CHAPTER FOUR
AIM!
FIRE!
As The Private pulled the trigger a micro-dream floated into his head. Instead of hitting styrofoam targets, they would be severing the limbs of the insectoid zerglings.
Except The Private wouldn't be severing his target.
"WHAT WAS THAT PRIVATE! You came closer to hitting the OC than your target. You're not even standing up soldier. If that was the Zerg you'd be dead by now. We'd all be dead by now. FIRE AGAIN PRIVATE!"
Tightening his grip around the C-141, The Private took a breath and blinked rapidly - a shooter's technique that stops your eyes from drying out quickly - and squeezed again. Trying to fight against the recoil, The Private tightened his hands around the foregrip and pressed harder into his shoulder - only to see his shot fly wildly over the target.
"GIVE ME THAT YOU USELESS SCUM!" Snatching the rifle from his hands, The Seargant rammed the rifle into his shoulder, and then took a breath before squeezing the trigger.
The whole squadron heard the pinch of the bullet parting the styrofoam, and while the target was over 40 yards away everyone understood: it could have been 400 with The Seargant's aim.
The Private wondered why someone with that good an aim wasn't still on the field. Was there an excess of elite soldiers going unreported by the networks?
"THAT'S HOW YOU DO IT. Breathe and squeeze ladies. NOW AIM ... FIRE!"
As he continued to miss the target, albeit by ever-decreasing margins, The Sargeant and The Private had a rare moment of synchronization: if the UED were this desperate for Marines, were they really winning the war at all?
The Private was carrying out his orders. Breathe and squeeze. He even tried a few wrist exercises to limit the shaking of his hands, and adjusted his breathing pattern (this would of done nothing anyway, but it was interesting to watch someone be creative with their breathing while lying down holding a rifle).
Incompetent soldiers weren't new. The Sargeant had seen them come and go, discharged through court marshals or the port side hole in a Battlecruiser. But those soldiers were just deficient in their orders; not following, or hesitating, was the number one killer of men on the field.
In bootcamp, those men were ideal. They had the right amount of enthusiasm for battle, mixing that lust for war with the almost necessary hatred, almost racism, for the Zerg. War ill affords luxuries, sympathy and indecision least of them. Zerglings don't stop for the drive through - they simply plow through each other and burrow on through.
But The Private didn't have that lust in his eyes, that imagination picturing the biomenace lurking on Char 40 feet away from him. There wasn't fear, either, but indifference.
Perhaps it was time, The Sargeant thought, for some alternative treatment.
CHAPTER FIVE
"At ease, Private."
Folding his arms behind his back and relaxing his shoulders, The Private wondered if he was being kicked out of the grunts - the lowest form of the military, the home that would take the rejects from everywhere else. Rich, poor, smart, stupid, if you needed a home, the Marine Corps was there for you.
The infantry gave its men discipline, their reward for abandoning society in order to protect it. Men who were normally assigned to desk jobs or menial tasks could find heroism and bravery, as well as themselves, in the Marines.
Except for The Private.
It'd been six months since he transferred to Jupiter, and the regular hazing, harassment and consistent latrine detail had confirmed one thing: God didn't have a soldier in mind when he made him, and if he did it wasn't for the Marine Corps.
"Private, you're being transferred to a small research facility a few thousand clicks north of Centauri. You'll form part of the security detail for the scientists there. Your scores didn't justify sending you into the front lines, so we've found another use for you where you can be useful but also stay out of harm's way."
Being transferred hurt a little, but The Private's nature wasn't to complain. Months of psychological scarring had made the obvious now reality, even if the increasing desperation of the UED against the Zerg had forced the Council's hand into dropping the fitness test for new recruits. Bodies had become more important than skill, and the Marine Corps resembled less of the feared squadron that the military hoped and more of a wasteland for emotionally distraught civilians, mentally destroyed from the shock of having won the conscription 'lottery' back on Earth.
Of course, even winning the real lottery was just about as depressing as getting conscripted. The ever-growing fear of extinction galvanizes people more than say, poverty in New Manhattan or a sandstorm on Mars.
That was the main emotion going around the barracks: fear. And by the looks of things, it'd crawled up the hierarchy, burrowing its way through the minds of officers.
As The Private signed the forms, saluted The Captain and largely ignored the fake pleasantries that one employs to comfort someone's who's just been fired from essentially the lowest job on the social ladder, two thoughts ran through his mind.
The first was the door which he'd sat pondering six months ago, listening to its inner workings and contemplating its place. This door would never see battle, and would never be considered for anything but a door. But no matter how unimportant, it was still absolutely essential: you'd never in a million years build rooms without doors, but you never put as much thought into a room as you would a door, even though a functioning door can be more useful than the objects inside.
His second thought was darker, more cutting: if I wasn't good enough to be a miniature cog in the grand scale, then why am I here?
The doors opened, and The Private heard the sound of the hydraulics once more - except this time, he understood that the gas wasn't created to be used in a door.
It was simply trapped.
AIM!
FIRE!
As The Private pulled the trigger a micro-dream floated into his head. Instead of hitting styrofoam targets, they would be severing the limbs of the insectoid zerglings.
Except The Private wouldn't be severing his target.
"WHAT WAS THAT PRIVATE! You came closer to hitting the OC than your target. You're not even standing up soldier. If that was the Zerg you'd be dead by now. We'd all be dead by now. FIRE AGAIN PRIVATE!"
Tightening his grip around the C-141, The Private took a breath and blinked rapidly - a shooter's technique that stops your eyes from drying out quickly - and squeezed again. Trying to fight against the recoil, The Private tightened his hands around the foregrip and pressed harder into his shoulder - only to see his shot fly wildly over the target.
"GIVE ME THAT YOU USELESS SCUM!" Snatching the rifle from his hands, The Seargant rammed the rifle into his shoulder, and then took a breath before squeezing the trigger.
The whole squadron heard the pinch of the bullet parting the styrofoam, and while the target was over 40 yards away everyone understood: it could have been 400 with The Seargant's aim.
The Private wondered why someone with that good an aim wasn't still on the field. Was there an excess of elite soldiers going unreported by the networks?
"THAT'S HOW YOU DO IT. Breathe and squeeze ladies. NOW AIM ... FIRE!"
As he continued to miss the target, albeit by ever-decreasing margins, The Sargeant and The Private had a rare moment of synchronization: if the UED were this desperate for Marines, were they really winning the war at all?
The Private was carrying out his orders. Breathe and squeeze. He even tried a few wrist exercises to limit the shaking of his hands, and adjusted his breathing pattern (this would of done nothing anyway, but it was interesting to watch someone be creative with their breathing while lying down holding a rifle).
Incompetent soldiers weren't new. The Sargeant had seen them come and go, discharged through court marshals or the port side hole in a Battlecruiser. But those soldiers were just deficient in their orders; not following, or hesitating, was the number one killer of men on the field.
In bootcamp, those men were ideal. They had the right amount of enthusiasm for battle, mixing that lust for war with the almost necessary hatred, almost racism, for the Zerg. War ill affords luxuries, sympathy and indecision least of them. Zerglings don't stop for the drive through - they simply plow through each other and burrow on through.
But The Private didn't have that lust in his eyes, that imagination picturing the biomenace lurking on Char 40 feet away from him. There wasn't fear, either, but indifference.
Perhaps it was time, The Sargeant thought, for some alternative treatment.
CHAPTER FIVE
"At ease, Private."
Folding his arms behind his back and relaxing his shoulders, The Private wondered if he was being kicked out of the grunts - the lowest form of the military, the home that would take the rejects from everywhere else. Rich, poor, smart, stupid, if you needed a home, the Marine Corps was there for you.
The infantry gave its men discipline, their reward for abandoning society in order to protect it. Men who were normally assigned to desk jobs or menial tasks could find heroism and bravery, as well as themselves, in the Marines.
Except for The Private.
It'd been six months since he transferred to Jupiter, and the regular hazing, harassment and consistent latrine detail had confirmed one thing: God didn't have a soldier in mind when he made him, and if he did it wasn't for the Marine Corps.
"Private, you're being transferred to a small research facility a few thousand clicks north of Centauri. You'll form part of the security detail for the scientists there. Your scores didn't justify sending you into the front lines, so we've found another use for you where you can be useful but also stay out of harm's way."
Being transferred hurt a little, but The Private's nature wasn't to complain. Months of psychological scarring had made the obvious now reality, even if the increasing desperation of the UED against the Zerg had forced the Council's hand into dropping the fitness test for new recruits. Bodies had become more important than skill, and the Marine Corps resembled less of the feared squadron that the military hoped and more of a wasteland for emotionally distraught civilians, mentally destroyed from the shock of having won the conscription 'lottery' back on Earth.
Of course, even winning the real lottery was just about as depressing as getting conscripted. The ever-growing fear of extinction galvanizes people more than say, poverty in New Manhattan or a sandstorm on Mars.
That was the main emotion going around the barracks: fear. And by the looks of things, it'd crawled up the hierarchy, burrowing its way through the minds of officers.
As The Private signed the forms, saluted The Captain and largely ignored the fake pleasantries that one employs to comfort someone's who's just been fired from essentially the lowest job on the social ladder, two thoughts ran through his mind.
The first was the door which he'd sat pondering six months ago, listening to its inner workings and contemplating its place. This door would never see battle, and would never be considered for anything but a door. But no matter how unimportant, it was still absolutely essential: you'd never in a million years build rooms without doors, but you never put as much thought into a room as you would a door, even though a functioning door can be more useful than the objects inside.
His second thought was darker, more cutting: if I wasn't good enough to be a miniature cog in the grand scale, then why am I here?
The doors opened, and The Private heard the sound of the hydraulics once more - except this time, he understood that the gas wasn't created to be used in a door.
It was simply trapped.