished floor. The Major looked up at him. "You are Recruit Jiro, 00-27638-254, of Section Four, Kam'Sara Platoon?"
"I am sir," replied Jiro.
The Major cleared his throat. "Take a seat, Jiro."

There was a single hard backed chair in front of the desk, which Jiro sat down on. The Major flicked through the file of papers sitting in front of him on the desk and looked up at Jiro. "Entering for Signals Intelligence, are you?"
"Yes, sir."
"I don't think you are Jiro. I think you're going for something a little more..." He paused for a moment, thinking, "Up market."
Jiro felt his knees weaken even more. He knew! The Major knew! Even so, he tried to keep himself calm, tried to ignore the throbbing of his heart in his throat. "No, I'm afraid not sir. I'm Signals Intelligence. Nothing more."
"I don't care much for which agency you are working for," carried on the Major. If he had heard Jiro he made no sign of it. He looked up, "I despise you for it."
Taken aback, Jiro opened his mouth to say ask why, and then realised the trap he had nearly fallen into. Could see what was going on here.
A test? Perhaps.
Or maybe the officer really did know... And hated him for it...

Jiro licked his lips thoughtfully, wondered how to reply to that. "I don't," he said slowly, "See how I can be persecuted for something I'm not."
"I don't care," said the Major. "It's not my job to care about you. I care about the real men down there. The ones who'll do something useful with their lives, rather than skulking about in shadows."
"However, that doesn't involve me sir."
"Do you realise how pathetic, how absolutely GUT-WRENCHINGLY pathetic, those Intelligence people are?" continued the Major. "Messing about with spies and disguises while the real men go out and die. Like to mess about and watch people die, Jiro?"
"I am in no way affiliated with an Intelligence branch, apart from my own Signals unit, sir."
"So you deny it then, recruit?" The Major stared at him.
"That I do, sir."
The officer looked over at the sergeant for a moment and moved his eyes back to Jiro again. "If you tell me who you're working for, I can make your life easier here Jiro." He leant forward, suddenly jovial. "You've got to see my problem here. You can't just run people through basic training without the correct papers. What if something happened? Disaster, war, anything? You'd be shipped off to the wrong unit, with no knowledge, no understanding... Turn up dead."
He steepled his hands. "So?"

"I am afraid I am unable to give any aid in this, sir, as I am not a member of any Intelligence agency," replied Jiro. His ears were burning and he hoped they didn't show.
"I could have you arrested for lying to a superior officer," said the Major sharply, "Tell me who you're training for."
"I regret-"

The Major held out his hand, shutting Jiro up. "And you've had no previous military experience." He shook his head, laughing. "Must have this ability for lying in your blood." The laughter vanished. "Now, you have one last chance. Tell me which agency you're working for, or your life here will be made a living hell. If you think it can get bad, I can make it worse. I could have you cleaning every single screw head in the entire camp if I want." He smiled grimly, "I can tell the officers you have after me that you are a liar, a braggart and a bad influence. If you tell me now, I can make your time here go like a wet-dream..." He shrugged. "Your call."

Jiro looked at him, blinked and opened his mouth. "That's very nice of you to offer, sir. But I am afraid that I am in no way affiliated with any Intelligence agency other than the one I am currently training for."

"You can leave recruit," said the Major, his face as blank and wooden as the office walls. Jiro rose and snapped off a salute before leaving, closing the door behind him. The office door led out onto the corridor directly, and as Jiro looked up and down it, he realised it was empty. He felt dreadful and his stomach was trying to escape up his throat. On one hand, if that had been some kind of test -a very basic one, compared to the sort of tests they showed in the movies- then he was fine. He'd proven he was able to keep his mouth shut. But what if the Major had really meant it... he shouldn't have known about his real being here and from what Jiro had seen (also in the movies) about spies, was that people, no matter how important, shouldn't be able to point them out.

He really felt ill now. He was going to be a spy... and he felt sick just being grilled by his superior officer.

Of course, there was one way of checking out whether he meant it or not...
No. He shook the thought from his mind. It was totally wrong, and he'd never done such a thing in his life.
But then again, if he was to be a spy...

Quietly he knelt and pressed his ear against the wood. He could pick out the buzzing of conversation, but little more. Feeling a little guilty at his actions, he stood back up.

He got back to the billet just in time for Sergeant Maino to continue the examination and throw Jiro's novel through the, fortunately open, window.

Somehow, Jiro got the impression that he had made the right choice.

* * * * *

The first four weeks involved learning the ropes, the art of discipline. The three 'P's; Punishment, parading and punishment. Those who couldn't take the grueling regime walked, which included one man from Four Section and another two from Five Section. Following the basic weeding, the next four weeks started the military ideology proper. Weapons training, boxing, ten-mile runs and more cold showers than could be handled. Live ammunition was used for that realistic touch. One blast in four-hundred, and although not strong enough to kill it would wind a victim up in the camp hospital for a few weeks, and then he'd have to take the course over from the beginning.
After two weeks many of the recruits began to believe there was no outside. By the fourth week, most recruits denied there was anything past the camp fence. At the end of the sixth week, not one man in the entire platoon believed there was an outside. If there was, the NCOs weren't saying.

Breakfast lasted fifty-minutes, although recruits had to also make their beds, get their kit cleaned and pressed, get washed and shaved, get changed, ready weapons and be at attention at their beds within that time also. Jiro sat at the end of the long table inside the mess hall and prodded at the noodles and porridge in his bowl. Apart from the chef and the two orderlies, there were only a brace of other men apart from himself.
Gharnar, the Marine recruit who sleep in the bed-box next to Jiro's, was sitting at the furthest end of the table. The other man was Ecnil, a back-squadded trainee pilot, who Jiro had only come into close contact with twice before. Once had been when he'd split the pilot's lip and eyebrow during boxing training, the other when Jiro had been tackled and punched into unconsciousness during a similar exercise. They picked at their bowls of food with the strange metal 'spoons' that had been given to them. Jiro scooped up a spoonful from his bowl and ate the mess, deciding after the first moutful that it was probably the best food in the world. He couldn't remember eating anything other than it.

"Taste good?" asked a voice beside him.
"This is becoming a habit, Parishi," Jiro said, then took another mouthful. He swallowed. "Why do you feel the need to keep sneaking up behind me all the time?"
Parishi, standing next to him, put his bowl and spoon on the table, then sat down. "Don't you like me sneaking about?"
"I don't like you very much at all," replied Jiro.
"Is that why you've been ignoring me?"

Jiro nodded.

That was true. Since the Major's 'Queries' (which with every passing day appeared to have been some kind of test) he'd become part of the team, got to be friends with the rest of the Section. It had taken six weeks, longer than expected, but it had happened for everyone. Everyone, with one exception; Parishi. Not since that strange little conversation by his locker on the first day. From then, he had practically gone out of his way to not even stand next to this curious man. It wasn't simply the fact that he was older than the rest (as Jiro often got on better with people older than himself), but rather it was the way the man carried himself. He was always out of bed first, he always knew what to do, seemingly before it'd been shown to him, and there was some aura around him. Not to mention the fact he crept around silently, the only notice he was there being his snide voice in your ear. Jiro wasn't the only recruit in Four Section that kept out of his way.

"That's rude y'know," said Parishi matter-of-factly, before picking up his own spoon.
Jiro glared at his food. "So's sneaking about. I asked you before, why do you feel the need to keep appearing behind me?"
"Practice." The other man gave a wry grin, "So should you be."
"Enlisted Signalmen don't need to sneak about."
Another grin. "Funny. Because I could have sworn that's what Signals was all about. Sneaking. Watching." He leant closer to Jiro. "Spying," he hissed.
"I don't think so," Jiro said. He dropped his spoon into the half-empty bowl and got up.
The other man watched him rise. "I'm with you, Jiro. I know you're wondering what the Goddess you're doing here."
Jiro paused, half risen. Then he sat back down. "First off; I despise blasphemy without reason. Second; what are you talking about?"
"A better question is what am I doing here."
"What am I doing here then, Mr. Clever?"
Parishi bared his teeth in a devilish smile. "You're training for the SEOE. One of the chosen few. The crème de la crème of the Intelligence organisations. The elite class of the military profession. The men in the know, as it were."
"Has anyone told you it's annoying to speak in cryptic riddles?"
"Has anyone told you sarcasm is the lowest form of wit?" Parishi shoveled another spoonful of porridge and noodles into his maw, and then continued, "Anyway, cryptic riddles are my forte. I was a code-breaker for Army Intelligence." He raised his hand to ward off a non-existent outburst from Jiro, "I'm retraining for entrance into Special Operations. Same as you. Except... I've heard some rumours that you were offered the job without any prior military knowledge. Correct?"
"Yes."
The other man raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You must be one tough bastard. Although I wouldn't say that just by looking at you." Another cheeky grin. "In fact, you look like you should be a clerk. Or an accountant." Parishi finished the bowl and stacked Jiro's and his own on top of one another. The pair rose and walked over to the pile of dirty bowls by the exit.
"What did you want to get in for, when you signed up?" asked Parishi as he put the bowls down and went out through the door, Jiro in tow.

As usual it was drizzling. A handful of other recruits milled around as Jiro and Parishi stalked across the slick concrete to Billet IV.
"Royal Bodyguard," answered Jiro.
The ex-code-breaker grunted in affirmation. "Figures," he muttered. Then louder, "The only people who try for Bodyguard are monarchists and boot-lickers. Obviously, the monarchists are there because they're patriots. The boot-lickers are just scum who want to be near the Royal family." He turned to Jiro. "Boot-lickers make it into the Bodyguard.
"I guess you're one of those rare monarchists I hear so much about." They stopped outside the door to their billet. Parishi held open the door and waved Jiro through.

"Patriots first," he said smugly.

* * * * *

The eighth week in began the proper combat training. Parishi, who had proved a goldmine of knowledge for most other things, came to be a sort of mentor for Jiro. Although he didn't look it, at just 168 pounds and five foot six in height the Code-Breaker was a formidable skull-cracker.
Skull-cracking and man-handling was what the Instructors lumped together any form of unarmed combat. Karate, Juraian Basic, La Savate, Three Arms, Loparioso Jung-Ke, boxing; a galaxy's collection of self-defence unceremoniously cobbled together into a lethal mish-mash of styles. Throws, holds and other mostly non-lethal forms of combat were put under man-handling. Skull-cracking catered for the other urge, reducing the target to a quivering mass of snapped bones and bloodied flesh.
Parishi's skill lay in his skull-cracking technique. During the first combat test, the P.T. Instructor made the mistake of putting Parishi up against a six foot, 250 pound, wannabe Commando. When the small Code-Breaker had finished, the Commando's arm was broken in six places and both his shins had been shattered. It was quickly decided to put Parishi into an advanced course, which he brushed through quickly enough to aid the only slightly above-average Jiro.

The pair would often skip Post Call (allowable if the man felt that he would rather leave his mail to the tender mercies of his billet members. Unsurprisingly, after demonstrating his combat prowess, Parishi's mail was never tampered with) going out to the roofed, dojo-like training hall for practice.

Once again Jiro picked himself up from the padded mats and wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth. "Tsunami. That hurt!" He limped over to the wood bench that was set against one wall. Parishi rubbed his knuckles painfully. Over on the other side of the hall, other groups of recruits were practicing their own combat. Every so often there was a soft crump, as someone hit the mats.
"You've got one hard jaw," he said finally.
Jiro took the aforementioned body part in his hand and gently waggled it. His jaw clicked. "I'm going to need to see the duty-med after this."
"You're such a wimp," replied Parishi. He raised his fist and blew on the knuckles in an attempt to stop the swelling. "You've got to get angry. Get your emotions flowing."
"I don't get angry."
Parishi looked at Jiro and nodded. "I know, 'Ice for blood'. Didn't you fight at school?"
"Yes." Jiro rolled up his trouser leg and looked at his ankle. A large, black bruise was beginning to blossom.
"Did you win?"
Jiro gave a slight shrug and grimaced at the pain in his shoulder. "Sometimes." He pulled down his collar and tried to get a look at his shoulder. It looked like there was another bruise there. He touched it gently and shrank back at the soreness.
"I don't know why you bother Jiro. Why don't you go and take up farming?"
"Buy a farm?"
The Code-Breaker laughed. "You don't want to buy the farm, believe me. Come on. Have another go."

Jiro got up off the bench and walked over to the centre mat. He fell into the combat stance, right foot forward. "Any rules?"
Parishi pondered for a moment. "Howsabout the winner buys the other a drink at the NAAFI. Loser gets the right to be ribbed every time he's met in the barracks."
"Fine."
The pair circled each other around the mat. A tentative feint there, a snap-kick here. Then they crashed together. There was a flurry of blows and they parted. Jiro wiped at the split above his eyebrow. Parishi fell back, dropping into a lower stance. His knuckles shone red raw. "Angry yet?"
"Not even remotely."
There was another clash. This time Parishi jumped backwards, his right eye shuttered and swelling from a quick jab. Jiro followed up with an uppercut that missed entirely, leaving him open for two painful chops at his unprotected stomach. He stumbled back, wheezing. Parishi lunged forward with a heel-kick that connected quite satisfactorily with Jiro's chin. Jiro toppled.
"You okay?" asked Parishi, standing over him.
"Fine," came Jiro's reply. He pulled himself up to standing and spat a red and shining tooth onto the mat. "Guess what."
Parishi looked at him, "What?"
"I'm annoyed."

Parishi fell into a defensive stance as the other man stepped forward and attacked, one fist coming under arm, one over in a Karate 'yama-zuki' or 'U-Punch'. Parishi managed to block the top most blow, but the second one caught him under the ribs, knocking the wind from him. He bent over double, his head coming down to meet Jiro's knee, which was coming up. There was a vicious snap and his head whipped back, blood and mucus leaving a rainbow-like arc in the air, and Jiro followed up with two more kicks, one to each side of the head. Parishi fell over backwards to hit the floor. Nose oozing blood, he tried to rise, pressing himself up on his elbows, and as he did Jiro stepped forward. He brought his elbow down hard against Parishi's face. The Code-Breaker dropped back down, eyes closed, nose buckled. Unmoving.
The other recruits stopped their training at the noise and turned to look at the bleeding Jiro and the downed man. One of them ran for the door, probably to get one of the NCOs or a medic. "Tsunami be damned!" shouted someone, "Someone got Parishi down!" "That was Jiro!" "That can't be!" "Look!" "But no one-"

"I'm sorry." Jiro muttered as he limped back to the bench. He sat on it heavily, the feeling that he hated so much beginning to well up in him. "It just comes over me sometimes."

The PT Instructor and the the Lance Corporals from One and Seven Section found him curled up asleep on the bench when they arrived five minutes later.

* * * * *

Hearing the blood pounding in his ears, Jiro's breath came in ragged gasps, his feet hitting the mud with steady thuds. Ahead of him was the machinegun nest, behind him the rest of his team. He felt, rather than saw, the blaster fire racing around him.

Three yards to go until he hit it, and this close he could see the shock on the gunner's face. One, two, three! He leapt over the sandbags in front of him, rolling as he hit the ground, coming out of it laying prone. A blast plucked at his sleeve and he snapped off a round at the man aiming at him, who up until a few moments ago had been using the machinegun.

"DEAD!" shouted the man. He lay down on the floor, hands behind head.
Two more men vaulted the sandbags behind Jiro, blasts flying about them. Jiro grabbed another clip from his belt and slapped it into his rifle.
Then the grenade that he hadn't even noticed went off by his head. The three men stood up, coughing, gagging at the smoke from the explosive.

Lance Corporal Shin-zo walked over to them, rifle slung across his chest, face caked with mud. "How long have you been doing this again?"
Jiro retched, held up five fingers. "Five... days..." he choked through a throat that felt two sizes too small.
"Yes, I thought it was," nodded the Corporal. He kicked the sputtering gas grenade over the sandbags and away from the group, "But that doesn't really explain WHY THE FUCK YOU CAN'T DO THIS BLOODY SIMPLE LITTLE EXERCISE! GET UP AND STAND TO ATTENTION!"
The men snapped into perfect attention, their eyes still red and streaming.
"By the Goddess, Jiro. You certainly showed some spine there, for a signalman at least," said Shin-zo. He nodded to himself, then leant on the sandbags. "But what the hell went wrong?"
"I... think we failed... to notice the grenade... Lance."

Behind them Lance Corporal Rio got up from the dirt and removed his nose-plugs. "Jiro. Do you want to take it again?"
"Would I get another chance in real life?"
"Nope. What about you others?"
The two men answered in the negative. "Black marks all around then," sniffed Shin-zo. He pointed toward the way the three trainees had come. "Clear off the lot of you. Get back to the dugout and tell the next three to come up. Then wait there. Got it?"
"Lance!" replied the three men, and they broke off at a trot back towards the dugout.

Brecknel Field was Basic Training Camp 040-32's main simulation site. When the recruits actually made it into their respective branches they'd get a taste of VR-combat, maybe even some in-depth hypnotic simulations. Until then it was simply a case of making mockups of buildings out of balsawood and sandbags and then letting the men loose on it. Totally insane under the circumstances Jiro had decided, after getting clipped with a live blaster round, although he knew he'd come off better than two others in Six Section. He didn't know if it was true - he'd never met any section apart from his own and Five - but there were some educated rumours that a pair of recruits had been caught in one of the live grenades that make up the four-hundred. Serious enough for hospitilisation of one, the other getting a medical discharge for shrapnel injuries. A rather sticky end.

The dugout was a simple trench dug across the width of the field. It's base was planked and there was a step cut into its wall, giving occupants somewhere to sit. Three other recruits were sitting there, when Jiro's troop arrived, but they left as soon as they caught sight of the returnees. No one wanted to feel the wrath of the Lance Corporals, especially when there was the prospect of live ammunition.
Jiro's group sat on the dugout's step. He undid his choker and propped his rifle against his knee. Adrenaline was still going, but he felt perfectly calm. He always did after combat training, although he was interested to see how it held in true action. One of his teammates, Yahamoti, sat near him, his heel clicking against the boardwalk rhythmically.
Jiro and Parishi, who still brandished a large white plaster across the bridge of his nose, watched it with sullen interest.
"I can't help it," said Yahamoti eventually. "I always get the shakes after combat."
"Proves your alive, doesn't it?" replied Parishi. He looked away. "Be thankful of that."

Yahamoti frowned at him, then pressed his hand down hard against his knee, holding the foot to the ground. "I'm beginning to wish I wasn't." He looked at Jiro, "Don't you wish you weren't?"
Off in the distance there was the chatter of blaster fire.
"What's your dream?" asked Parishi suddenly.
Jiro looked up, "Sorry, were you asking me?"
"Yeah, why not? What's your dream, Jiro?"
Jiro shrugged, "Ask Yahamito."
"I want to be a billionaire," said Yahamito, without waiting to be asked, "With six wives. And a mansion."
Parishi nodded, non-committal. "A dream as good as any. Jiro?"
"I don't want to tell you my dream," said Jiro. He stood up and stretched.
"Why not?"
"Because you'll laugh," Jiro said. He paced the trench for a few seconds letting the circulation get back to his legs. "And because it's none of your business."
It was Parishi's turn to shrug. He sat there and looked at the sky. Yahamoti watched the pair of silent men for several minutes. Then went back to tapping his heel against the boards.

There was a dull explosion over on the simulation field, and the sounds of someone screaming.

* * * * *

Jiro stepped into the billet, followed by the rest of Four Section. His uniform was caked with mud, he had the beginnings of a black eye and he was missing about six pints of blood, or so it felt. He trudged over to his bed, leaving a trail of muddy footprints that was added to by the feet of the other men. A sixteen mile run, followed by simulated base defence, then another sixteen mile run back, rounded off with standing in the billets' courtyard for six hours. Just a normal day...

He sat on his bed and pulled off his shoes. The sole of his right sock was a vivid red from toes to heel. Without a word he slid off the sticky woolen and checked his foot. Blood everywhere. If this had been just under twelve weeks ago, he noted, he'd probably have started whining or moaning about how much it hurt. Now, he was just too tired to complain. He opened his locker, took a field-medical kit out and put a thick plaster over the cut opposite his foot's arch.
He looked up and around the room. Some of the other men (he couldn't see them as recruits anymore, even though he and they still were) were getting changed. Others lay on their bed boxes, still in their rain sodden clothes, reading. Since the ninth week, there had been more leniency in how the beds were looked after. Sometimes they had been let off for leaving their beds in a state, although it was still a rare occurrence. Jiro felt a sudden pang of sadness.

Tomorrow left, he thought sadly. Tomorrow, then we go.

He stood up and reached into his locker for his photograph. He didn't hide it any longer, because, well, what was the point? There was no embarrassment in emotions. Each of them's got their own little trinket, his mind told him. Rama, he's got a fluffy toy that he keeps in his rucksack, and Gharnar, he's got a lucky strip of bark from a Holy Tree. I mean, it's perfectly normal to have-

"Right." He span around. "Which clever bastard thought it'd be funny to take my photograph?"
Thirteen faces stared at him. He hobbled into the aisle between the rows of bed boxes. "I want my photograph back. Now."
"Why do you have a photograph of Princess Ayeka in your locker?" asked a wannabe-tank gunner.
Jiro looked at him. "Well, I don't at the moment. Because one of you has stolen it."
"Well, yeah," smiled the man, "But why did you have it?"

"Wha- What does it matter to you?" Jiro turned to the others, "What is this? 'Let's laugh at Jiro day'?"
Thirteen heads nodded. "So. Why did you have her picture?" asked the gunner again.
Jiro's mouth opened to give some witty reply, and then thought better of it. "To remember why I'm here," he stated simply. Parishi, sitting on his bed-box, looked down the room at him.
"I don't think it's very fair to blame Ayeka for your being stupid," he said blithely.
Jiro's face reddened. "Look, this is not funny. Will whoever's got my photograph give it back, please. NOW!"
"No one's got your photograph," somebody shouted out. Somebody else giggled.
Jiro's fists clenched. "Then where in the name of ..." His mouth made to say a word which he knew he shouldn't. He changed it something else, "In the name of all that is Holy, is it?"
Thirteen heads turned slowly upwards to fix on the ceiling, at a point above Jiro's bed. Slowly he felt his entire body freeze, his brain beginning to work on what was being said.
He turned around and followed their gaze. "Absolutely hilarious," he growled.
The picture of Ayeka he'd cut out of the magazine, smiled down at his bed from where it had been stapled.
"Catch!" shouted Parishi and Jiro just caught the photograph frame that was thrown at him. He felt anger was slowly dissipating into bemusement as he stared at the portrait on his ceiling. He shook his head. "Why did you stick it up there?"
"We knew how much you liked it, so we thought you'd like to get a good view every night before getting to sleep. If you get what I mean!" Parishi called. There were laughs from the others.
"And because you fancy her, an' all," guffawed Gharnar.
"I do not fancy her!" mumbled Jiro as he climbed onto his bed. He reached up for the offending article, but found he was still a few inches too short. "I'm the tallest one in here and even I can't reach it! How'd you get it up there?" He bounced on the mattress, but even with the extra height he still couldn't get it.
"Corporal Shin-zo lent us a ladder," said Ecnil, beaming from ear to ear. "Anyway, why take it down? She'll be the first thing you dream of tonight." He grinned at the other men, "Not that he doesn't anyway."
"This has gone far enough!" Jiro roared from the top of his bed. He made another leap for the picture. "I do not want to get it on with Princess Ayeka. I have more decorum than that." He pointed at the rest of the section, "And, I'll have you know, I don't dream of her either."

One of the men, an Army Intelligence recruit, held up a sound-recorder and pressed the play button. They all listened in silence to the noises that came from it.
Finally Jiro looked at him. "You're dead," he laughed, "You are so dead."

He lunged.

* * * * *

Act 2
'The Virtue of the Vicious'
"Tanhar Vaan Ma'hr"
- SEOE Motto

Training moved by like a breeze; for me at least. I woke up one morning to find eighty-five and a half years had passed.
There's nothing more shocking than that. I passed out of Basic Training with no fanfare, somebody from Five Section garnering the coveted Best Overall Trainee award at the end of it all. One man from my Section got the Most Improved award. He was a snub-nosed little fellow with big eyes. Never did get his name.
He died during live grenade practice at the Army's Advanced Training six weeks later. We were finding bits of him in our hair for weeks afterwards, because Juraian grenades, they don't mess around. When they go off, they explode good.

So I was moved off to an Army Training facility, where I learnt the art of fighting like cannon fodder. No matter what anyone tells you, the army's got no finesse, it's just a sledge hammer. The Commandos are better, I trained with them for a good year... Oh, and as an equal opportunity fighting force, Jurai allows women Commandos. I had the distinct fortune to train under a woman who matched good looks and charm with the ability to kill a man at three hundred feet with a .22 rifle.
That's the other interesting thing. Although the basic weapon of the Juraian military is the high powered blaster rifle (incorrectly called by the media a LASER rifle), a soldier, especially a Commando, must be trained in the usage of the more esoteric technology that can be scavenged or manufactured in the field.
I've played with toys that could blow a Galaxy-class starship to composite atoms, but nothing comes close to a basic bolt action rifle with a non-slip butt. I can get off twenty rounds using a bolt-action when a squaddie can get off twelve with his blaster. Plus, a projectile launcher can be suppressed (not silenced. You can quiet it, but not silence it) and its flash hidden. That's why Army snipers use a magnet powered - or railgun - version of the rifle that backwater planets use.

Things were easier now than they ever had been before. I sort of slipped between the cracks, as it were. Stole myself a 90% shot ratio with all of my weapons (except the sniper rifle which I mentioned earlier, with that I scraped up a measly 87.8%) but no one seemed to notice how well I did.
A deliberate action on my new boss' part, it soon transpired.
After the Army came the Navy. I learnt to fly everything but those nimble little drone ships... The ones that buzz about at around a million miles per hour. Of course, you don't man them, but sit in a command booth back at base with a remote control. I crashed two of them before they kicked me off the course.
Let's just say they weren't best pleased.
I never met or trained with the NID, but then again, now that I know what they're like I wouldn't have wanted to.

Royal Bodyguard proved to be the easiest course yet. Marched through it like I was on the parade ground. I did the final examination after eight weeks of being there. Not the fastest time I'll admit, as one of the other guys (who was also a 'Signalman', if you catch my meaning) got through in six weeks and two days. A record.
We didn't go with the Marines, as we'd already trained with the Commandos and it was essentially the same, but with more emphasis on hard and fast assault landings against enemy held territory. Well, thank you very much, but if I wanted to throw myself into the jaws of death I'd have joined the Death's Head Battalion.
But I've said too much there already...

The final 'official' course was the Intelligence Branch's training, and that was hard. Seriously hard. But Parishi was there, and he'd had to do it to get into the Army Intelligence, so I had inside knowledge of what to do. I learnt nearly everything I use today in that camp. Covert tailing of a suspect; shaking a tail; establishing ongoing surveillance; spot surveillance; surreptitious letter opening; bug placing; fumigating for those bugs I hadn't placed but someone else had; concealment of items or documents; basic forgery; conducting a hand-over; creating dead-letter drops and microdots; searching for concealed equipment or weapons; using sniffers and stompers, those little things that track down and stop tracking devices; and the big one, methods of clandestine, covert and overt infiltration and exfiltration. It's all very well knowing what to do, but it doesn't help if you can't actually get into the place.
Tricks in how to threaten people; breaking and entering - the so called Black Bag Jobs; kidnapping; how to incite revolution; propaganda dispersal; collection of intelligence information; field dissemination of collected intelligence; assault tactics; cleaning up a 'dirty' site; denying assets to the enemy, which generally meant you took a sledgehammer to the computer you were working on, tipped flammable liquid over it and then torched it. Lots of funky stuff to be sure. We learnt everything apart from how to assassinate a man (by assassinate I mean kill in a preordained way. Killing a sentry or someone who gets in the way isn't called assassination. That's called 'murder'), because Jurai doesn't allow the killing of a man who hasn't been arrested and tried by an impartial court.

Ironic, huh?

That's where the SEOE comes in. Up until I actually went off to their training camp I'd managed to work my way through all the military branches, with enough skill and aplomb to make a good living as a top intelligence operative or high-ranking soldier. I had trained with weapons that could devastate a planet at the press of a button (simulated of course); got to grips with the basics of fighter-spacecraft. Well, okay, I could take off and land one, although engaging in a dog-fight would probably end up with my being dead. Unless the other guy was blind or green. I could B&E most mid-security facilities...
I thought I was good.

I knew nothing.

Jiro's choker dug tightly into his Adam's apple as he stood by the entrance to Intelligence Training Camp 9. Behind him the half-a-dozen other SEOE recruits paced the roadside, standing alone or talking in groups. All wore their Signals uniforms, in a desperate bid to make a good impression. Not one of them hadn't been chewed out for turning up for a brief in entirely the wrong uniform and suffered the indignity of peeling potatoes in the mess hall or scrubbing the toilets with their toothbrushes.

If there was one thing Jiro had learnt, it was expect nothing, and it was why he was standing there impassively, looking at the fifteen feet wall, and the massive iron gate and the guard in his booth next to it with solemn indifference. There had been the usual rumours about the place, some of them true, some of them false. Most of them probably being the latter.

From what he had learnt, the Camp had been the property of the Intelligence Bureau since the end of the Second Civil War, as a storage facility. After the ill-fated coup d'état attempted by Duke Matsuue, it had been turned over to the Prime Minister's newly formed Ministry of Communications Security, which in turn collapsed under its own morass of political U-turns and scandals. There it was handed over to the final group, the Central Information Service, a government funded think-tank for helping in everything from new anti-pollution methods to the development of super-weapons.
It was they who still owned it. Officially at least.

You couldn't get through training without hearing the snatches of conversation about what really went on behind closed CIS doors. Aside from its actions in aiding the government in designing new military applicable equipment, the CIS was also, supposedly, the collector and distributor of information that even the other intelligence departments couldn't get their hands on. There was even talk that their computers were more powerful than the other 'real' agencies', and so they were used to assist in those times when even the mighty Juraian intelligence machine was brought to a standstill.

Whatever the case, the CIS had a publicly available directory-listed holophone number, it wasn't hiring staff and it didn't need a sponsor.

Jiro picked up his gym bag. Three pairs of clothes, a photograph and a novel were its only contents. He'd taken to carrying the last two simply for old time's sake. He'd finished the book eighty-five years ago and the photograph still had the staple marks in it, but he didn't really care. It was his stuff damn it, and if they wanted it they'd have to fight him for it!
He turned and looked at the small group of recruits behind him. He knew none of them. Not a single one. Parishi had disappeared one night, no answers given at breakfast the next morning. That had been six months ago.

He turned back again when he heard the massive metal gates begin to grind open. Past it he could see the camp itself, its buildings standing in the synthesised sunlight, surrounded by grass and trees and winding paths.
A woman walked out towards them smiling. She was wearing a fashionable red and green skirt and shoulder-padded cloak, hair coming down in a trio of bunches. "Gentlemen," she beamed, "I'm so glad you could all make it."

The 'gentlemen' paid a good deal of attention to her. The woman (girl, thought Jiro, she wasn't that old at all. A few years out of school at most) didn't seem bothered by the looks she was being given, but instead motioned for them to follow her, like they were a bunch of pre-schoolers. "If you gentlemen wouldn't mind following me," she said politely, still smiling, "The Camp Commander will meet you in Lecture Hall 3. Refreshments will be available there."

"You mean refreshments, as in drinks?" asked someone behind Jiro.
The girl nodded, "Tea, coffee, soft drinks, yes. So if you wouldn't mind-" She repeated the motion and turned on her heel, the skirt riding up to her calf and giving an appetising look at her leg before falling back down again. The recruits stood there and looked at each other.

Refreshments? At a Training Facility? Jiro couldn't hide his surprise. In nearly a century of training, he had never arrived at a place to find himself being offered drinks. Let alone good looking women with nice legs asking (not ordering but asking) them to come and meet the Commander. It was unheard of! The other recruits were exchanging the same looks of utter incomprehension. Up ahead the girl paused in her walk and turned to look at the immobile men.
"Come on!" she called and set back off again.
Never one to ignore a direct order, especially one from a girl with good legs, Jiro cantered along behind her, the rest falling in also.

The entire camp was inconceivable, and the recruits followed the girl along the winding paths with their faces firmly set to 'stunned'. It looked, and felt, more like a University than a military facility. The buildings were a mix of Juraian wood and modern-looking glass and iron. Between which pathways ran, weaving in intricate junctions and throughways across the neatly cut grass. There was no concrete to be seen covering the ground anywhere. There were people walking, not running, just ambling along the paths and across the grass, some in uniform, mostly out, but all calm. There was no shouting, chanting or the stomp of drill. Just the sounds of mild conversation, the birds and the dim sound of traffic over the outer wall. Some people were lounging under the shade of firm trunked trees, reading or talking.
Shade!
Jiro looked up. In no other camp had he been had he needed shade before. There'd never been a need, as the camps had never had a weather control system, or if they did had set them to 'continuous rain'. Here the sun was shining, and he was sweating without the need for strenuous exercise.
Amazing.

As the group walked, the girl pointed out the various buildings with honest enthusiasm. "That's the swimming pool and gymnasium," she said, pointing at a bulky glass building a few thousand yards away.
"How big is this place?" asked one of the recruits.
"160 acres," came the cheerful reply, "We're trying to buy another forty, but it might take another few years, oh, and that's Dormitory C."
She continued pointing things out until they got to the lecture hall.

The hall was laid out like a movie theatre, the podium and holoscreen at the front, the aisles of seats going up a steep incline. The seven recruits were directed to sit, the girl moving down to stand at base of the stand and the podium atop it. She hadn't given her name, nor had she asked for any, Jiro noted. Another difference from the norm.
Before he could ponder any deeply on this wonder, the door at the bottom of the room opened and two men stepped through. Both casually dressed, one moved up to the podium, the other stood next to the door with his arms folded.

"Gentlemen," said the man at the podium, his voice resonant, "I am Commander Asashi of Training Camp 9. Those of you with a deeper grasping of antediluvian languages might get a kick out of its nickname, 'Camp Koroshiya'." He smiled, but none of the seven recruits in front of him made any movement of understanding. "Never mind. I'm sure someone will teach you it.

"You are, in all respects, the best. You have been poached from the best the military has to offer, and all of you have suffered, and survived, the rigorous training needed for entry here. Of the original sixteen applicants all those years ago, you are the remainder, and it is with great pride I tell you that you have all got what it takes to work under the banner of the Special External Operations Executive." He looked across the group with respect, his eyes taking each of the men in. "Here you will be trained to the best of your abilities in order to safeguard the future of Jurai. Now, I wish speak to you all individually, so please feel free to help yourself to drinks and cakes. If you have any questions, please ask Emi." The girl by the stand gave a pleasant nod of the head.
"I'd like to see Hisashi Dakebata, please," continued the Commander. One of the group rose, and followed Asashi out the door he had entered.

A table had been set up behind the the remainder of the recruits while the short speech had been made. There were a few bowls of biscuits and Juraian cakes, along with teapots and cups. The group helped themselves to a mug of tea and returned to their seats in silence. What was there to say?
If there was Jiro couldn't find it. He sipped his tea in thought.
The girl, Emi, eventually gave up waiting for questions and moved over to the man still standing, arms crossed, by the door.

The recruit, Dakebata, returned a few minutes later, grabbed the bag he had left on his seat and vanished out the door again. Emi looked up the room at the remaining recruits.
"Mr. Jiro?"
Jiro rose from his seat, putting down his tea and picking up his gym bag. "That's me, ma'am."
The girl laughed. "I'm not a ma'am. No more than you're a sir, Mr. Jiro." She gave a wayward glance at the man next to her, then looked back at Jiro. "Follow me, please."

The Commander's office was a very formal thing. Although its window overlooked the vivacious greenery and trees, the room had no real life. The desk was neat and efficient, no clutter, with the computer given pride of place over to the side. However, the room was entirely at odds with the man who owned it. Commander Asashi wore civvies with a passion rarely seen, even outside the military. A tall, wiry fellow, he had to be one of the best dressed men Jiro had met in his life (although that said little, as the only time he had been in the civilian population after joining up was during those exercises that Intelligence sometimes ran or when he managed to lay his hands on a twenty-four hour pass).
As the door closed behind Jiro, the Commander waved him over. "Come in Jiro! Sit down! And please undo that choker. I'd hate to have a man suffocate in my office."

The choker, the padded neck-brace that ran around the top of all Juraian military uniforms, was particularly uncomfortable and was only worn on parade or if the OC was a stickler for discipline. Such officers were often called, 'Arseholes'. It was only fair.
Jiro sat down, undoing the choker with pleasure. "Thank you sir."

"So, Jiro, you've been briefed on what your work here will entail?"
Jiro, his throat now unrestricted, shook his head. "No sir. However, I have heard rumours and hear-say, and from that I've deduced what could be trained here."
"And that is?"
There was a slight pause, as Jiro wondered whether to say it. "Assassination," he said finally.

The Commander see-sawed with his hand. "Close. Not our main aim, but yes, we are the only Juraian organisation to engage in acts of... politically motivated murder. Do you object to that?"
Jiro answered truthfully. "Not in the slightest."
"Of course not. We wouldn't have picked you otherwise." The Commander turned to the computer, its screen hidden from Jiro's view. Typing up something, the Commander returned to Jiro. "You trained at BSC 040-32. Apparently you did well."
"No well enough to get awards when I passed out, sir."
The Commander smiled. "No. But then again, we wouldn't have let you. Draws too much attention. Your corporals liked you."
"They did?" asked Jiro, taken aback.
"One of the best they taught." The Commander looked at him, "Didn't you think they liked you?"
"No more than anyone else, sir."
"You passed our little loyalty test. Was it easy?"
Jiro, his memory suddenly snapping back to the Major's one-to-one talk all those years ago, allowed himself a wry smile and a nod. "Easier than the rest."
Then the questions began to get snapped off. Quicker, faster, less chance to think about the answer.
"Army training," said the Commander, "You put your Instructor in hospital. Why?"
"Erm... It was combat training, sir."
"Unarmed?"
"Yes, sir."
"How badly?"
Jiro had faced worse than this before, been put under the microscope by professional Intelligence Branch interrogators. "I believe his rib pierced his lung."
"Hmmmm... It says here you tried the new R-82 Blaster Rifle. What did you think?"
"The barrel's too heavy and the sight tends to wander."
"Prefer the old 78?"
"IM-60 actually. I prefer a firm, rounded butt." He froze as he realised the Freudian slip he'd made.
The Commander raised an eyebrow and Jiro felt his face redden. He couldn't control himself.
"Surprising," said the Commander eventually, "What about your naval course?"
Still blushing, Jiro snapped back a little more forcefully than he should have done, "What about it?"
"You failed the final VR-simulation.," said the Commander simply.

"Not technically failed. I won, I just didn't survive."
The eyebrow, which had lowered, raised itself again in question.
"Well," continued Jiro, a little bit calmer, "I went kamikaze into the enemy's command ship."
"How very heroic..." replied the Commander. He looked back at the computer screen. "Ah, here's an interesting one. During Intelligence training the Instructor declared that you'd never make a good HUMINT operative and so you, and I quote, 'hid inside the facility for six weeks, evading capture by base personnel, all the while collecting photo intelligence of the Instructor in question.'" He gave an amused nod. "I'm impressed. A very novel idea."
"Thank you, sir. Although I spent six weeks kept in isolation and had to retake the twelve weeks I'd missed, so it was more of a moral victory."

Commander Asashi sat back in his chair and breathed a deep sigh. "I'll tell you this now, Jiro. I usually can't stand characters, but I'll make an exception for you. You're not a loose cannon, you're a point-maker, and that I can handle. What I cannot handle is morons who go out of their way to try and buck the system. I might not be able to handle those people, but the SEOE does. Do you know how handle them, Jiro?"
"No sir."
"We shoot them in the back of the head," said Asashi. He looked at Jiro, as if willing for him to comment on it.
"Well," Jiro said, "That usually works."
The Commander smiled. "It hasn't failed yet. Not once. Now, here at Camp 9 we have things a little different from how you're used to. People are not referred to by rank. If the person wears a uniform, he's at the bottom of the ladder. If he, or she, wears a scruffy uniform, that person is in the middle. If he wears civilian clothes, he's at the top. Understand?"
"Yes sir."
"Just 'yes' will do. You will attend a number of classes and lectures every weekday. You will find the lesson timetable in your apartment. All lessons will be arrived at punctually. Failure to do that, and without sufficient reason, more than a couple of times will result in us shooting you. If you tell anyone outside the SEOE about what it is we do, we'll shoot you. If you attempt to escape from the camp, we'll shoot you. If you lie to me from now on, I'll shoot you personally. Understand?"
"Crystal," answered Jiro, more calmly than he felt.
"I shouldn't worry though. We don't make a habit of shooting people who screw up. It'd get hard to hide all the bodies."

The Commander pressed a button on the desk's intercom, bent his head down to the speaker, "Send in Mr. Hoshi, please."
He sat back up. "While you're here, Agent Hoshi will be your guide. He's done all of this before, so if you have any questions, feel free to ask him."
"Actually," said Jiro, "I have a question to ask you; There was a man, Parishi Tahito. What happened to him?"
"He failed the test."
Jiro's eyebrows knitted in surprise. "Failed?"
"It happens sometimes. He's back at Army Intelligence now, breaking enemy codes. Anything else?"
"No. No, I don't think so."

He turned around at the sound of the door being opened, and looked at the man who stepped in.
"Mr. Jiro," said Commander Asashi, "This is Agent Hoshi. Agent Hoshi-"
"We've already met," cut in Jiro, "Although last time he was in fancy dress. An artilleryman, perhaps? In the Palace. Eighty-six years ago, thereabouts."

"Sharp eyes and good memory, Mr. Jiro," said Hoshi, "Very few people remember me." He gave a sharp grin. "But don't take it personal, we have to keep an eye on our star pupil."
It was the same man who Jiro had met in the Palace waiting room. A little bit older and without the uniform, but he still had the cutting voice and the grin.
"As you know each other so well," Asashi said patiently, "Perhaps Hoshi, you can take Mr. Jiro around the camp. Show him his room, the classrooms, etcetera etcetera."

"It'll be my pleasure," smiled Hoshi. He turned to Jiro, "You'd better pay attention. I'll be asking questions at the end."

* * * * *

Act 3
'Arrival'

"I have travelled so much because travel has enabled me to arrive at unknown places within my clouded self."
- Sir Laurens Van der Post

"We will be landing at Gate 3 of North America's 'Maine' Space Centre in five minutes. Please have passports and hand luggage prepared before we begin descent. Due to the necessity of radar shielding on entry, we ask that all computers and electrical equipment be turned off."

Seiji looked at the P.A. speaker in the aisle next to his seat. It was from that the voice was being given off. The rest of the first class passengers began to get their bags ready from the overhead lockers. The fat man unclipped the headphones and turned off the language learner.

"On behalf of all the staff of TGS Services, we'd like to say a large thank you for your custom." And your money. "And hope you will travel again with us soon." Because we want even more of your money. "We hope you've had a pleasant trip, and will enjoy your stay on Juraian Colonial Planet 0-315."
There was a click as the pilot turned off the tannoys. I will, thought Seiji. He crossed his hands on his lap and waited.

And so, the craft hit the Earth's atmosphere, its nose glowing from yellow, to orange, to red and finally to a brilliant white as it made its final movement across the heavens. From the ground it would have looked like a shooting star, something becoming much more common in the nights' sky for reasons that are all to readily apparent. The American people slept quietly in their beds, only a handful knowing of the fleeting transports high above them, that came from some far-flung galaxy. Even fewer knowing the truth about the races that these ships carried.

The shuttle touched down, with the barest hiss, at Loring Air Force Base. The facility had officially been closed back in 1994 (as the Earthlings calendar called it) but its distance from local centres of habitation made it one of the most perfect places in the United States for landing extraterrestrials and their vehicles.

Seiji, his gym bag held in one hand, his passport clenched in the other, traipsed the grey corridors toward Immigration. The sounds of work echoed long and loud all around him. Baggage staff, Space Port personnel and travelers bustling around, acting as if their lives had some importance. It amused him no end.
'Immigration' looked exactly like every other Immigration centre in the galaxy. Apart from the khaki-clad, stern-faced men clenching their assault rifles. If there was one thing about backwater planets, decided Seiji as he passed another helmeted US Marine with a combat shotgun, it was that they took their security particularly seriously. You couldn't blame them though. They were so panicky, like grazing animals.
Of course, if you had Ryoko sitting in a house on your little patch of land, you'd probably be prepared to blow shit up too, said a quiet, grim little voice in the back of his head.

He finally got out of the queue and up to one of the multitude of booths in which the Immigration Officials worked. Unlike their more terrestrially oriented counterparts these ones were also wearing the standard camouflage slacks and a heavy caliber automatic at their belt.
"Hello," said the Official, in polite but thickly accented Juraian. It sounded like he was trying to talk with his mouth full of oats.
"Good morning," replied Seiji in flawless American.
The Official raised his eyebrows and took the passport that Seiji handed him. He switched back to American. "That's amazing, Mister... Kinatami?"
"Kin-I-tami," corrected Seiji.
"Sorry, Mr. Kinitami," The man scanned the passport through the computer next to him. "It's not every day we get to speak our native language. I have to admit, you speak it very well. I'd never have guessed you weren't American."
"Well, we live and learn," Seiji said, as if it answered anything.

"So, business or pleasure?" asked the Official. He checked the passport picture against Seiji's face, and finding nothing wrong, put it down on the counter.
"Well, first time I came here was pleasure. Second time business. And I know they say don't mix it, but I'm afraid this time I'm going to."
The Official nodded. "Duration of stay?"
"A month at most."
"Thank you... that checks out." The Official looked up. "Not that I'm saying there was any sign that you wouldn't, sir. But you know security."
"Oh, don't apologise," smiled Seji. "Where would we be without security? It's the most important thing out there."
Nodding slowly, the Immigrations man picked up the passport and checked it again. "Erm, sir. It says here you'll be staying in Japan."
"Ye-e-es."
"Well, why didn't you land there?"

Seiji placed his hands on the counter, a very subconscious sign that the speaker was going to tell the truth. "That's the pleasure part." he lied, "I want to see the States properly. Then catch one of your..." He searched for a word, "Aeroplane? Yes, that's it. Aeroplane to Japan. Then get down to business."

"Do you speak Japanese, sir?" The man's voice had taken on a hard edge.
What? Does this guy think he can scare me?
"Nihongo wo hanashimasu ka?" asked Seiji. He leant on the counter and smiled, raised an eyebrow in a manner that dripped sarcasm.
The Official blinked.
"Kisama," Seiji muttered when no words from the other man were forthcoming.
"Would you mind explaining what you just said?"
Seiji nodded his head. "Yes. I would."

The Immigration man coughed loudly and looked at the growing crowds behind Seiji. "Do you know the rules sir?"
"No non-Earth clothes, no non-Earth equipment and no talk of the big outside. I've done this before."
"Are you carrying anything of that sort?" The queue was beginning to grow even longer.
"Yes," replied Seiji. "But I'll turn it in at Customs."
As if...

"Thank you Mister Kinitami," The man said quickly, handing the passport over. "Have a pleasant stay."
"I'll try my hardest."

As he walked away, Seiji couldn't help but smile. High and dry...
And then he remembered why he was here. He pocketed the passport, his body sagging.

"Why didn't they stop me?" he asked quietly.

- - - - - - - -

Chapter 4:- Ante Bellum

If you dance with the devil, you don't change the devil. But the devil changes you.
The tender noose of insanity, be thankful it cuts off the circulation.

- - - - - - - -

Disclaimer:- This is an act of fiction. All characters are owned by their respective companies (namely Pioneer and its affiliates). All characters, equipment and situations not owned by a company is the intellectual property of the author (Ministry Agent). Special thanks to Hospitaller for use of his Juraian Naval Intelligence Directorate. "Barrack Room Ballads" is from Rudyard Kipling's superb poetry. "The Virtue of the Vicious" is from a quote by Oscar Wilde. Loring Air Force base is real and its history is correct to the best of my knowledge.