Recruit - Jonathan Brazee (highly illogical behavior .txt) 📗
- Author: Jonathan Brazee
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“Hey, Smitty . . .” Sparta began, putting his hand on the other corporal’s shoulder.
“You think I’m going to Golf? No, they only take the most stellar Marines, so I guess I’m stuck here with all you asshole rejects,” Ryck said.
Smitty was a good guy, but a drunk was a drunk, and it was hard to know how he would take some trash talk when seven sheets to the wind.
“Hah! Yeah, motherfuckers! Fox asshole rejects! We rejected that fuckin’ dumbass king, though. Let me tell you, Ryck, you are always welcome back here to Fuckin’ Fox Rejects! Here, let me get you another beer.”
Ryck hadn’t even opened the last one Smitty had given him only a few moments before, but he took the next one, too. Sams came back with yet another beer, saw Ryck had two unopened, shrugged, and opened the one he brought and took a swig.
“You should have been with us on Barrow. I mean, it was just for a celebration. You wouldn’t need your arm for that. They treated us like kings!”
“Fuck, yeah,” Smitty added.
“And there was this . . .”
“No, wait,” Ryck interrupted Sams. “Let me guess. There was this redhead, 20 years old, about 1.6 meters, big tits, who just wanted to show you around town.”
“Uh, well, she was a brunette, and she was 25,” he protested as the others hooted in laughter.
“He’s got you pegged, Sams,” Hu shouted.
“He got her the first day, but don’t forget that heavy-worlder, the teacher, just before we flew out,” Mabala, one of the new Marines added.
“A heavy-worlder?” Ryck asked Sams.
“And what’s wrong with a heavy-worlder?” T-Rex asked.
“Nothing if he’s a Marine beside you? But what, she had to outweigh him by 30, 40 kilos?”
“Ah, just remember, my mother’s a heavy-worlder. Sister, too,” T-Rex said without rancor.
“Well, yeah, she was heavier than me, but only by maybe 10 kilos. Real good in the sack, though,” Sams said.
That started a conversation on the relative merits of women from various worlds. Ryck sat back, just happy to take it all in. It was like he’d never been gone.
In the middle of the ballroom, some Marines were playing VSTOL. They had looped a rope around one of the ballroom’s rafters (a Mövenpick staff had tried to stop that, then wisely retreated leaving the Marines to the field of battle) so Marines could grab the running end while another end, the one coming down from the rafter, was tied onto a very drunk sergeant. A table was set up under the sergeant. The goal was to lower the sergeant so he landed on the table, not touching the floor. This was the VSTOL part of it, the Vertical and Short Takeoff and Landing. Not too hard. Except that other Marines were the “crosswinds.” They pummeled the sergeant, grabbed and swung him, threw drinks and chairs at him, anything to get him swinging and missing the table. The landing crew had to time the swinging in order to drop him on target. Ryck watched as the landing team almost made it, only to watch the hapless sergeant bounce off the edge of the table to land hard on the floor.
Mess games had been going on for hundreds of years, although in the days of ocean navies, VSTOL was most likely not one of them. But the mess night, the celebration of who they were and of their brotherhood, that hadn’t changed over the centuries.
“Hey Ryck, you had some of those conservative religious groups on your home planet, right? Didn’t you tell me that? Mabala here, he says the religious girls are conservative on the outside but tigers in bed. Is that true?” Sams asked.
Ryck laughed and turned back to his friends, his brothers. He’d been down and out, a little lost at sea over the last several months. His fellow Marines had dragged him back, and he was good to go.
“Well, it’s like this. Those religious girls, in their long clothes, that gets them hot in more ways than one,” he started on a sea story, one probably only 10% based on truth, which for a sea story, made it practically gospel.
Luminosity
Chapter 24
“Biofeedback, 100%. Tamberhall, let’s get the weapons pack on and run it through. Time’s getting pretty short,” CWO3 William Weston, the Golf Company ordnance officer told Corporal Jasper Tamberhall, one of his enlisted armorers.
Lance Corporal Ryck Lysander patiently waited while Tamberhall pushed the button that lifted and attached his weapons pack. While each PICS’ longjohns, the tight inner, sensor-laden skinsuit that a Marine wore while in his mech, was individually fitted to each Marine, the PICS themselves, although specifically assigned to an individual Marine, were still one-size-fits-all. That required regular maintenance to ensure the longjohns were communicating with the PICS’ brain. This was not often a problem, but the weapons pack was a little different. Weapons packs were mission-loaded, and a Marine could get any of the normal loads and some custom loads, depending on the mission and his specific task in the mission. As a Marine could get any weapons pack, the connections had to be checked and re-checked before he was sent into harm’s way. In an emergency, a Marine could just suit up and go, but when there was time, a partial, or preferably, a full check was made.
Ryck, as a semi-trained armorer, had helped CWO3 Weston as the testing commenced, but now it was his turn. He had to get back to his squad and get ready for the landing.
“Pack 2, attached. Commencing analytics,” Tamberhall said as the chief warrant officer walked down the line to the next testing station.
Corporal Tamberhall had all the information in front of him, but the armorers always vocalized. Mix-ups could happen, and an assaultman who showed up to blow a door with a Pack 1 instead of the EOD Pack 5 would be useless, and the mission could fail. It was up to the Marine himself to listen to the armorer and to check the readout on his visor, to make sure he had the correct pack.
Ryck was the fire team’s heavy gunner for the mission, so Pack 2 was correct.
“Weapons pack check, 100%,” Tamberhall said about 20 seconds later. “You are cleared for combat. Next!” he shouted.
Ryck stepped off the platform, went to the walk-in, and popped the PICS, wiggling out the back and leaving the empty suit standing in its assigned spot. As always, Ryck pictured the empty combat suit as the shell of a cicada as the adult insect, Ryck, in this case, wormed free of it. Ryck was in the longjohns for the duration, but the PICS would sit there, an armed Navy bosun in the walk-in for security, until it was time to launch.
He checked his watch. There was just enough time to get some chow before he had to be at the final brief. He was actually a little too excited to eat, but a good Marine ate when he could, not knowing when the next opportunity would arise. He could be inside his PICs for quite some time, and the nutritional base fed to them while in the PICS, the “ghost shit,” did little to assuage hunger even if it kept the body going.
He thought back to Smitty back on the Dirtball, who had accused him of wanting to go to Golf when he returned to full-duty. Ryck had been serious at the time that he wanted to come back to Fox, where his friends were. He was surprised, then, when his orders were to Golf. His time in the armory probably had something to do with it. Golf was the battalion’s heavy company, with two platoons being heavy and only one being light instead of the other way around. Even then, the “light platoon” spent more time training in PICS than the lights in the other companies and could suit up if the need arose. Ryck wasn’t assigned as an armorer, even if CWO4 Heng had hinted that Ryck could make the switch if he so desired. But Ryck wanted back into a fire-team. So, he was with the Second Fire Team, First Squad, First Platoon. Corporal Nimoto was his fire team leader, Sergeant Phantawisangtong his squad leader. At first, Ryck thought it just the worst coincidence he could imagine. But it wasn’t a coincidence. King Tong had specifically asked for him. And it really hadn’t turned out to be that bad. Squad Leader King Tong was not the same man as Drill Instructor King Tong. “Hecs,” he was called by the other NCOs, but to Ryck, he was still King Tong.
Ryck hustled to Enlisted Galley D. This was not the little Adelaide. This was the FS Praecipua, a Prion Class battlecruiser, named for the battle during the War of the First Reaches. It was a modern dreadnaught, a huge ship, and the entire battalion was embarked. The ship itself was probably overkill. It wasn’t like it could unleash its planet busters in this case. But the brass probably hoped that just the appearance of the big ship would quell the situation. If that happened, then the Marines would just have been passengers. Ryck knew he should wish for that. But after a year-and-a-half of inactivity, he hoped for some action. He knew he should feel ashamed about that, but the fact was that he didn’t.
Galley D was the unofficial Marine galley. Technically, a sailor, Marine, or members of the FCDC advance party could eat at any enlisted galley, but in practice, the enlisted men and women tended to segregate themselves. The Marines took over Galley D as it was close to their main berthing. Ryck and a few others had eaten breakfast that morning at Galley B, just to see if there was a difference between “Navy food” and “Marine food.” There wasn’t.
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