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  The faint whine of a hover jeep approached from the right. With five sets of eyes on the platoon, Rizer didn’t dare turn his head. The whining ceased. Bootheels clopped in a slightly uneven rhythm as an officer marched forth and faced the gunnery sergeant.

  The gunny saluted crisply. “Platoon Twenty-Eighty-Four all present and accounted for!”

  The officer returned the salute, and the gunnery sergeant posted behind him. The officer, silver captain’s bars on his shoulder boards, gazed upon the platoon. Officers supervised training yet did not participate in the process; therefore, he wore the traditional Marine Corps octagon cap as opposed to a campaign cover. The stiffness of his right arm and lower left leg betrayed the appendages as prosthetic. A thick scar ran down his left cheek from cover to jawline. His eyes were dark, cold, and dead yet liable to explode into fiery life at any moment. Rizer sensed a hard-bitten weariness in the captain who had obviously witnessed events too grisly for Rizer to even attempt understanding.

  The captain eyeballed them for several moments, then spoke in a firm, even tone more powerful than any shouted command: “Men, women, I am your series commander, Captain Ainsworth. You have been assigned to Platoon Twenty-Eighty-Four, Fox Company, Second Recruit Training Battalion, Seventh Recruit Training Regiment. I applaud your initiative in joining the United Systems Alliance Marine Corps. Over the next forty weeks you will undergo the most grueling and demanding training of any military force in the galaxy. We demand excellence from every one of you and will accept nothing less. You have never before undertaken such a daunting challenge—”

  A noise like a trombone wavering from underwater interrupted the captain. Rizer nearly flinched, then wrinkled his nose at the rotten-fish stink of Stubneski’s fart. The captain and DIs appeared not to notice.

  “—and only the strongest among you—those with indomitable courage, determination, and fortitude—will see this long and arduous journey through to the end. We are an exclusive brotherhood, bonded in service, hardened by the crucible of combat, and most of you do not have what it takes to join our ranks. But those who do will earn the eagle, star, and anchor along with the title of United Systems Marine.”

  He turned abruptly and faced the gunnery sergeant. “Take charge and carry out the plan of the day.”

  “Aye, sir,” the gunny responded, saluting.

  Captain Ainsworth returned the courtesy before marching back to the hover jeep, presumably bound to address the next platoon under his command.

  The gunny put the four DIs behind him at ease, then faced the platoon. “At ease! I am Gunnery Sergeant Brooks, your series chief drill instructor. Your day-to-day training will be conducted by the drill instructors behind me: Staff Sergeant Mack, your senior drill instructor; drill instructor Sergeant Burrmaster, and combat training bots Alpha 2-6 and Bravo 1-7.”

  His voice had been low and raspy when addressing his commander, yet now seemed to boom across the base. “The purpose of your training is to forge elite warriors—nothing less. Take a good long look around you.”

  The recruits turned their heads, hesitantly at first, eyeing their fellow recruits.

  “Now say goodbye to most of your fellow recruits. Eighty-five percent of you will wash out somehow—injury, failure to meet training standards, death, or simply by quitting.” He walked along the first rank, letting the revelation sink in even though they’d heard it before. “This isn’t a prison, and we aren’t conscripts here, but rather an all-volunteer force. DOR—do you know what that is?”

  “Yes, sir!” the recruits replied as one.

  “Drop on request. All you have to do is say it, and your training ends. There’s no shame in quitting. Not everyone is capable of becoming a Marine. Those of you who fail will serve out your enlistment as contracted civilians for the Corps or the Alliance Navy. You could find yourself cleaning shitters on a star cruiser at the edge of the galaxy, or you might have the privilege of becoming a medical test subject. But one thing’s for certain—you signed a contract, people, and your asses belong to the Alliance, one way or the other. I’d wish you luck, but you’ll need a hell of a lot more than that to wear this.” He pointed to the eagle, star, and anchor above the stack of campaign ribbons on his chest. “Platoon, at-ten-tion!”

  Riser snapped to, heels clicking smartly. Gunny Brooks turned to the DIs and ordered them to attention—then he uttered a command Mark Rizer would never forget: “Drill instructors, make them Marines.”

  “Aye, sir!” the DIs responded, saluting. They stood motionless, marble statues, as Gunny Brooks marched away to lecture the next platoon.

  And then, as though triggered by a silent alarm, the DIs animated and stalked toward the platoon, halting a few steps short of the first rank. “I am your senior drill instructor, Staff Sergeant Mack,” the female DI snapped, expression thoroughly pissed off as she scrutinized the platoon. The bots moved off to harass the back two ranks, while Sgt Burrmaster stood at her side. “And I’m gonna give you idiots one chance to get on my good side. I wanna know who the fuck farted while the series commander was talking.”

  No one spoke.

  Mack nodded gravely. “All right, Eighty-Four, you wanna play games? Get on your faces and push!”

  Rizer dropped into the pushup position.

  Mack hollered, “Oh hell no, too fucking slow, get up now!”

  Rizer leaped to his feet.

  “Now get down and push! Too slow, get up!”

  Five times this occurred, but Rizer was soon on his face pumping out pushups. Forge’s strong gravity and fifty-odd pounds of gear on his back conspired to nail him to the pavement.

  “Faster, freak!” one of the bots shouted from behind.

  “Aw, you wanna quit, boy?” Burrmaster growled. The toes of his boots stood in front of Deezeman’s face as the kid struggled to do another pushup.

  “No, sir!”

  “You best start pushin’ then.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Oh, I know you didn’t look at me with them bedroom eyes! You wanna fuck me, is that it?”

  “No, sir!”

  Mack laughed. “Look at that piece of shit, Sergeant Burrmaster. He’ll be gone in an hour”

  “Bitch’ll be dead in an hour if he looks at me again.”

  “Let’s go!” Mack shouted. “Push harder! Up down up down up down! This is just the beginning, people. If you can’t hack this, you should do some serious fucking soul searching.”

  Rizer’s arms burned as though his blood had turned to acid. His spine screamed and his lungs shouted for air. They’d done calisthenics in Receiving, but not with fifty pounds on their backs, and never for this long.

  “Feet!” Mack strutted before the platoon as they stood. “Yeah, move a little slower too! So we ready to come clean, Eighty-Four? Who farted? Who embarrassed me in front of the series commander? Who made a noise that could get us all killed in combat?”

  Somebody laughed; the others remained silent.

  “Well, well.” Burrmaster shouldered between Rizer and Deezeman to the second rank, toward the laugher. “You a special kind of stupid, son.” A beefy slap followed the comment. “You like to fart in formation, do you?” Another smack.

  “No, sir!” Abek.

  “You better fucking tell us!” Mack roared. “Or Sergeant Burrmaster will slap the tan right off your goddamn pretty-boy face!”

  “It was him!”

  “Really?”

  Rizer found SSgt Mack staring him in the face. Back in the civilian world he might have found her attractive, in a cruel dominatrix sort of way. But he didn’t even think it; he registered nothing but her blue eyes agleam with the fever of rage. “Well, aren’t you fucking special.” Her backhand across his jaw snapped Rizer’s head to the side.

  His own rage boiled as he thought of Stubneski, the real culprit, standing stone-still next to him. You motherfucker!

  “I am gonna seriously fuck you—”

  �
�I did it, ma’am,” Stubneski confessed.

  Mack’s eyes mercifully disappeared from Rizer’s sight. “What’s your name, dipshit?”

  “Recruit Stubneski, ma’am!”

  “You’re about to teach your platoon a lesson, Stubneski. It’s time you shitbags learned your first bit of Corps lingo. This tower of elephant shit is what we call a buddy fucker.” A grunted oof followed her pronouncement. “This is the guy who fucks up and lets someone else take the blame.” A fist smacked against flesh. “The big stupid fuck whose noisy asshole gives away his squad and gets everyone killed.”

  Rizer’s eyes flicked to the right as Mack, who stood over a head shorter than Stubneski, grabbed him by the collar and pulled him from formation. She tripped him, shoved him hard—his face smacked into the pavement. Mack wasn’t a dainty woman by any means; her form-fitting uniform accentuated a fit body honed to muscular perfection. Still, the ease with which she’d thrown down Stubneski astonished Rizer.

  Mack kicked Stubneski in the ribs once, twice, three times, with her thick composite boots. “Get used to it, Stubneski. You’ll receive a lot worse in the fleet if you buddy fuck your pals.” She kept kicking him in utterly ruthless fashion.

  Rizer knew little about Stubneski, an intimidating figure whom he’d avoided in Receiving, yet another who claimed to have served hard time. But Stubneski wasn’t dumb enough to fight back against his DI. The merciless beating not only continued but intensified as Mack peppered damn near every centimeter of his large frame with vicious kicks. Fuck, she’s going to kill him!

  Sgt Burrmaster and the bots certainly wouldn’t stop her; they were too busy slapping around other recruits.

  Breaking ranks was a cardinal sin in the Marine Corps—stepping between a DI and a recruit was utter blasphemy. Rizer took his life in his hands and did both, finding himself standing between a predator and her prey.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, shitstain?” Mack growled at him. Though she didn’t lose her bearing, Rizer could tell his audacity had stunned her. Hell, it certainly stunned him. “What’s your name, recruit?”

  “Recruit Rizer, ma’am.”

  She studied him for a second, sizing him up, or perhaps accessing information from a bionic implant. “Well, Rizer, I must admit that I’m impressed. You have a lot of balls.” A split second later she drove her knee into Rizer’s crotch, doubling him over in agony. “That’s good. I like big targets.” Mack then smashed him in the face with an uppercut that laid him on the deck.

  When next he opened his eyes, Rizer found himself staring into Stubneski’s bloodied face. His own mug probably looked no prettier.

  “Maybe you’re not such a prick, Rizer,” Stubneski muttered.

  “On your feet, Rizer!” Mack shouted. “And bring this idiot with you. Time you learned another lesson: the Marine Corps isn’t for the weak or stupid. Stubneski is your baggage now. Get him in formation!”

  “Aye, ma’am!” It took a bit of doing to get Stubneski on his feet. Fortunately, Mack left them alone during the process to lay a beating on Abek, whom she eloquently dubbed, “buddy fucker two.”

  “She got that right, anyway,” Rizer muttered to Stubneski as he got him in formation.

  “Yeah,” Stubneski gasped, shaky on his feet. “Thanks, man, I—”

  “Ya’ll wanna whisper to each other, like you’re parked on Lovers’ Lane?” growled Burrmaster, who had materialized before them like a wraith from ether.

  “No, sir!” Rizer and Stubneski responded.

  “Shut your fuckin’ sucks, then.” Burrmaster moved along.

  Having had her fill of thrashing and beating recruits for the moment, Mack again took her place before the platoon. She ordered a right face and marched them toward blocky buildings of several stories far in the distance, barely silhouetted by the first light of day. “Double time … March!” Mack ordered.

  “Marine Corps!” the platoon shouted, as they’d been taught to do in Receiving. They took off at a jog, with Burrmaster calling the cadence: “Left, left, your left, right, left!” The recruits echoed his every sentence as they ran.

  Stubneski, grimacing and grabbing his ribs, started to fall behind, holding up Rizer and the rest of the squad. “Keep him in formation, Rizer!” Mack said. “Or I’ll bounce you right along with him.”

  Rizer got alongside him and draped the big man’s arm over his shoulder. His plan to try to remain under the radar throughout bootcamp had been blown to shit in the first hour. Dumb and dumber, he thought as he tried to run while supporting Stubneski. But which one am I?

  Exhaustion quelled any further thoughts as Platoon 2084 ran on into the lightening sky.

  CHAPTER 2

  The sun was setting on a day that refused to end.

  Rizer stood in sandy muck many centimeters deep, every muscle burning as he strained to keep the log held high over his head. About half a meter in diameter, the log weighed at least 60 kilos and had convenient grab irons recessed into the surface. His deltoids spasmed in violent twitches as he struggled to keep it aloft.

  “Who wants to drop their log?” Mack asked as she paced before them, arms clasped behind her back, a stun baton clipped to her black duty belt. “Who else wants to drop outta my platoon?”

  Rizer shivered at yet another chilly blast of wind off the nearby lake and almost dropped his log. The temperature had fallen along with the sun, not that they’d seen much of the weak white star that Forge orbited. It had rained on and off for most of the day, much to SSgt Mack’s approval.

  “If it ain’t rainin’, we ain’t trainin’!” she’d repeated roughly a dozen times during the last sixteen hours.

  Most of those hours passed on the wide asphalt square known as the Grinder, a showpiece of human torture located dead center in the quad of six-story barracks housing the recruits of Second Battalion. Pull-up bars, racks of barbells and dumbbells, rope climbing towers, climbing walls, and several rows of various electronic cardio machines studded the Grinder’s surface. Past the Grinder spread a large PT field with an array of obstacles and several sand pits like the one where they presently stood. In the center of the PT field loomed the Hill, a sandy ramp over fifty meters long, pitched at around forty degrees, its summit about fifteen meters high. Rizer had yet to train on the Hill; he was one of the lucky ones, at least for the moment.

  “You’re lookin’ a little shaky there, Rizer,” Mack taunted. “You wanna give up? Sacrifice yourself for the good of your platoon?”

  “No, ma’am!”

  “That’s too bad because we aren’t quitting until someone else drops. Might as well be you; you don’t have what it takes to be a Marine.”

  Rizer believed she might be correct—he couldn’t fathom how anyone could endure forty weeks of this shit. How could there be any Marines in the galaxy other than the bots who emerged from the factory fully programmed and imbued with bionic strength? Six recruits had dropped on request already. Rizer had already forgotten their faces.

  Deezeman groaned, threw his log down and collapsed ass-backward into the mud.

  “Aw yeah, we got a dropper!” Mack crowed. “You ready to DOR?”

  “No, ma’am!” Deezeman gasped. Utter exhaustion pitched his voice to nearly a feminine rasp.

  “Pick it up!”

  Deezeman hesitated.

  “Suit yourself. Hit him, Bravo!”

  Bravo appeared, dragging a fire hose. He opened the spout and blasted Deezeman where he lay floundering like a landed fish, gagging and coughing up water. Rizer and the rest of platoon looked on as they struggled with their logs.

  “You slackers don’t wanna play logs anymore? Drop ’em and get on your backs! Sit-ups now!”

  Rizer dropped his log and flopped onto his back.

  “Ready… exercise! One, two, three…”

  “One!” the platoon shouted.

  Every exercise in the Corps was a four-count movement for some reason, so two sit
-ups only counted as one.

  Twenty-five sit-ups later Mack barked, “Pick up your logs now!”

  Rizer rose wearily and grabbed the handles on his log, lifting it to crotch level.

  “Ready… lift! Get ’em up! Get those logs up now!”

  Rizer felt like tossing his log right at her as she moved up and down the front rank. Never had he hated a woman—if she could be called that—with such fervor. But for the short, braided ponytail of red hair protruding from beneath her campaign cover, she didn’t much resemble a female. Her face might have looked feminine, perhaps even attractive, if it wasn’t constantly contorted into a scowl.

  “Who’s it gonna be? Someone’s about to drop, I can feel it! But maybe you clowns will get lucky.” She pointed to the Hill. “Maybe it’ll be one of them.”

  For ‘grab-assing’ in formation, Abek and Hagel had been singled out for special training. They presently carried a massive log up the Hill on their shoulders under the critical eye of Sgt Burrmaster, who berated them constantly for moving too slowly. They’d been at it for about half an hour. God only knew how many times they’d trekked up the Hill. Rizer couldn’t root against Hagel since he barely knew him, but Abek was a different story. Drop already, you fucking asshole!

  Another log and another recruit splashed down in the mud. “Who’s this now! You wanna quit? What the fuck is your name, maggot?”

  Maddox. But Maddox didn’t answer—he’d fallen unconscious from pain and overexertion, still unaccustomed to Forge’s gravity.

  “Med bots up!” At Mack’s order, two Navy bots in green camo with red cross emblems jogged toward the platoon, one shouldering a stretcher and the other a medical kit. The United Systems Navy controlled the Marine Corps and supplied all the Corps’ medical personnel. Marines were killers, not healers. The med bots followed the platoon wherever it went. Distant ambulance sirens were perhaps the most ubiquitous sound Rizer had come to associate with bootcamp, other than Mack’s constant epithets.