When we docked in Vancouver, Canada, David Anderson marched me over to an Alliance recruiting station where we started the process. It took three days to conduct the standard physical, medical, and aptitude tests before I was subjected to a two-hour interview, which would be my first, and only job interview ever. My lack of a high school diploma was an issue until Anderson assured the recruiting officer that I would have my equivalency by the end of the week. He wasn't wrong. I was officially enrolled in the Alliance's Continuing Education Officer's Training Program, which allowed me to gain my commission with a promise that I'd finish a degree through the Alliance Academy within a decade. With that, I was promoted to Second Lieutenant.
When it came to choosing which element of the Alliance I wanted, it was a no brainer. I wanted to be a Marine. I wanted a challenge, I wanted to go places and I wanted to use that dark force that I had discovered to do right in the universe.
It started with a very long ride to Lympstone, in Devon Britain and I am convinced this training takes place in Britain solely because the country is naturally miserable. Just by looking around, you knew who was going for training just by the way they were dressed. They had short hair, were clean cut, fresh shaved, wearing a newly pressed suit and tie or pants-suit and carrying only the single bag of civilian clothing permitted. No one talked to each other.
I was the first to step off the train and I slung my bag over my shoulder, wrinkling the old suit Anderson had lent me, and walked over to the large looking man in uniform, who was glaring at me. I said nothing as I set my bag down, and turned to face the train. The man just stared at me, not speaking, as he eyed and sized me up. The others from the train, about ten or so, joined me in my line as the sergeant took roll.
I was nervous, but my cocky teenage self wouldn't let it show. He made his way down the line to a young fellow named Ainsworth, who was unfortunately wearing a zip up, brown jacket instead of the suit jacket and tie we were instructed to have.
"The fuck are you?" The sergeant barked. The British are notoriously good at sounding simultaneously polite and indignant.
"Ainsworth, Sir?" His voice was quiet and scared.
"What kind of fuckin jacket is that? You planning on joining the Marines or the fuckin Air Force?"
"The marines, sir."
"Jesus fucking christ, Ainsworth. You're a fuckin failure already. And call me Sergeant! Fuck sakes! I work for a living." He turned his attention to the rest of us. "All of you, pick up your shit and follow me."
I remember putting on my uniform for the first time, and fussing over it in the mirror. I looked impressive, I felt proud for the first time in a very long time. I stood tall in front of my mirror as I smoothed out the fabric on my beret, fixing my collar, and looking for any imperfection no matter how minor. I took pride in my appearance. I felt like a soldier.
But sticking feathers up your ass does not make you a chicken. And putting a uniform on does not make you a soldier.
Basic training is just that, basic. It's as hard as it needs to be to weed out those individuals not meant for military service. You're taught the basics of drill, weapons handling, field craft, and survival. You're put through the paces leading patrols through swamps and rolling hills over days and nights, working together to accomplish your mission. Anyone can do it if they want to, so the goal becomes to find those special few who want to be there. I am one of those few whose purpose in this world is very specific and sought after. I found my niche in life.
I also found my anger was put to good use here. I didn't have the urge to hurt people, I had the urge to succeed and do well at my job. I wanted my friends to make it through with me. I wanted to be the best. I found my outlet for my aggression. The military taught me to harness my energy and impose self-discipline, because that was what was required of me.
There is such a thing as a 'natural soldier': the kind who derives their greatest satisfaction from companionship, from excitement, and from conquering physical obstacles. They don't want to kill people as such, but they will have no objections if it occurs within a moral framework that gives them justification – like war – and if it is the price of gaining admission to the kind of environment they crave. Whether such people are born or made I do not know, but most of them end up in the military, like me.
I graduated at the top of my class and was recommended for Special Forces training upon my promotion to First Lieutenant. I jumped at the opportunity to earn that 'N' designation and once I was approved for selection, the real training started. I was sent to the Interplanetary Combatives Training (ICT), which is the Systems Alliance's premier school for leadership and combat expertise. The Interplanetary Combatives Academy, sometimes called "N-School" or "the villa," recruited officers from every branch of Earth's militaries to partake in grueling courses at Vila Militar in Rio de Janeiro.
Initially, candidates trained for more than twenty hours per day, leading small combat teams through hostile terrain with little sleep or food. Trainees who did well were awarded an internal designation of N1 and are invited to return for further training and further designations.
The impact of true physical exhaustion is impossible to communicate to those who have not experienced it. I remember sitting in the mud in a state of exhaustion, picking up small frogs from the surrounding swamp, swallowing them one by one, and rinsing them down with water from my canteen. I had not eaten or slept in five days. At that point swallowing live frogs seemed like a very reasonable course of action. And although we were handpicked officers and non-commissioned officers (NCOs) in the finest possible condition upon beginning the course, by this time most of us had lost well over twenty pounds of body tissue.
Sunken cheeked and hollow eyed, we were in a state of total starvation-enhanced exhaustion that caused many of us to have repeated hallucinations. These were incredibly vivid dreams that we would experience while wide-awake. We were all teetering on the brink of total madness after over ten weeks of this kind of brutality coupled with the simple fact that any of us could quit whenever we wanted.
I remember standing in my trench that I had been digging for the last six days, watching my fire team partner, Will falling asleep on his feet. Just before he would fall on his face, his leg would jerk out and wake him up, instinctually. I was doing the exact same thing. We stood in our trench, ankle deep in rainwater as we watched the line. I saw something run across and I startled, my adrenaline burst waking me up a little more.
"Jan." I whispered. She was continuing his sleep/wake cycle every twenty seconds or so. I kicked her and she jerked awake.
"Wha…"
"You see that?" I pointed out to the kill zone. There was something out there.
"See what?"
I looked through my sights and my heart almost stopped.
"N-Nevermind" I said, and she drifted back to sleep. Most of my hallucinations had to do with food. This time, a pizza deliveryman had wandered his way out of my mind and into the kill zone. I decided it was better to ignore him than to call a stand-to.
We also had an incident while on patrol one moonless night, where one member was separated from our squad after following one of his hallucinations into the woods. It took us two days to find him.
In my zombie like state I was subjected to multiple tests of my mental and physical fortitude. I travelled the world and trained in the desert, the jungle, the arctic, and the cities so that I was capable of storming any beach on any planet. I learned to drive tactically both on the ground and in the air. I am not a bad driver I am an aggressive one.
I crossed a frozen river stark naked save for my helmet and the rifle strapped to my back, using my kit as a float. I was subjected to multiple weighted marches, strapping on my boots over oozing blistered feet day after day after day, culminating in an agonizing sixty four kilometer trek through the mountains in under twenty hours. These were exercises in determination. People far more fit than I failed these trials simply because they did not have the mental toughness to finish. Your mind will quit a thousand times before your body will. It should be pointed out that there is no stigma attached to not receiving an N-designation – the training is so extreme that even qualifying for an N1 course is considered above and beyond normal duty. People have died attempting this training.
During N2 training I learned to trust my squad mates completely when I and the other candidates, of our own free will, drowned. I dove into the pool, sank to the bottom, and willed myself to let the water fill my lungs. I had to trust that my squad mates would rescue me and resuscitate me. I was terrified, and justifiably so, but they saved me. I learned what real trust was. I forged a bond with these men through our training and our combat experience. My fire team partner Will Early, who was with me through all of my N training until his death at Elysium, was in a lot of ways, my first real love.
This may sound strange, but there's a love relationship that is nurtured in combat because the person next to you- you're depending on him for the most important thing you have, your life, and if they let you down you're maimed or killed. If you make a mistake the same thing happens to them, so the bond of trust has to be extremely close, and I'd say this bond is stronger than almost anything. Your life is in their hands, and you trust them unconditionally with the most valuable thing you have. Will and I had a friendship that was built on that trust.
Perhaps that is how my relationship with Liara developed so genuinely. She trusted her life to me initially because she had to, and over time we forged a bond closer than anything I could ever have imagined. I trusted my life to her and she did the same, even before we realized there was a romantic element. We have a friendship and camaraderie that was so profoundly intense because of the combative experiences we've had together. She is the only person who I trust with my body and soul and my life, because she trusts me with hers, and we are both driven by the desire to not let the other down.
The rest of my N training was a blur interspersed with various deployments and postings to put me to the test in real-world situations. Over the next several years I travelled the galaxy, training off planet in zero-G fighting, military free-fall (parachuting), jetboot/jetpack flight, combat diver, close-quarter combatives, first responder/combat lifesaver training for human and alien biology, language instruction, and assault procedures.
For our final exercise prior to N6 designation we were dumped, individually, on a foreign planet wearing nothing but our armour and told to run. Escape, evade, and resist. I ran for a week, eluding my pursuers before reaching my objective. I was surprised to learn that despite accomplishing my task of evading capture, I would be subjected to the resist element regardless.
I cannot divulge exactly what occurs during this phase, but what I can say is that it's not torture, but it's not exactly not torture either.
I resisted, and I emerged proud and capable and self-reliant.
Now I wanted my N7 designation. And I would be thrown into the fire to get it.