It was a valuable lesson. A little extra work would have saved me a lot of grief. I never saw an off-base liberty, and damned few on-base libs, either. I spent my time polishing furniture and shoes, scrubbing latrines and floors, and hating the instructors. The only time they left me alone was survival training, and that was brutal enough on its own.
I made it to the "Wreck" (Recreation Center) for one evening, for a whole half div, about 1.5 hours. I knew I couldn't get anyone to dance with me, we weren't allowed to touch if we did, and I didn't like pop music. All I wanted was to get away from everything for a few segs.
While standing there, getting a sugar high off a single mug of chocolate, I was confused by a face almost nose to nose with me. The eyes twinkled and looked happy to see me. I stared at them and tried to place the rest of the face.
Deni. Hard to recognize in shapeless camouflage and with a shaved head, but it was Denise, the redhead from the hotel. "Hi!" we both said together, and laughed.
We sat and talked, ran late, hurriedly swapped unit and contact info on paper, being forbidden to use our comms for personal matters ("All soldiers must carry a manual writing implement and notepaper at all times, in case of comm failure." Thank you, Freehold Military Forces!) and parted ways. I cheerfully took the bitching I got and the extra half div of guard detail.
Deni was in the barracks next to us, which might as well be light-years away rather than a mere 200 meters. There were sixteen platoons in each blocky barracks building, and we were on adjoining sides. Occasionally, I'd see her across the drill field during PT, or while doing details. It was frustrating.
I had a normal sex drive. I still do. After thirty days, I needed an orgasm or I was going to die. There were plenty of naked women running around my platoon for me to think about, and some were quite hot, but it was Deni in her shapeless goof suit that I thought about while carefully jerking off under the covers at 0200. I really hoped to meet up with her later, although I knew it was highly unlikely.
* * *
We covered much more than the silly minutiae I mentioned above, and those aren't really part of the training. Those are designed to get the mind thinking about the petty details that must be dealt with to keep one alive. The real training was what you would expect, and then some. We shot, practiced first aid, field sanitation, perimeter security, orienteering, concealment, support weapons, recognition of air and space craft of our own forces and others, communication methods, order and discipline, the laws of war, and unarmed combat. I excelled at swimming. I'd competed in several events at school, and was totally comfortable in water.
I loved unarmed combat. I got my share of bruises and then some, but I learned to dish out much more than I'd ever managed against bullies. It was a far cry from the rudiments in school gym. The FMF form is a combination of various styles, predominantly Northern Shaolin and Indonesian Pentjak Silat, if you want the history. It has some jui jitsu, hapkido, and a smattering of tai qi quan and mantis quan, but it's mostly a hard, external form. We were told we'd be doing it every day in training, and every other day the rest of the time. I had no problem with that; I loved it.
We covered survival in water, arctic, desert and jungle environments. That was brutal. I lost five kilos, and I was a skinny bastard, barely 65 kilos at 185 centimeters. That and our final exam, trudging around the Sawtooth mountains performing sundry tasks, was a rite of passage like no other. It was the defining moment. Why other militaries don't require as tough a test is beyond me.
* * *
At graduation, we marched through a classical Victorian-era parade. My parents couldn't make it, unfortunately. Some people had family there, most not, so I didn't feel too left out. I cleared the field and fell back into route march with the rest of the platoon and felt much lighter. That part was over. I wasn't thinking as to the weeks ahead, just to the present sense of relief.
Some troops were shipping to other bases or a few remote specialty schools. Some were going home to reserve units. I would be staying here with most of the rest, and prepped my gear to sign out and move across base for further training.
While waiting for a shuttle bus, I was joined by another graduate—Deni, looking exceptionally good in a perfectly tailored uniform. She was as cheerful as I was, and we decided to walk so as to be able to talk longer. That meant shouldering our rucks and our duffels, grabbing civilian luggage in the left hand so as to be able to salute officers, and trudging several kilometers. Yes, we were gung ho and stupid. Weren't you at that age?
"So what are you training for?" I asked as we left the barracks area. I felt good. I was a soldier, I kicked ass, and I was about to become better.
"You won't believe me," she said.
"Try me."
"Mobile Assault . . . then Blazer . . . then Black Ops if I can," she said.
Holy shit. "Me too!" I said, surprised and thrilled. "Skiffy!"
"I don't think we can choose our buddies," she said. Then she gave me a sidelong glance that was far too sophisticated and sexy for her age. "But we'll have breaks and leave time."
That was a hint. I knew a hint when belted with one. "We don't have to stay on base the next three days," I suggested, fluttering inside and with a rushing water sound in my head. "We can go into town." I needed sex in the worst way, and she seemed to feel likewise.
"Good idea," she said.
We were both desperate for contact after eight ten-day weeks of stress and no socializing. I had more sex in the three days that followed than I'd had in my life. That wasn't saying too much, as I'd only had three ladyfriends, and wasn't able to do more than the usual fumbling one does as an adolescent. A couple of one-shot encounters were nothing to write home about. Deni and I stayed in bed those three days except to eat, and tried every position either of us could think of, all over the room and the balcony. She floored me the second day when she casually admitted to having been a virgin until we met.
"I was raised in a Seeker community. Obsessive parents. One reason I left. What can I say?" she said in explanation.
She didn't have to say anything. So her parents were primitive religious types and she wasn't. I didn't have much basis for comparison, but I knew talent when I encountered it, and she was evidently a quick study. Add in a delectable body tightened by exercise and I wouldn't have traded her for any three vid stars. Even after I acquired more experience, my opinion of her in any fashion never dropped. She was bright, thoughtful, strong, sexy and had those eyes that seemed unnatural. Most redheads have green eyes, hers instead were a blue like a high-latitude eastern sky at sunset. I'd never realized until then that eyes could be sexy.
* * *
Mobile Assault Training was fun. The instructors were strict without being anal-retentive, and good-natured. They used sick jokes to reinforce safety. I recall one, where the sergeant teaching Initial Parachute Landing (Lecture) explained, " . . . for an emergency landing during a total equipment malfunction, cross your left arm over your right and right boot over your left and remain at full extension." She demonstrated as I tapped furious notes with the rest of the class. I drew up short as she finished, "It won't do you a damn bit of good, but when the rescue crew shows up, they can just unscrew you from the ground." Very funny, especially the morning before you hang on the side of a VC-6 as it lifts straight up, then fall off as the rail is yanked from under you.
There were no cancellations of pass unless you really screwed up. We had a two-day break at equinox, and I hung out with Deni. She insisted on temple, which I rarely do, but I went along gamely. She'd called ahead and arranged with the priestess, so we were greeted cordially. It was temple, I hadn't been in a while, so I agreed. It was an actual temple, too, not a grove. Cozy little building, all wood and angles with flying beams and buttresses. I took a glance around and stopped, because all I could think about was this bundle of power sitting on the ground next to me. Deni, meanwhile, seemed to be unfamiliar with ritual. She hesitated over the invocation and I could tell she was watchi
ng me for cues.
After the service, we let our noses find food and walked a block over for lunch. It's forbidden to touch in uniform, at least in anything that might be considered a sexual fashion, so we made a game of bumping shoulders. Our booted feet clattered on the walk and it was all fun until her weapon dinged my elbow. We eased up then.
I'd skipped breakfast to sleep late, so I was ravenous. The restaurant was neat, clean and packed, mostly with regular military in civvies. We were acting maturely enough, so they nodded and left us alone. The server found us a booth at the back and I at once ordered enough ham and eggs to fill me, while Deni got fruit and pancakes with a side of bacon. I hate pancakes and said so, as our server stuck thick, bittersweet chocolate in front of us.
"So I'll eat all yours," Deni said, grinning.
"I'll throw them away," I said. "Haven't been to temple in a while?" I asked over the clatter of dishes.
She sipped her chocolate, shook her head and said, "Never have."
"Huh?" I replied brilliantly.
"Seekers are Naturalist Wiccans. My folks are obsessive about it," she said. "I've always wondered what a Druidic service was like. So I went."
"Okay," I said. I tried to be casual, but I wanted to ask a thousand questions.
She appeared to figure it out from my expression and said, "That's why I don't have any piercings, hardly own any makeup, or much in the way of clothes. Seeker sect. They even made us keep all our body hair. Rough natural fabrics to wear, 'whole' foods to eat . . ."
As she trailed off I said, "Hated it?"
"Despised it," she agreed with a nod. "I have makeup, I'm working on a wardrobe, and first chance I get I'm getting at least my ears pierced. I'm thinking about a tattoo."
"Lots of sex, too?" I asked, feeling a thrill from a simple flirt.
"Pay your tab and grab your weapon," she said. Then she gave me that look.
I never pulled cash out of my pocket so fast in my life.
We went back to training the next day, goofy grins on our faces. It was obvious to everyone what we'd been doing, and I got some jealous ribbing. It felt great. My previous lovers were certainly attractive. I'd had few because I am picky, even when desperate for sex, and my abrasive personality was an additional hindrance in that regard. Deni seemed to like my personality, however, and we meshed. As to looks, she went beyond attractive to flaming. I loved the comments from the guys who'd spent two days doing nothing in the barracks, hiring basic escorts or jerking off alone.
I didn't believe Deni at the time when she told me that she was getting similar comments. I now accept that I'm handsome in a way, although I still think I'm awkward and gawky. At the time though, it was a huge and needed ego boost.
We finished our instruction block, jumping out of spaceboats, starships, stations, fixed-wing cargo craft, vertols and specialized vehicles, and sliding down ropes from cliffs, buildings, vertols, and doing controlled falls like spiders on a line. We swam, climbed, swung, crawled, and generally found all kinds of ways to get where we were going. I loved it. And on weekend passes, I had a budding, experimental nymphomaniac. Deni was coming out of her shell, with military discipline being just enough to stop her from being stupid. She even kept me from a few mistakes that would have screwed my career. She was much more mature than I.
There was a week delay before we were due back for Special Warfare, and we had some funds. I wanted to show her off to my friends. Well, I wanted to show me off, too. She agreed to go with me.
"Are you sure you don't mind?" I asked. "What about your family?"
"I'm not going back anytime soon," she replied. "We don't get along well."
I called ahead to let my parents know. My mother answered.
"Hi, Mom," I said.
"Ken! Oh! How good to hear from you!" she said. I'd only called a couple of times a week. She'd been pushing for daily reports. Parents.
"I'm done with assault school, and heading home. I'm bringing a friend, if that's okay," I said. She sounded really excited, far more than I was. It seemed odd.
"Of course. Now, make sure you negotiate a good rate for the flight, and call if you need help. And don't forget to carry a water bottle, just in case of delays—" she was saying when I interrupted.
I said, "Mom, I'll be fine. I've had survival training, okay?" I knew she meant well, but it was embarrassing to have her repeat the obvious. Besides, I had several hundred thousand kilometers of civilian air and space travel under my belt anyway. I knew all this.
"Just making sure you don't forget, dear," she said, "and call . . ."
The call ended after another hundred seconds of lecture. I love the lady, really, but she can be so annoying.
The flight home was uneventful, except for Deni and me teasing each other. That and a few stares from young civilians jealous of our status. Dress black-and-greens are designed to be impressive, and we were in top shape and knew it. It came across to others as an aura. We were on our feet as soon as the craft stopped rolling and were out the hatch at a brisk pace, rucks and rifles shouldered. We caught a cab and I paid to have the driver take us in on the ground, so I could get a look around.
Would you believe the town looked different in twelve weeks? New construction, dress style changes . . . even the traffic patterns seemed odd. I knew it was I who'd changed more than the town, but I didn't feel different. This brought it home. Still, a hundred and twenty days is not a short timespan, I thought. I kept switching between the two thoughts.
We pulled into the apron and I tipped the driver. We spent a few seconds adjusting our uniforms as the cab left, then swapped grins and headed around back where I could smell dinner.
The grass and rock garden looked the same as I recalled, but it was no longer neat, now that I could compare it to military facilities. Well, I'd never cared that much about gardening and my parents had less free labor now, with me gone. The house looked good, familiar and comforting, sprawled out and relaxed across the lot.
I turned the corner and saw that Dad had the grill going, and a pile of assorted dead animal flesh alongside it to convert into deader animal flesh in the flames. I got cheered by the crowd, which I took gamely, and I introduced Deni to my friends and family. Mom wanted pictures, which was fine, and my sister Jacqueline came up and hugged me. "Hiya, big brother!" she said.
"Hiya, squirt," I replied. It was really good to see her. She was skinny in a healthy seven-year-old way (seven of our years, ten and a half Earth years), had styled her hair into a double cat's tail in back, and moved much more surely than she had before I left. I guessed she was taking her gym classes seriously. While my 'rents got things ready, she took Deni and me over to meet her group. I went along politely, even though they're all in the six to nine local years range. I recognized a few of her classmates and tried to keep track of names as an exercise, as I knew my memory would be tested when I got back to school. Oddly (it seemed to me), her friends made less of a deal and acted more normally around us than the older kids and my friends and classmates. Deni was a heroine to the girls, but I intimidated the three boys. All these social things I'd never noticed before were hitting me.
Jackie had made up a banner for me, and the quality was good—the colors fluid, the blending even and not muddy. She had a miniature vidcam on a float platform that hovered near her head unless she sent it off to get images from another angle. Occasionally, she'd dictate a note to it. She was still pursuing her goal of being a videographer or director.
"Where'd you get the floater, Jackie? I don't recognize the make," I asked.
"I built it from a component kit," she said proudly. "Even the lift fan."
"Really," I said, impressed. I knew she was growing up, but to me she'll always be the two-year-old, left behind by the bigger kids and wanting to "snuggwe" on the couch. Dammit, my mind was still switching drive ratios. I drifted back over to the other adults, as I thought of myself now. Deni nodded as I moved, no words spoken. We communicated in gestalt fashion.
/> Deni and I both wore the Mobile Assault qual badge prominent on our chests, and people were impressed. I was also a bit bulkier and much stronger than I'd been when I left. I heard comments about Deni from friends, and even got a wink from my father. My mother was gracious and didn't embarrass me much, and Deni was just as courteous in return. All in all, it was great. I drank far too much, and stayed awake late enough to avoid a hangover.
There was only one vet among the group; this was after our independence but before the buildup to give us our own armed forces really got under way. Joe Tanaka had been in the UN forces back when we were still a colony and serving with them, and had been in the New Jerusalem system while it got over its problems. He asked a lot of questions about our training. "That's better and more intense than what they gave us," he commented. "Sounds like a good course."
The visit seemed odd to me in another way. Deni and I wanted to talk about weapons and craft and gear and camping, and my parents wanted to talk about civilian jobs. That was years away, but we seemed to stumble over the issue. I felt a growing gulf that I was sure would never close. I was right. I have to wonder what they'd think of me now.
Chapter 2
Special Warfare Candidate Training is organized hell. Nothing I'd read or been told could have prepared me for the reality. The reception was cordial enough, but the first morning began not at 2 divs, but at 1:50. Let me convert that—we'd been awake until midnight because we were young and stupid, and woke up four hours later instead of five and a half. It was like recruit training all over again, only more so. After all, they knew just how much punishment we could soak up, and they started there and got tougher.
It hardly seemed worth the pay raise to E-3, Trooper. We would be considered Troopers until we qualified as Blazers or Operatives. Still, it was a raise, it was a qualification of sorts, and it would have to do. To take my mind off the pain, I calculated time left as a percentage and as seconds, breaths, and heartbeats, and the money I'd make per each. It really didn't seem worth it.