Authors Note: I think I'm settling down on around 4,500-5000 words per chapter. That should be around 10-15 minutes reading time for most readers, or a few hours writing time for me. I'm findingthis to be an enjoyable experience, and I hope you are as well. Thank you for your comments, reviews and kind attention. I truly appreciate, from the bottom of my…um…aortic pulmonary artery.
Basic Training: Part II
On the North American continent, there is a large stretch of grassland, rich in farmland and pastures. Certain areas possess diversity in geographical features, deep lakes and thick forests, all covered in miles of open sky. Mountainous terrain can be reached simply by traveling west to the Rocky Mountains, and cold climates can be reached by going north. Even extreme temperatures of heat can be reached by going south to the infamous Death Valley, one of the deadliest environments on Earth.
These locations each have outposts for training the best fighters of the Alliance, but one of the largest of these training centers lies in the northern section of the Great Plains. Here, basic training occurs, with extreme prejudice.
Shepard ran in full armor, exhaling as fast as he inhaled. The air he breathed was recycled and fed through his armors' systems to replenish its oxygen content. To his right ran Karl, his fire buddy, spotter and friend. To his left ran Arvid, fellow recruit and assault rifle aficionado. All three wore full kit, four weapons affixed to their back mounted mag plates. Compared to the professional armies of previous centuries, these soldiers had it easy, in part. The armor they wore gave physical boosts to their capabilities, especially when synced to the bearer properly. Their weapons were much lighter as well, made of ferro-ceramics and mass effect generators. Guns didn't even need to be reloaded anymore, although waiting the mandatory cooldown period was a bit of a bother.
It had not rained for several weeks in their locale, and the dust appearing behind their pounding feet proved it. Weather had become more extreme in the last century, but the discovery of Prothean technology and inevitable inclusion to a greater galactic community had introduced methods impossible to achieve earlier. With this new technology, the weather and general biosphere conditions were finally improving in the greatest extent seen in the history of humanity.
All that was beyond the musings of Shepard and his comrades, however. They were being timed, and while the task itself may have been made easier, the goals had been made harder.
The HUD display in Shepards helmet was counting down. Currently it read 7:56.
Shepard strained his legs just a little farther; his second wind had come almost fifteen minutes ago, and only the support of his armor was helping him keep the pace. He sensed Arvid and Karl gradually falling behind, but he didn't have the lung capacity to spare vocalizing encouragement. Instead he activated his omni-tool, and fired off a previously recorded message.
It was obvious that his messages worked, both of his friends stepped up their efforts, ceasing to lose ground. Arvid even managed a little gesture, not exactly complimentary.
Farther ahead, just beyond a clump of sagebrush was another pair of runners. Their rate was slower than Shepards, which meant his squad was rapidly approaching them. Too fast, much too fast.
Somehow, Shepard found the wherewithal to shout a hasty warning. Unfortunately, it caused the two runners ahead to just twist their heads in confusion, completely ignoring their HUD displays. Shepard was almost right on top of the lagging runner when she figured out where he was. She shrieked and tripped, just at edge of the last hill.
The recruits called it "Hail Mary Hill," the place where transport drivers held a rosary in one hand, the door handle in the other, and kept one foot on the brake at all times. The danger wasn't primarily in the steepness of the hill (38 degrees, increasing in parts), but in the slippery grass that covered the slope.
Shepard leaped as the recruit ahead of him fell. On either side of him, Karl and Arvid made twisting motions, somehow avoiding impact. But then they were over the lip and headed down.
For one heartstopping moment, Shepard found himself airborne. Arvid and Karl ran easily down the hill, long strides eating up the distance. Karl found himself coming down barely on both feet, off balance. A memory surfaced from his childhood, when his father would take him east of town to the toboggan slopes. No time to think….
Arvid flashed past Shepard as he dodged the falling body. Shepard had been in front, but the jump had slowed him down. Karl was parallel to Arvid, and both were now using the slope to their advantage. They had less than two miles to the finish, and the hill was one of the best boosts on their time trial. Besides, this was the closest thing to flying, outside of an actual biotic lift.
Out of the corner of his eye, Arvid saw something catching up. Tilting his head slightly, he was able to get a better look, and almost lost his stride.
Shepard had landed wrong, but turned the fall into a slide. He was on his knees using the wide portion of the greaves, toes pointed straight behind, calves parallel and arms spread for balance. The visor didn't hide the look of concentration on his face.
It shouldn't work, it had no reason to be possible, but Shepard somehow was making it work. By the bottom of the hill, he'd made up the ground he'd lost and actually increased it by a bit.
He picked himself up, a bit stiff from the rough treatment, and kept running, dead even with the squad. Together, they ran as if there were no tomorrow; sergeants were wonderful motivators when they put their minds to it.
The timer ticked downwards, 3:52 and shrinking. The last half-mile positively flew past their practiced feet. All of them were young, and under the best of both medical care and the galaxy's best human instructors. At the half-way point of Basic, most of them had even received the gene altering modifications standard to Alliance military. The combination of variables, plus the exemplary health all the candidates were in, resulted in a 10 mile run in under 33 minutes.
Sergeant O'Mallery glared as Shepard slowed to a halt. "Congratulations hotshot, a new camp record. But I've seen your test runs, and this is not your best. "
Shepard would have scowled if he hadn't been panting for air. "Sir, permission to speak freely sir?"
O'Mallery waved his hand dismissively. "Denied. Get to target practice, and this time I want to see clusters at the two-mile range, understand?"
Shepard saluted and left, trying not to hear Karl and Arvid being congratulated on making a new camp record. It would be petty to think meanly of their achievement, and they had worked hard for it.
A shoulder almost knocked him off his feet. A woman….Shepard couldn't remember her name… pointedly kept her back to him as she stalked quickly to the target range. Mrs Verner, now he remembered. Her boyfriend had washed out of Basic a few weeks back and the two had decided to get married over the weekend. It was an odd reason to get married in Shepards way of thinking, but it took all types to make the world go 'round. Whatever the reason, she intensely disliked him…oh. Realization struck. She'd been the recruit he'd been forced to jump over during the run…and she'd already disliked his rescuing her instead of her boyfriend a few weeks earlier… no wonder she was acting as if he were anathema.
Shepard inhaled and exhaled a few times breathing exercises. Unfair blame made him more angry than almost anything else in the universe, but this too would pass.
Breathing exercises only helped in moderation, and only temporarily. Sooner or later, he'd have to think about the situation and come to grips with it. On the other hand, causing large quantities of destruction was therapeutic. High quality but small quantity damage was good for the soul as well. Either worked.
The gun rack had the usual assortment of medium quality weaponry, never anything like his old Volkov VIII, or even an Equalizer V. Nothing in the recruit armory was really of superlative quality, except maybe the armor itself. Trusting life support to low-quality armor would be the epitome of insanity. Something gleamed out of the corner of his eye, something out of place, tantalizing the peripheral edges of his awareness. Then, he saw it, sitting on the end of the rack. Beautiful, glistening as if it had come fresh from the factory, looking so sleek Shepard was half afraid it would fly off by itself.
Shepard looked around quickly, no one was around, except Sergeant Petros. That was a little surprising in and of itself; Shepard had caught Petros staring at him at odd times, and the sergeant was almost always positioned somewhere where he could see, but be hard to be seen. Maybe he thought Shepard was going to crack when no one was looking, or was doing something illegal? That was a mystery for later, because here, on the gun rack…was The Gun.
An M-98 Widow, Anti-material rifle. Here. On. The. Rack.
The M-98 had only been recently developed, it was supposed to be experimental, not even in mass production phase. It had been advertised (within limited circles) as being developed for elite sniper teams, and could be wielded only by krogan or mounted platforms. Usually, more of the latter, since krogan didn't have the mentality for typical long-range combat. It had been designed with a much heavier, longer barrel than most sniper rifles; all the better to support a larger, more powerful mass accelerator with its unique rails. Even folded up, the M-98 was as massive as some assault rifles. This was the sniper rifle to take down vehicles, krogan and anything that had less armor than a Dreadnought. Its range was 10+ miles. Its damage, in excess of anything less than a vehicle mounted mass accelerator cannon. For durability, it was off the doggone Mohr scale.
Almost reverently, Shepard lifted The Gun in all its glory…and almost dropped it. It weighed almost half as much as his armor. He glanced left, then right, using his HUD to keep it inconspicuous. No one was watching, not even Sergeant Petros. Quickly, yet with nonchalance, he hefted the weighty piece of hardware over to the modification table, where he quickly field stripped it and put it back together. Some parts were a little alien to him, so he added a more familiar scope, a scram rail, and just for the sheer overpowered awesomeness, an explosive round mod for the ammunition block.
Grunting slightly, he hauled it out to the farthest pad, the distance wouldn't dampen the sound, but maybe the distance would dissuade the curious from approaching. The padded practice mound was lumpy, since no one really wanted to replace the farthest site, but he'd deal with it.
The Gun hummed as he flipped the activation trigger, and slid with near silence to its ready position. The latches clicked into place, matte black upon matte gray, a snipers dream. The scope moved slickly into position, and the ammo mod lit up in the sights.
Shepard selected his targets, and bumped it to "Interactive Heuristic." That made the VI react to how accurately his shots landed, and responded accordingly.
Lying down, he squinted through the HUD display, and then sighted down the barrel. The traditional target was at the usual heightened sniper distance, around 7,200 feet. Shepard focused in on the concentric circles, gauging the wind speed, and then carefully squeezed the trigger. A roar reminiscent of a bygone age involving massive gunpowder weapons mounted on floating platforms erupted from the muzzle. Only the helmet saved his hearing, but Shepard was too elated to notice such mundane things as personal safety. The scope showed not only a hole, but an entire missing center to the round target. He must've hit dead center for the ragged edge to be so uniformly distributed within the third ring…he had to try more.
Sergeant Petros kept his back to Shepard. The kid had found the M-98, just as he'd suspected, and had scuttled away with it. No mask could hide the kids excitement, it had been evident through body language; that was something he'd have to learn if he were to actually partake in the N7 program. Petros made a note of that and forwarded it to O'Mallery. Both sergeants liked Shepard, and had worked out a good cop/bad cop routine, both had decided to be the bad cop.
Using his command overrides, Sergeant Petros watched Shepard make modifications to the gun, wincing at the speed. That gun was on site solely because his superiors had believed it necessary for testing potential candidates. Many would long to use it, few would actually take it, and even fewer would be any good with it. Hence, the Powers That Be had decreed it would be present only in the company of a superior officer…this prototype was worth more than both sergeants would make in five years salary. It was technically a scaled down version of the Mako cannon, and (according to R&D) was still ten years from completion.
Petros watched as Shepard hustled over to the most inconspicuous box on the firing range, odd behavior for him. Some of the students spared him a look; Petros wrote himself another note. Body language training would be joined with typical behavior analysis. Shepard was already receiving twice as much training as the other recruits, not that any, least of all Shepard, understood that fact. So far it had been disguised as remedial or beneficial options for people of a certain background. So far, Shepard had taken every optional class made available to him. Good.
When Shepard pulled the trigger for the first time, Petros nearly jumped out of his boots. The exposure from his override made it seem as if the shot had come two feet beyond his own head.
Other students stared at the unusual decibel level, but returned to their own target practice. Their ear protectors must have muffled the noise to the point where it sounded like a sniper rifle going off in the next booth.
Petros stopped avoiding any pretense of disinterest, this he had to see. Eagerly he trotted behind Shepards booth, took a half step to the right behind a tree, and watched.
Shepard blew apart the standard target, not that it was really standard, no surprise. The boy would have been in for the Marksmen award if he were out of Basic. The easy targets always went up for him. The farther targets however, were a challenge even for the best of Alliance Marksmen.
Apparently, no one had informed Shepard. The recruit focused and fired with almost manic intensity. Targets caught fire, were blown off their stands, or simply vaporized under the assault of the prototype weapon. The VI couldn't keep up, every moving target became so much flying particulates. Petros had to use a pair of binoculars to see some of the more distant shots; a pity the shooting range only went five miles out. He made another note, that was an oversight that must be corrected in the immediate future.
With a start, Petros came to a realization. The targets were disappearing fast…too fast. Shepard must not have realized how far his scope could reach, because targets were vanishing from other recruits marked areas. It didn't seem to matter where the target was placed; tiny distant targets and half-hidden medium ranged targets were hit without prejudice.
The other recruits were noticing the sudden disappearance of their targets, however. They also noticed the regular retorts booming from the end of the field and drew the logical conclusion. First one recruit, then another popped up to look. Then some started walking towards the far end.
Petros stepped in before the closest could begin interrogation. He stood behind Shepard, and cleared his throat loudly. Shepard didn't hear, of course. The throat clearing was a little performance for the other students. It never hurt to build the rep for sarcastic, caustic leadership.
Shepard came to a stop on his own, flipping the VI to standby mode. He rose to his knees and looked out over the field, admiring his accuracy. With a delighted grin, he turned around…only to meet Sergeant Petros and half of recruits on the practice range lined up behind him.
Sergeant Petros watched the grin fade into impassiveness. Good. He's learning.
"And where, if I may be so bold, did you get that piece of equipment?" He asked in a kindly tone.
Shepard winced.
"YOU BETTER NOT HAVE GOTTEN A SINGLE SCRATCH ON THAT RIFLE, BOY, OR I'LL HAVE YOU DISHONORABLY DISCHARGED BEFORE YOU EVEN OFFICIALLY JOIN THE SERVICE!" Petros bellowed. He liked bellowing, he was good at it. That's why he was in the position he was in, to try to ram training and good sense through the auditory canals of these green recruits.
"No sir, no scratches sir." Shepard quietly saluted.
Petros snatched the rifle, hiding his surprise at the weight as a grimace and slammed the butt end into the ground. It didn't take much effort, that gun was heavy. "GET BACK TO THE OBSTACLE COURSE! I WANT A DOZEN REPITIONS BY MESSTIME!"
Shepard saluted and ran off. The other recruits, entertainment over began to wander back, when Petros bellowed at them. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY STOPPING FIRE PRACTICE? I'VE NEVER SEEN SUCH INCOMPETENCE! TRAIN UNTIL YOUR EYEBALLS BLEED, THAT'S THE ONLY WAY YOU LOSERS-"
Even as he continued on the well-practiced rant, Petros tipped an invisible hat to Shepard. It wasn't every recruit that had the natural talent to handle the M-98. Maybe this one had the potential that captain thought he'd seen.
As usual, dawn broke early, and the recruits were working out before the dawn. The advantage of their northern latitude was an early sunrise and a late sunset…which was also the detriment as well.
This day heralded the culminating practical phase of their technological know-how. All Alliance members, Navy, Marines or other, were given a thorough grounding in the standard technology of war.
Shepard was surrounded by his usual squad, helping break down the EMP emitters on their omni-tools. This particular device was very familiar to Shepard; the few predators capable of harming a human on Mindoir were easily deterred by the static shock induced by the EMP device. On a shielded and armed opponent, however, such technology was far more potent. EMP's could change configuration to short out shield emitters, HUD displays, internal armor systems and weapon subroutines. It was the bread and butter of front-line combatants.
A second tool they'd already covered in the standard Alliance soldiers' arsenal was the hacking capability, an extension of the on-board computer all omni-tools were designed around. This allowed Alliance combatants to gain control of simpler enemy drones, and alter the IFF protocols on many semi-independent weapons. Even the most basic omni-tool had hacking routines built in, but the more elaborate versions possessed heuristic subroutines that stored past patterns. Those patterns were incorporated in later hacking attempts in conjunction with the skill of the wielder; in this fashion a average soldier could use the hacking module, but a skilled user could exponentially increase the capabilities of a hack.
While Shepard may have been good, Karl exhibited an unusual proficiency with the hacking function of the omni-tool. His sense of humor made that capability a formidable ally in what he called "pranking," or what Shepard called "being a pest." Still, Shepard could appreciate some of the applications Karl found "necessary" to test his training.
During training sessions, Karl found it exceedingly humorous to remotely add to the programming in the omni-tools of other recruits. Some examples of that addition included making the auto responses for IFF recognition included various farm animal noises, or the lyrics to loud songs. On this particular day, he'd enlisted Shepards help; the goal of this prank was to enlist the support, willing or no, of all omni-tools in the immediate vicinity. This was something he insisted on calling a "botnet," although no robotics or even VI's were involved.
This class was being run by a Corporal Nehru. Nehru was pending reassignment after a successful tour of duty on the Madrid, and had been requested to fill in for the regular instructor at the Alliance training center. Nehru was a short woman, with dark hair and an easygoing expression belying keen mind, ready to pounce on mistakes. To be fair, she was equally ready to praise success, but the general lack of success made the overwhelming majority of commentary negative.
Shepard waited as Karl slowly reassembled his emitter. Brilliant as they publicly admitted, both of them could have had the entire omni-tool in pieces, randomized and reassembled in the amount of time Karl was taking, but something had struck the pair: when someone field-stripped their omni-tool, they needed to re-enter their security clearance upon reactivation. Karl had come up with the idea of prolonging the time their own omni-tools were disassembled so that the important parts, the sensors, could be intact and operating while the rest of the class dutifully made alterations to their omni-tools, and re-entered their security information.
Shepard had reasoned further that if one sensor was difficult to detect, broadcasting the recorded data omnidirectionally would obscure exactly where the data was being sent, especially if the target was another disassembled omnitool, and the information was scrambled over obscure frequencies. So, Karl worked on his sensor array while Shepard fine-tuned his data center. Together, the two parts would have been a low-grade blip on the electronic security; separate, they didn't even register as being active.
Corporal Nehru coughed meaningfully as the class period entered its final fifteen minutes. The recruits began frantically assembling their last components.
Karl and Shepard, on the other hand, were doing a headcount. Arvid had traveled to the other side of the room, ostensibly for more parts, and had an excellent view of the occupants. They already had most of the security clearance codes from this class, but a few recruits had been slower than others, forcing the trio to reassemble their hardware prior to obtaining the data. Arvid knew who these people were, and kept an eye on them. As soon as one or more of the slower people had finished, he would signal Karl by making his own task chirp as it was reassembled.
Out of the corner of his eye, Shepard saw Karl tense. Keeping his own head down, he tilted a conductor, angling it to reflect the same view Karl had. Corporal Nehru had just taken off her omni-tool and was disassembling it with lightning speed. Show off.
One shared glance was all the two needed. Karl tore apart his sensor array and started a wide angle link between Shepard and Arvids implements, low intensity. He also shifted a stack of conductive wire next to his broadcast unit, damping the signal to one side and throwing off anyone who might think of triangulating the signals origin. Arvid dropped a broken memory chip that somehow caught in the cuff of his pants (to be reassembled later), while Shepard connected his sensor suite to Karls' linkup. Within two minutes, they had the data they needed.
Shepard shifted to assembly mode, misconnecting, then reconnecting wires in just as an eager but somewhat incompetent student would manage. Karl on the other hand kept his facial expression in the attitude of a gifted but lazy individual. Both managed to finish their assembly projects minutes before they had to exit. As such, they were among the last to leave, and earned a stern glance from Corporal Nehru.
They had some free time afterwards, which they spent, as usual, on the firing range. Most recruits spent extra time there, and on the mat inside the gymnasium.
"What do we even need this data for?" Arvid asked. He was toying with the spare memory chip they'd liberated. The information they obtained was kept on standard memory chips, but they swapped out the chips with rebuilt ones, in case of suspicious superiors.
Shepard shrugged, reaching for an assault rifle. "You never know, besides it keeps our skills sharp."
Karl positively glowed with mischievous satisfaction. "Besides, they need to learn to turn off the broadcast switch. If we can do it, an enemy combatant could as well."
"I hear the final is a doozy." Shepard commented, changing the subject. "You have to pick a squadmate and just try to survive for a day out in live-fire."
"Live fire?" Arvid almost combusted, "What kind of morons-"
Karl interrupted, "Not really live fire, just enough to show where we were hit, and how. Although I hear Sergeant O'Mallery actually got caught with his pants down and has an interesting mark on his-"
Gunshots drowned out the rest of his sentence as Shepard opened up with an assault rifle. Pellet shavings sprayed everywhere, hitting most of the scenery and none of the targets. Instead of firing the usual short burst and releasing, he seemed stunned by the metallic clattering next to his helmet and kept the trigger down. The barrage stopped only when the heat sink overloaded and kicked off the firing mechanism. The sound of a chiding beep echoed accusingly.
Arvid held the broken memory chip in one hand. "What…was…that?"
Shepard gingerly held the assault rifle away from himself, treating the muzzle as if it were red-hot. "How can you even use these things?" He directed himself at Arvid. "They have all the finesse of a cheap volus skycar knockoff!"
Arvid picked up the rifle. "It isn't really that bad. I mean okay, it's a Heliat Kolakov III, but it has a decent amount of damage for its rating."
Karl was still staring at Shepard. "I've seen you bulls-eye targets over four miles away! How could you miss everything…."
Shepard winced. "Never really worked much with one of those."
Silence filled the air as Arvid looked over the Kolkavov III. Then, Karl started laughing. Loudly. Uproariously.
Shepard eventually had to chuckle as well. It was impossible not too; Karls' laughter was like taxes. You may not want to share in it, but you ended up taking part in the end.
The final days of Basic Training arrived. A bit under half of the original group of recruits had left, either by dropping out, or being forced out. Only two weeks were left, but oddly enough, there was another potential route opening up. All the recruits were paying unusually close attention.
"You have two options." O'Mallery was briefing the entire company. "Option one, and by far the most popular option, is to continue training in this course and get your certificate in two weeks."
The sergeant stopped to smile sardonically. He'd been through the First Contact War, and knew well enough how practical the first option was; like a chocolate kettle.
"The second option is harder, but it gives a lot of benefits. Here's what you need to know."
"The old Navy Seals used to go through something called 'Hell Week.' Basically, it was a method of running a lot of athletic punks into the ground, forcing them to survive on nothing but adrenalin, teammates and their training. Here in the 23rd century, we have a bit more sophisticated method for gathering the elite. It's a harsh one-week program, but anyone who passes gets an automatic commendation, a week off, and a serious advantage for officer training should you choose to apply. On the other hand, failure means we have to assume that you don't quite have the brains to know your own limits, and you will have to repeat half of Basic Training. If interested, see me afterwards."
The recruits were buzzing as O'Mallery stepped back. They were eager enough to be finished as it was, but the news of an added possible shortcut was like oil on flames.
The rest of the briefing went as usual, a little more polite now that most of the training was over. Somehow, it was either easier or harder to be rude to people with whom you'd shared responsibilities. To the Sergeants, it was the end of another semester of sorts, their protégé's had been delivered safely through yet another hazard-filled time. As good as the technology may have been, the fact remained that there were hundreds of hormone-affected young adults, all lacking a certain amount of mental development usually known as "horse sense."
Afterwards, Shepard approached Sergeant O'Mallery. The aged sergeant grinned knowingly as the younger man approached.
"Somehow I knew you'd be first in line for this, Shepard. Lemme guess, you want to sign up for a week of drudgery, toil and fear?"
Shepard snapped a salute, and waited for the sergeant to return it. "No sir, I want to apply for a chance to prove myself, and get a week off in the bargain. Sir."
The sergeant shook his head amusedly. "The Council races think we're a sleeping giant Shepard. Only 3% of our entire population actually volunteer for military service, but the ones that do…" he looked proudly at Shepard. "They show the whole galaxy we outclass anything they're capable of doing. Request approved. See you on the other side."