"I DON'T LIKE THIS FUCKING, STUPID, WHITE, DUMB ASSED… WHITE, FUCKIN' ARMY SHORE PATROL HELMET! IT'S TO DAMN SMALL! IT'S GIVING ME A BAD, BAD HEADACHE SO I AM NOT—REPEAT, NOT!—IN A GOOD MOOD, ARMY! SO DON'T PISS ME OFF!"
Roach leaned in on the Sergeant, who had rocked back his chair against the wall. The Malacans pressed into service as shore patrol had been summoned to handle a rowdy army drunk, and it wasn't going well. Roach had very calmly tried to quiet him down with talk, but after about three minutes saw that it was fruitless and changed tactics. He had leaned in on the Terran and was almost chin-to-chin with him.
"Ahhh! The little fellow's got himself a headache! Ain't that a shame, fellas?" Half the bar responded with jeers and catcalls. A beer bottle came out of nowhere and missed Roach's face by inches and shattered on the wall about two feet from the sitting drunk. It was enough to unnerve Headspace. From the corner of his eye, Roach could see Headspace's hand creeping along the weapon's butt towards the trigger guard and safety. Roach turned his head quickly. "Uh-uh! Don't!" he said, then reaffixed his stare on the drunk in front of him. "I'm gettin' a little tired of this, Army! You wanna knock it off?"
"He's gettin' tired, guys! The little Marine shit is gettin' tired. Hey, c'mere..." The drunk leaned in and put his arm on Roach's shoulder like he was an old buddy. "Shore patrol, tell me! Aren't you a little, well, ya know, a little short to be a devil dog?" For some reason the bar seemed to think this was funny. Roach just lowered his head and took a deep breath. "Hey, guys! Quiet up!" the drunk continued. "The Marine's got a headache... and he's tired! Hey! Hey, mebbe that... flintlock you're carrying around is too heavy for you! Ya want me ta' hold it for you? Here! Why don't you put it down? What is that thing?"
Roach had been carrying the weapon with one hand on the stock and the other on the grip. He let go of the butt end and it crashed onto the floor with a frightening bang! that signaled to the entire bar that something of strategic importance was about to take place. An ominous silence filled the room. His right hand slid up the stock and stopped about ten inches from the front sight. In a blinding flash, the weapon jumped backwards from the floor and nestled under his arm as if it were a swagger stick or riding crop, the butt end sticking out a good two feet behind him. He had been looking down, but now slowly raised his face. The two oversized orbs on the front of his face had vanished into a milky white pool and as he stood there, just smiling at the drunk, the white turned as crystal clear as the glass bangles affixed to the cheap chandeliers lighting the bar. Seeing his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, both Budweiser and Headspace began to cross the line right behind him. The pupils in their eyes began to swirl and sink quickly into the same white pool.
"THIS!" Roach began, slowly wiggling the weapon from the front tip, "is a Johnson semi-automatic rifle!" The butt end of the weapon flew backwards with a piston like motion and caught the man sitting behind Roach, conspicuously missing a beer bottle, cleanly between the eyes. He disappeared from sight as both he and the chair he was sitting in hit the deck and stopped with a crash. "In its day, it was the only recoil-operated shoulder rifle manufactured in quantity!" Roach's right hand suddenly shot forward leaving the weapon free floating. Before gravity could take its course, he had landed three rapid punches to the soldier sitting next to the drunk who had been offering insults in Braille. He bounced backward off the wall and landed face down on the table he was sitting behind, where he remained, motionless.
"In 1939 and 1940," he continued, "the Army—of which YOU gentlemen are a part of—concluded the M1 was a superior weapon!" The weapon unanticipatedly sprang straight up in the air as though it were a rocket launching from an old styled gantry. As the stock reached eye level with the drunk that had caused him so much grief, Roach snatched the grip and stock and drove the weapon cleanly between the eyes and parallel to the nose of his tormenter into the inspection arms position. There was a sharp snap as the target's nose flattened. There were several horrified gasps as the face slid down the rifle and peeled off the stock to the deck. "Personally? I don't know! I just dropped three of you cocksuggers with it and I didn't even fire a round! HOW FRIGGIN' BAD CAN IT BE?" He looked menacingly around the bar as faces were turning downward into beers and quiet conversations were being struck.
He looked over to his backup, who had moved to the edges of what they had considered to be an outer perimeter to sweep in from if things got out of control. "Grab an ankle," he growled, "let's drag these assholes to the brig shuttle!"
He paused at the door and turned slowly to face the crowded bar. "Now you boys behave yourselves. I DON'T WANT TO BE BACK! IS THAT CLEAR?"
* * *
The interior of the Orbiter had been intentionally laid out as city blocks. While there was no mechanized transportation as such, there was a definite feeling of streets, of communities. The Army was not being cooperative. It took almost twenty minutes before the proper authority could be located to indicate to Christopher just where the particular shore patrol they sought had been sent. It had taken Geronimo almost a quarter of an hour to sound the alarm; another twenty minutes to round up the team, ten more minutes elapsed running to the security station. From top to bottom it would be almost an hour and a half before they'd locate the abducted members of their crew.
Stone was feeling really badly for Abner. He had started looking ten years older in the last ten minutes. He had pumped Roach up all day. Now he was worried the little butthead was going to get himself killed by some drunken or enraged Army enlisted. Even Christopher seemed antsy. In fact, the only person who seemed calm, even in control, who kept saying things like, "What are you guys worried about? There's three of them!" or "Don't worry, they're not going to discharge their weapons! They're more like to take batting practice with them!" was Kelly. Having seen what a half-dead Malacan was capable of, the idea of three armed, Marine-trained Malacans in perfect health getting beaten up was a joke to her. "The worse that could happen," she told Maysfield, "is that they maim the entire Army security force and whoever else gets in their way."
They bolted up street after street until they reached the northern sector. Usually, it was a raucous, noisy area, but as they began to approach the heart of the sector they became aware of an unnatural and somewhat ominous silence throughout the community. The run became a walk. They had expected riots, but what they got was Bethlehem on Christmas Eve. They came to a halt, and strained as a group to hear any sound to disrupt the violent silence.
"Gunny!" Rojas whispered. "It's too damn quiet! It's got to be an ambush!"
"I agree with Rojas, Gunny. It's so quiet. You could hear a fish takin' a piss in a fish bowl!"
"Nice mouth, Tozzi! Would you kiss your grandchildren with a mouth like that?"
"Shhh!" Maysfield was leaning forward with a palm cupped over his ear. He was suddenly standing straight up, then moving down a side street. The group began to follow in pursuit. Soon they began to hear what Maysfield heard. It was a voice calling a cadence. Coming at them nearly three blocks away was their shore patrol. Right up the middle of the street they marched, singing cadences as loud as they could. As they passed each bar or cat house, the group could see lights flickering as people ran to the windows and doors to watch them passing.
In the first thirty minutes of their shift, they had dragged more people off to the brig than had gone in the first six months the Orbiter had been public. It hadn't taken anybody too long to figure out it wasn't a good idea to get into the faces of these three! Nobody had told them that shore patrol here meant drinking coffee and eating free sandwiches until the shift ended. They had mistaken the duty as a real job, declaring Martial instead of Murphy's Law.
The human Marines were still about a block away from the Recruits when a barkeeper came out of a bar behind the amazed group of Marines with a tray of cold beers. He was obviously the same species of creature as the keeper in the officer's lounge, only somewhat shorter. One by one he handed out the pale brown beverages. When Christopher tried to pay for the drinks, the creature strenuously refused, explaining that it was nearly 23:00 hours on a Friday night—and he still had all his windows intact!
As the patrol approached them, the Recruit's eyes never moved from straight ahead. "Make a hole!" the Lieutenant called, and the group split in halves, moving off the street onto the sidewalks. As the patrol passed, they continued to count cadence.
I WANT TO BE A DRILL INSTRUCTOR!
I WANT TO BE A DRILL INSTRUCTOR!
I WANT TO WEAR A SMOKEY BEAR!
I WANT TO WEAR A SMOKEY BEAR!
I WANT TO BE A DRILL INSTRUCTOR!
I WANT TO BE A DRILL INSTRUCTOR!
I'LL LET'EM SHAVE OFF ALL OF MY HAIR!
I'LL LET 'EM SHAVE OFF ALL OF MY HAIR!
As they passed through the hole made by the rescue team, they snapped salutes at the officer and ranking NCO without breaking stride. They continued to march for another two blocks, then executed a perfect left turn and disappeared down a corridor. After a few brief moments, the singing faded off and disappeared too.
Kelly turned to Maysfield and shrugged. "Where the hell did they learn to do that? I don't think those guys need rescuing, do you, Master Sergeant?" Abner, still staring off into the distance, broke off his stare to looked at the young Lieutenant.
"No, Ma'am!" he said. "I truly don't believe they do!"
* * *
It was becoming very apparent that something exceptional was afoot. The Marine officer and NCOs walked silently back to the ship—except for Christopher and Maysfield, who felt a strange moral obligation to wait for the shift to end and take the kiddies home. They stood outside the bar for about twenty minutes with their hands in their pockets wondering if they should stand there or go inside. After the third round was brought out to them, they figured it'd be more polite to wait inside, saving the bartender the trip.
It was a bar much like any other bar on the Orbiter—one big square, dark room with anything that could be snatched and pasted to a wall to give it a feeling of warmth or home. Not that anybody cared. This far out in space, a beer was a beer was beer. And it was welcomed as such. It was far enough from the cathouses not to be attractive to any hard working hooker. Outside of the occasional intermittent brawl, it was reasonably quiet, at least by comparison to other beer rooms. So they sat there at the bar quietly downing beer after beer.
After about four hours, they had pretty much forgotten why they stayed in the first place and went back to the ship, leaving the bar keep two twenty script dollar bills on the bar as a tip.
The interesting thing about the beer the bar was buying them was just how easily, and quickly, it went down. As they staggered along, they figured that at four dollars and fifty cents a pop, the bar was down about one hundred and fifty bucks, even with the forty-buck tip.
At the entrance ramp they met up with the infamous shore patrol, who had elected to spend the remainder of their eighteen hour passes safely tucked in bed, sleeping.
* * *
Nobody had thought much more of the evening's events, other than being the next thing to go wrong. However, they were rapidly becoming ramifications in the truest literary sense. It might have even gone unnoticed (except for the vast amounts of free beer the two Marines had consumed the evening before). Schaffer had sent them a signal to join him for lunch and, as Tywell had shut down all the exits from phEY-QUAD, they had to walk almost the entire Orbiter to the only shuttle afforded them. As they walked through the streets leading to the flight bay, they began noticing several symbols scrawled into some of the walls that had not been there the day before. As nature required the release of certain fluids, virtually every urinal they entered had the same symbols drawn at Terran eye level.
It was starting to become irritating, especially with the killer hangovers they were nursing. Maysfield was starting to stress out because he couldn't shake the feeling that people were staring at him. They had gotten as far as the Officer's Lounge when it was decided a little pre-lunch stress relief was in order, restricted area or not.
They entered into the empty darkness. Except for the bartender Lanif, the lounge was empty. He had two frozen mugs on the bar before they could even say "two beers!". He was waving them in with one hand and pressing the index finger of the other hand to his lips while making sounds like a teakettle at boil.
"I think he wants us to come in and be quiet," Maysfield said out of the corner of his mouth.
"What do you think, Abner? Think we can pump him for info?"
"Lad, that boy is so hot to talk, we're gonna have trouble shuttin' him up!"
"My friends!", the alien called out. "Come, sit! What the Army does not know can not hurt me! There! Nice and cold! So tell me! How are your Glass Marines this morning?"
Christopher looked questioningly at Maysfield. There was a void expression on Abner's face as he tried to figure out what the hell the bartender was talking about.
"'Scuse us?" he said cautiously. "Our who?"
The bartender made a V with his two front fingers and pointed them into his eyes. "You know!" he said. "That thing they do? Turning their eyes to glass? Well, not glass, but—"
"Oh yeah, we know! Oh, they're, ah, fine? Fine, Abner?"
"Oh, yeah! Just dandy!" Maysfield looked at the Gunny, who made no move to correct the alien. Christopher looked down at the bar and started painting a poor likeness of the symbols he had been seeing all morning on a napkin using the melted frost from the side of the chilled mug.
"Say, Lanif. You seen this around?" Christopher held up the napkin.
"You spelled it wrong, but yes I have." Lanif dragged Maysfield's empty mug towards the tap, despite his lack of protest.
"Well, uh, what does it mean?"
The alien leaned back, dragging, to Maysfield's disappointment, the mug with him. "Are you asking me what it says, or are you asking me what it means?"
"Both!"
The alien drew a deep breath and ran his finger along the symbols as a poorly sighted Terran might read without spectacles. "Little Marines have big Johnsons!" He turned his face up to Christopher, who had been leaning forward.
"Big Johnsons?"
"Uh-huh!"
That was all it took. The two jarheads doubled over with laughter, much to the confusion of the alien.
RCT. S. L. CHRISTOPHER
SS# 237 44 9013
PLATOON 8141
2nd BATTALION M CO
POB 130706
PARRIS ISLAND, S.C., U.S.A., EARTH
MCRD 29905, 13006
Saturday, May 5, 2086
Samantha, I can't tell you how good it felt to get off that rock! Tywell's bus was never found, but even today I still think pieces of it are in use by the Air Wing! Tywell tried busting our balls, but came to his senses when Maysfield threatened to file formal charges for issuing orders that led to the abduction of three Marine recruits, and arming them no less with unofficial weapons of questionable safety. Seems like his superiors forgot to tell him that our little tribe hadn't graduated yet, and technically were not legal for actual military duty.
When Griff found out I had given Liberty to 185 boots, at a military base no less, he busted me down to Staff Sergeant, but kicked me up again when he heard about our attack on the audio equipment of the base commander. We didn't realize it, but we already had planted the seeds of a steadily-growing nasty reputation that was spreading like weeds throughout the galaxy. The nickname, the Glass Marines, stuck, and Jarheads rotating out of that stinking hole started telling the stories about what had been going on, from the warehouse raid to Lewis beating off six attackers. Little by little, the stories started filtering into the press. I don't think anybody realized just how popular they were becoming with the American people until their defense of the Valley of the Four Moons.
By the way, it was Fletcher that launched with us. Tozzi broke two toes by accidentally kicking Arnold in the head. Those three Mollys turned out to be Aces! I never saw Kelly again, but Friday served under her a few years later in Korea. Fletch and I run into each other every once in a while at the Black Jack table in Atlantic City. She finished a thirty-year career and retired a Sergeant Major. But then again, anyone who could deal cards the way she could just had to wind up as something special.
I think it might be hard for you to understand, what with the way things are these days. But those 185 poorly uniformed, shaved-tailed critters had delivered the first serious blow to the largest military organization in the known galaxy. The Army knew it too! And they hated it.
Once we got back into space, we went back to business as usual, with one major difference. Our Boys knew what it was they were becoming, and we knew we were training real Marines. Real "By-God" Marines!
"Anything yet?"
Christopher looked up from the safety monitor and shook his head negatively.
"Abner, you gotta see this! Rojas looks like he's gonna pop! He just dropped the third pepper tablet into the dispenser, and they ain't even twitchin'!" Maysfield poked his face into the viewer. There were a dozen or so Boots standing together as the fumes billowed up, all singing the Marine Corps Hymn, while Stoney and Rojas were off in a corner yakking up yesterday's chow.
"Damn it Bobby, if this gets out, it'll give the gas chamber a bad name! Where's the panic? Where's the fear? They're supposed to be choking for air, fumbling for gas masks..."
"Face it. The pepper fumes don't affect their nervous systems. Oh hell, Stoney's goin' down for the count! Pull the plug, let's get them out of there!"
* * *
There were two choices. Spend a week trying to figure out a chemical substance that could affect the Malacans, or just outright qualify them all as having gone through the gas chamber. It wasn't worth wasting the time on. Sabott had realized it right away. On earth, the average recruit had never been exposed to low level radiation, fuel contamination overdoses, or micro-organic blood infestation from eating too much vegetation grown in space. There was a certain terror involved with pushing your face into a gas mask, knowing that in moments you'd have to strip it off and inhale some smelly chemical that was going to make your eyes water and tongue swell. "Hell, Skipper," Sabbott had remarked. "Their whole attitude is 'this can't kill me so how bad can it be'?" And he was right. One of the purposes of boot camp was to get you past your fears by learning how to confront them head on. Given the nature of their past careers, there was no fear whatsoever of a little pepper gas.
There was, however, rappelling. The idea of jumping off a forty-five-foot tower on a thin rope was totally foreign in concept and should have scared the hell out of them. And if it wasn't for Lewis, Roach, Headspace and the others who had already gone out into the military world and tested their balls, it might have.
Maysfield had been absolved from rappel duty, so after three days of coaching Sabott in the fine art of 'Nam Era Drill Instructing, he turned 3030 over to him. For two solid days the younger man drove them like Maysfield wished he could. Sabott damn near wore out a spot on the quarterdeck nailing every boot he could over and over again for even the slightest infraction or error. As they stood at the tower, they were convinced—solidly convinced—that Drill Instructor Sergeant Sabott was a complete and total madman whose sole goal in life was to catch them willfully disobeying orders.
There wasn't much to learn. You make a seat with the rope around the waist, you snap into the D-ring and the aluminum figure-eight, and jump, lowering with one hand and stopping with the other. Roach, as usual the first in line, was in the harness and over the edge bouncing down the makeshift tower before Sabott could even give him a warning about not jumping. Needless to say, Sabott went wild. Maysfield was so proud of how well young Dan had learned that he left the field to inform 3032 that there would be about a two-hour delay before the tower would be available, as Sabott no doubt would require extra jump time.
They had all jumped about three times when Sabott formed them in a square at attention and started raving about how slow they were. Time and again he'd race up the tower to show them the proper method, tie on, and jump. Each time he'd fall further and further before braking. On about his fourth jump he was moving so fast, he crossed ropes and free-fell thirty of the forty-five feet of the tower, most of it upside down. He would have smashed solidly on the deck, but the ropes tangled and stopped him dead with a roaring TWACK, spun him right side up, jerked him like a yoyo for four or five feet, then released him to drop like a rock for the last ten feet. He hit ground and bounced twice, climbed to his feet, and wobbled to the front of his troops who were still frozen at attention.
"Ya' see, Boots!" he called out. "When you're a real By-God Marine, stuff like that doesn't even bother you!" He turned and walked about twenty feet away before his legs turned to rubber and buckled. He dropped to his knees and then fell forward onto his face, cold out!
They stood at attention for almost ten minutes with Sabott flat as a mackerel. Someone in the back finally whispered, "Maybe he really is hurt! We ought to see!"
From somewhere in the middle of the square a voice cried out, "Fuck him! It's a trap. He just wants to see who breaks ranks first!"
Twenty minutes later, Maysfield and Stone carted Sabott off to sickbay.
* * *
Phase III was flying by. Final Physical Fitness and Academic testing were over and done, but Christopher refused a Final Drill Competition. He could not see, under the circumstances, having to select one platoon over another for a top honor. The Battalion Commander's Inspection had to be postponed, as none were available from any Battalion for nearly one hundred light years in any given direction.
The realization that graduation was at hand really hammered itself home to the Boots when on the day before, Fletcher revived an old tradition for her WMs. She brought back the Emblem Ceremony, whereby graduating women recruits were handed the brass emblem for their covers. All four platoons were assembled on the main drill field to observe.
What had motivated Fletcher was the realization of just how much had been donated by the women Marines on the planet. She had been in space several days before she actually examined it. Most of it was not worn or, in fact, even used. Her four-woman platoon was the only platoon on board that could claim proper attire for almost every situation, tailor fit, starched and polished and with proper metal. The ceremony was brief but impressive.
The uniform of the day was dress blue. In the white-bloused, blue-skirted attire, the four tall Malacans looked remarkably human. If it wasn't for the five o'clock shadow from head to toe, you couldn't tell the difference for the most part. How they looked in the uniforms would be the major topic of discussion in the squad bays for the next several days. Sandwiched between the four male platoons, they marched onto the drill bay and, just as the platoons, stood at attention. Fletcher called them forward, and one by one inserted the emblems into the slot on their covers, formally saluted, pivoted, and moved down to the next recruit on the short line.
Standing in front of his platoon, Rojas could feel a change in the room. It reminded him of Christmas Eve when he was a child. The troops could all see the tree and the presents… but it'd be tomorrow before they could open anything up. He could feel his own sense of accomplishment rising, and for a brief moment allowed himself the realization that he'd done something unique and good. By the end of the ceremony, there seemed to be a growing restlessness—but, oddly enough, amongst the Instructors more so than the recruits.
It was an anxiousness that could be felt throughout the ship the next morning. The entire crew and whatever Malacan vessels were within travel distance were invited to attend the ceremony. But Christopher had not received any communication from Command since his submission of the final scores. Without final recognition from them approving the final scores, there could be no graduation. While Christopher had optimistically set a date, no time had been set for the actual event. It wasn't until almost noon on the selected day that a wizzer from Griffen finally arrived with the simple message, "Good to go!" Another message arrived shortly afterward with a new directive that was both troublesome and satisfying.
On hand also, to everyone's surprise, were Gunny Schaffer, Corporal "Johnson," and a number of the Marines from Fort Bradley. As Christopher saw it, it was a sign of acceptance, and he greatly appreciated the gesture. He knew his recruits, and could tell that they were pleased by the appearance of their new brothers and sisters. Christopher had tried to convince Griffen to borrow the Commandant's band, the last field band the Corps had, for the ceremony but had failed. In a way, this gesture of approval compensated for his failure. He could not have hoped for better.
The day had begun with the raising of Colors.
The raising of the flag and the grave solemnity that surrounded it impressed but confused the alien visitors. It took Christopher almost an hour to explain to visiting dignitaries what the flag itself represented. Maysfield was rather pleased about the reaction. Despite the canned music, his Marines had succeeded in impressing everybody. He had worried about what would occur in the two-hour wait between Colors and Graduation. He used the time to describe in great detail the role that tradition played in the life of a Marine. There was a certain air of dignity given to the situation as the alien minds began to grasp the role the Corps played in the life of an individual willing to pay the price to earn the title.
At the Island, the next graduating class would observe the Colors of Graduation morning, but as there was none, the current graduating class had been called in to observe. In a way it was an extra duty, but they didn't seem to mind much. An Honor Guard was formed, comprised of the top two candidates of each male platoon and all four women graduates. At the last minute, Schaffer and Henry were invited to join the proceedings, which flattered them both to no end.
To the non-military observer, the single most impressive sight to be seen on Parris Island is the Colors Ceremony. You gather at the center square of the Island and you are reminded of your college campus. As you look about, for as far as the eye can see are neatly kept red building with patches of bright green, freshly-mown-smelling lawn on their front and sides. If you hadn't known better, you would not know it is the heart of the Marine Corps.
The crowd of relatives, most of whom have traveled halfway cross the country to see their sons and daughters, brothers and sisters graduate, begin to line the sidewalk facing the flag mast. The island it stands on reminds you of a Norman Rockwell painting, but one you cannot clearly place in your mind. Off to the side stand a large ship's bell, which will be rung in volleys of two to announce the raising of the flag. As you turn your head and look from left to right, you begin to see a mixing in of men in civilian clothing with wrinkling faces and graying flat-top hair cuts that, even thirty years and forty pounds after the fact, can be clearly identified as of the Marine tribe.
You don't quite know where it is coming from, but you are suddenly aware of drums rolling in the distance. You can feel more than hear them drawing slowly nearer. The street on which you are standing is in a great man-made grotto, and whether by design or the hand of God, the sound reverberates and swells and seems to be coming in from everywhere. At the corner of the street, in their bright red uniform blouses, the band appears and, having relinquished their cover, shoulder their instruments and march straight at you to the Corps' official march, Semper Fidelis.
They halt in front of you in concert, and present the traditional music of the Corps. As they stand at ease, a Sergeant addresses the crowd and welcomes the audience. Explaining the ceremony, he completes his address by saying, "on this day, in Marine Corps History…"
The observer is beginning to absorb the substance more than the familiar form of the Marine. The clear tone of the ship's bell announces the flight of the Stars and Stripes. As it climbs to the top of the pole, you find yourself in a sea of military salutes, and hands that have not found their way to their hearts since eighth grade commencement find their way there now. In that sea of solemnity, the crowd begins to realize to what end their sons and daughters, brothers and sisters have committed and dedicated themselves to.
It was with this end in mind that Maysfield had labored in the details of his deep space graduation. He was limited in space, but not in spirit. The appearance of the Honor Guard had been almost artistic. Having had Roach create a gradually rising music tape, the Guard had entered in two columns at opposite ends from behind the four platoons that had been stationed there prior to the crowd's arrival at attention. The contrast of the Dress Blue uniforms that the women and senior Marines wore against the dull century-old camys of the standing troops was startling. They met at the center and turned inward to move on the mast, which had been raised in the center of the bay. coHLI had surprised everyone by donating a ship's bell he himself had lugged from the storage bays five floors above and personally presented to Christopher. Despite the protests, Christopher had insisted Maysfield mention the captain's thoughtfulness in his address.
When the time had come to address the crowd, Maysfield stepped forward from the head of his platoon and onto the podium. He followed the tradition of explaining the ceremony, but paused a long moment before proceeding. "On this day in Marine Corps history", he slowly drawled, "the United States Marine Corps has accepted its role in an ever expanding universe. We offer one hundred and eighty five success stories to you as proof."
The Graduation exercise was fairly simple. The platoons were reformed and stood at parade rest as the crowd was addressed, first by Kelly who explained what had taken place over the last three months, and then by Christopher. Christopher walked calmly to the platform and stood there silently for a moment. Then, to everyone's surprise, he turned his back to the crowd and faced the graduating class.
* * *
"Today, you are Marines. If you remember nothing we've taught you over the last fourteen weeks, remember this! Once a Marine, always a Marine. No matter how far you advance through life, always remember that! Marine General John Lejeune once said, 'Among all the honors, among all the postings, promotions, and medals that have been awarded me, the one in which I take the most pride is to be able to say—I am a Marine.'
"I offer you congratulations. I offer also a sincere apology. When given this assignment, I doubted your abilities to complete this course. It was not meant in a mean-spirited way. But it was there, in the back of my mind, because I did not know you. You have shown me by your toughness, intelligence, and willingness to work that you have truly earned the right to say that you are Marines, and to stand in that most single line that can trace itself, event by event, to a Tavern in Pennsylvania nearly three hundred years ago. Those ancient men chose to fight for liberty. Today, you have chosen to preserve it. I know now that you can!
"I have wondered for several weeks to what end the Corps would elect to use you. I should like to read to you now a letter I have recently received from Colonel Abraham L. Griffen, assistant Commandant of the training Battalion at Parris Island. He begins:
"Gunnery Sergeant Robert S. Christopher,
"Please extend to your platoons our heartiest congratulations and welcome to the United States Marine Corps. Their conduct in a totally adverse situation has been exemplary and we are convinced that they will be excellent Marines."
"Having reviewed their final test scores and being aware of their unique talents, I have petitioned the Secretary of Defense, Sondra Maizein, to allow the Marine Corps to reinstate the Military Occupational Specialty 0300, Infantry, back into its current program. I have been instructed by that office to assign that MOS conditionally to you. Your failure or success will determine the usage of 0300s by the Marine Corps for future generations. I have every confidence in their ability to achieve success.
"I am hereby ordering you and your staff to proceed to Salo Majoris and begin the development of an Advanced Warrior Training program. You will be assisted by Master Sergeant L. Charles, who has reviewed prior developmental programs and is prepared to begin such instruction as is functionally usable. You will also continue to maintain such weapons as your Marines have already qualified for. As more proper equipment can be arranged, it will be supplied to you.
"Again, congratulations and success in the future.
"Sincerely,
"Colonel A.L. Griffen"
* * *
"Okay, you guys, Jacks are better!" Fletcher tossed the cards in a chain back and forth from one hand to another, then spun them with one hand into a dealer's rose. The rose snapped shut and with one hand she flicked cards to all six players at the table. Her teeth clamped down hard on the end of the Cuban cigar she'd won several hands back from Stone, who claimed he'd been saving it from his initial tour in the Caribbean. She hated even the smell of the damned thing, but continued to puff away just to bust Stone's balls. Who the hell was he bullshitting! The closest this roll of weeds had gotten to Cuba was maybe in the cargo hold flying it to the drug store he had bought it from!
"You ever been to Salo Majoris, Sarge?" Fletch looked over her cards at the newly-made Lance Corporal sitting across from her. Sabott and Rojas had filed for the rank as recruiters, claiming a boot had been responsible for the recruitment of two others into the Corps. It was a recruiters' technicality, but it served its purpose for three of their most productive students.
"No, Blue, can't say I have. Heard it's pretty nasty."
"Naw. Once you get use to the sound of the universe flushing every fifteen minutes, you hardly notice what a shit hole the place really is! I open for five!"
"Well, now we know where those two Jacks are! Five, huh?" Rojas looked over at Fletcher to try and see if she had anything to worry about, but her face was like a rock. No tip off there. "Yeah, Lewis is right. The place sucks, big time. I can't think of a better place for an Army installation. I'm in."
"Me do!" All eyes turned towards Sabott, whose face was still so swollen from the fall he had taken two weeks ago that he had trouble speaking. Fletcher leaned forward with a questioning look on her face.
"You do what?"
"No Vletch! Me do! Ha'm in!" Sabott realized only then he was getting harassed. "Vuck halla ya! Gimme do cards!"
"I love it when he talks dirty! Here! DO fa YOU! DO fa ME! Anybody else wanna play with the big kids?"
"I ain't really thrilled about going' back to Salo! That place is really a black hole in sheep's clothing! Ask Sabott! Yo! Redneck! How'd you like that rain down there?"
"Mes'ames! Mal! Tres Mal!" The French seemed to work better than the English.
"See! Even Mister Louisiana here hated that swamp. And he should know! He didn't wear shoes till he joined the Corps!"
"Yeah! Or ruvvers till I med chore sister!"
"Uh-oh!" Fletcher sat straight up in her chair and began tapping on her watch. "I hate to interrupt the game, but it's ten o'clock. Do we know where our ship's captain is?"
As if on cue, all six turned and started pounding on the walls. They had learned that the supports for the sides of Fletch's cubicle ran directly across the ship to the captain's quarter. By the time the pounding telegraphed its way to the ceiling over his bed it sounded exactly like the number four engine getting ready to melt down. After about a minute, the red alert warning for engineering was sounded. They stopped banging on the walls and picked up their cards.
"Goodnight, Captain coHLI, wherever you are! See that, raise five more! Stoney?"
"Fletcher, you suck! I'm out!"
* * *
As Phase III had started drawing to a close, Christopher had pulled more and more away from the physical and more into the devastating trap of paperwork that the project called for. He had begun wearing less of the camys, favoring the summer service "C" uniforms. In the green trousers and short sleeve brown shirt, he seemed almost out of place, which was sort of the way he was starting to feel. As an ending drew near, he began to feel a strange sense of impending doom creeping into his idle moments. So he buried himself in the paperwork.
Abner had been completely right about one thing: If you followed The Book concerning the recruitment of potential Marines, there wouldn't be a Corps at all. A bump on the head at age six, with no medical paperwork saying that the headache you had six months later wasn't related, was enough to get you disqualified. As were two-inch long scars, parking tickets, heat rashes, undocumented genetic hair loss… the list was an endless circle that ran forever in all directions. Now he had one hundred and eighty-five soldiers in front of him that had to be checked and rechecked for any potential alien disease that a medical board could determine as a disqualification for national service.
He was winding down the paperwork about a week past graduation. They were still nearly a week's worth of space and time from Salo Majoris. In a way, it was a good thing. While the discipline of boot camp had ceased, the platoon units were still intact but the NCOs were shifting every three days to acclimate the troops to a slightly more relaxed form of leadership. Little by little, free time was filtering back into their lives, and civilian items such as stereos and electronic games were reappearing. Despite that, it was obvious that very tight bonds had been formed within groups that defied Malacan logic. It would be sometime before anybody knew for certain if Christopher had created Hybrid Marines or mutant alien shave-tails.
He had grown into his own cubicle, preferring his own workstation to small corners and handmade desktops in the DI huts. The dim-lighted pastel colorings of the walls and overheads, while different from what he had been used to on earth, he found very relaxing, almost soothing. In the moments when the military sameness of the paper structure caused his mind to drift into the undisturbed quiet of his personal quarters, those warm pastels always seemed to draw him back down to earth again. He was on such a journey when a pounding at the hatch drew him to ground. He sat for a second, confused as if awakened from a dream, and located the rapping from the hatchway. His ears were finally becoming used to the acoustic tyranny of Malacan engineering. By the height of the rapping on the door, he could tell it was an average-sized alien—most likely some private with a message from Maysfield requesting information on some paper detail about Salo.
For a second, he toyed with the idea of just ignoring it and returning to his own mountain of paper, but protocol overtook him and he rose from his seat. On the other side of the door stood not a Marine, but Captain coHLI replete with a bottle of scotch and two glasses replete with ice. "May I come in?" he inquired.
Christopher needed another few seconds for his head to clear and his mind to focus on the situation. Eventually, he stammered, "Of course! Come in."
coHLI took several short steps into the cubicle and paused to look about. If he had been there before, it had been prior to Christopher's occupancy. He walked towards the workstation and placed the glasses down on the few uncluttered inches left, and drew another small chair over. As if oblivious to Christopher, he poured two healthy doses and sat. He extended a glass.
"Come! Sit. The nice part of paperwork is that it will always be there waiting when you return! More reliable than even a wife or family pet."
"You're right!" Christopher smiled. "I've lost two of each, but I still have plenty of paperwork!" He walked towards the drink and sat carefully on the swivel chair coHLI had extracted from his desk for him. The pair sat quietly for a moment, each, perhaps, fishing for an appropriate verbal continuance. It was a scene they had played several times before. Whoever spoke first was the loser, or could be expected to make whatever concession was necessary to resolve the conflict pending. Tonight it was the Captain's turn.
"So! It ends."
"Well… almost. A little paperwork left hanging."
"Nonsense. The paperwork you do for you, not for them. You seem to have lost your place in the line of command ever since we left Fort Bradley. Is it so?"
"Um…" There was a reluctance on Christopher's part.
"It is so! Now it is my turn to teach the teacher. You have graduated classes before, and always there was another class to follow. Now there is not. So?"
"So!" The Marine nodded, wondering where the strange creature was going with this line of reasoning.
"My friend, there can be no other class like this one. Even if Griffen returns you to your island, it will not be the same! Now you move on to the training grounds at Salo and a different job. They are the same people you must cause to grow even further than already, but they are not the same people you started with. Nor are you the same person you started with! Your eyes are so much wider open and you see things differently. That feeling of being left alone will leave you. It will pass."
"Will it? You know this for a fact?"
The captain poured a few more ounces into his glass, not wanting to lose the potency of the diminishing cubes. "Yes, this I know. In twenty-four of your years, I have turned more than eight full crews, and every time, I have that feeling. Always the same. But! An ending is also a beginning."
