Wild Space Pt. 02

Soon, the dozen or so hold outs from the almost hundred young men and women assembled were in position. The noise quieted, startling them all.

"I am Senior Petty Officer Brill, welcome to Capital Navy Recruit Training Station, Bulwark. Over the next six weeks you will undergo a generalized and intensive military initial entry training program, the same any Capital Systems military recruit has to to graduate. This will qualify you to attend your Speciality Schools, in all of your cases, Navy schools. Best damn branch of the military and I will not have our name pissed on by the likes of you." Though Brill wasn't quite shouting, the giant blond man had to speak loudly to address all of them. "YOU! Why are you moving?!"

The other faces, anonymous, predatory and lying in wait, were already on it. A chunky boy of Jules's age had gone to his knees to rest. He tried to leap back into position but failed, falling onto his face. Questions were yelled down onto him until the boy straightened.

"EVERYONE! DOWN!" Brill yelled, and 90 shaky pairs of arms flexed as each recruit lowered themselves down, noses nearly on the floor.

"Repeat after me: attention to detail!"

"ATTENTION TO DETAIL!" 90 voices shouted in unison.

"UP!"

90 arms straightened at the elbows.

"Teamwork is key!"

"TEAMWORK IS KEY!" 90 voices shouted in unison.

"DOWN! Attention to detail!"

"ATTENTION TO DETAIL!"

"UP! Teamwork is key!"

"TEAMWORK IS KEY!"

"DOWN! Attention to detail! UP! Teamwork is key. DOWN! Attention to detail. UP! Teamwork is key."

The faces moved among them, observing, occasionally yelling at someone who didn't move fast enough. It went on and on until sweat dripped in rivulets to the hard floor, causing a few hands to slip.

90 men and women struggled. The commands came slower and slower, until they were all frozen in the UP position for more than a minute. Recruits began to shake and tumble over with the exertion.

"We'll call this a lesson learned when all 90 of you are in the same position at once. Let me see it. UP! Down. As one, now. Up! And down." Brill told them all. "Up! Down. Still not there. UP. DOWN...position of attention."

They all did so in stages, not fast enough for Brill or any of the faces under his command.

"I didn't say to 'move'! You move when I say you move. Now...down. Up. Position of attention, move."

A handful of men and women tried too soon, and a few faces shouted at them.

"We're not moving on. We will not begin Capital Navy training until this exercise is completed. Easy money for me," Brill said in a lighter tone. "I'd gladly spend the rest of my term doing this. You will spend the next 6 weeks doing this until you get it right, as a unit. You are either all correct, or all incorrect. Down."

They all moved.

"Up."

90 push ups executed in more or less unison.

"Position of attention...move."

Not all of them got it, Jules could see, but Brill either pretended they did or hadn't seen. The latter, he would find out, was simply not possible when it came to a Capital Navy noncommissioned officer. They saw all. Nevertheless, Brill and the faces didn't dwell on it as they said they would.

Each and every motion and action that day was interspaced with punishing exercise: the push up, done in four motions, the eight count push up, done in eight, sit ups, done in two, squats, done in two, mountain climbers, done in four. Each new calisthenic was introduced after a long period of repeated old ones. Brill and the faces, it seemed, grew bored with the same old, same old thing.

They were marched from their barracks, getting "dropped" to the deck repeatedly until they all more or less moved as on. Mostly less, but as time went on, Jules realized that the faces and Brill all had a schedule to keep. No matter how hard they all struggled to keep up, it could only go on for so long. It was that lone solitary that gave him comfort. That and the fact that he wasn't struggling as much as some of the heavier recruits. For once, his skinniness was an asset.

They were issued gear and told to keep track of it. None of them was eager to find out what would happen if they didn't. They were marched back to their barracks, flanked three to a side of their ragged formation by screaming faces, with Brill at their head, to put their gear into their lockers within a set amount of time. Or try to.

"Faster! WITHIN 30 SECONDS! In my day, these were still under lock and key. Now they've got biometric thumb locks. You have no excuse. Do it again!"

Each action was dissected, piece by piece, as exactingly as an autopsy. Every order was responded to. Each step was explained, fumbled, and resulted in punishment. Over the course of the entire day, 90 men and women were issued uniforms, boots, and hygiene kits. Three meals were eaten. They were made to strip, marched to the latrine and through a cascading stream of showers, each of them slapping trembling limbs with soap dispassionately before they marched onto the next frozen waterfall. 90 beds were made, torn apart by leering and shouting faces, remade, torn apart and remade again.

It all ground on and on until the skies of Bulwark darkened and they could have done the action in their sleep. All of it, over and over, until Jules thought that he had dreamed the outside world, that he had always lived in this strange place that echoed with shouting voices, where every threat was real, and every face had glittering, malicious eyes, where everyone was always afraid.

At 2100, planet time, they were instructed to stand by their beds.

"MOUNT!" Brill shouted in a voice that originated from somewhere in his pelvis, strident and undefeated, not tired in the least.

They got it wrong. All, all wrong. They did not lay in bed as one. Delighted, Senior Petty Officer Brill bade them to do push ups, which they all performed automatically, as if it was a hardwired instinct that went back years. Generations. Eons. Forever. Finally, they made it to bed.

"Welcome to Bulwark. Goodnight."

That old gray haired petty officer who had led them there the night before had been right, Jules thought as he drifted off to an exhausted sleep. None of them had the energy for exploration or play after that first night.

********

That first week blended together. Awaken to faces screaming in cream uniforms with their distinctive chained batons always at the ready. Sleepy feet were hit or a recruit flipped onto the deck. An hour or so of sweaty calisthenics, lactic acid burning Jules's muscles. His strength often gave out, sending him falling comically to the size or on his face during a push up or on his ass during a squat. He was wrong, that first day. He wasn't in any kind of shape at all, not like this. He was skinny but weak, so weak.

Then they would march to chow. Food had always been an important part of Jules's life. There had never been enough of it back home, on the capital planet of the mightiest empire that had ever ruled space. But here, for the young men and women of the Capital Navy, there was more than enough. It was plain and without spice or seasoning, but Jules was grateful. He didn't think he could deal with being sick to his stomach on top of all this. He also had enough to eat for the first time in as long as he could remember, and nowadays he needed it more than he ever had. He only wished he had more time to eat it all. The faces never allowed them more than ten minutes.

After breakfast, training. They were learning all about Capital Navy survival suit, a helmeted, crinkly black full body garment that would allegedly keep them alive in frozen space, underwater, anywhere except the heart of a star, as Senior Petty Officer Brill liked to say. But only for a few hours, until it's air had to be changed. Each survival suit came with an onboard bag of air canisters, a weapon, tools, and an internal food and water supply, all of it sealed in a hard metal rucksack strapped to the operator's back. Theoretically, the suits could keep them alive for weeks, but they were rarely needed for that long. Most important of all, the tourniquet system.

"This is one of the tourniquets," Brill said, showing them a knob at the elbow of the an empty suit he was holding in one pan sized hand.

Suits allegedly came in two sizes only, man and woman, and would change to fit either of any stature. But looking at the big blond man, Jules had to wonder.

"These knobs will save your life. Say you're forced to abandon ship, get in an escape pod, land on a hostile planet. You are stranded behind enemy lines and some goddamn bushwhacking guerrilla chops your damn arm off. You bury the business end of your knife into his throat, kill him dead, and you turn this knob with your remaining hand. Watch."

Brill did so and the suit's hand, wrist and forearm shriveled as air was sucked out of it.

"This seals in your blood from the severed limb and stood the bleeding. One at each wrist, elbow, shoulder, ankle, knee, and hip. You've seen Petty Officers walking around with their arms and legs missing? They all had to turn these knobs and lose a limb to save their own lives. I hope you kids don't have to do the same, one day."

As that first week past, speeches like this from Brill came more and more frequently. The commands to exercise did, too, but Jules felt as if he was learning something, at least. Besides how exhausted he could be at the end of the day.

"Soon we'll be training outdoors, put you all through your paces. The suits, too. The adaptable camouflage is just about the best damn thing in the Capital military. Better then the Army, even." Brill added as an afterthought.

Jules hadn't expected there to be classes, but there were, sometimes as many as three hours a day. Naval history and technology, mostly, and the history of Centralia. He knew about about his planet's history, of course, but not much from any school. What little Jules had gone to. Education was allegedly compulsory for all on Centralia, unlike most other planets. He had quickly learned that the other recruits and even the petty officers mostly came from colonies and so forth. They had all expected him to be well versed. He wasn't.

"Pretty Boy," Brill said at the start of one of these classes, on their eighth day in. The senior petty officer was using the nickname everyone now called him. "You're from Centralia, aren't you?"

"Yes, Petty Officer."

"Educate us colonial bumpkins on what you call history on the homeworld nowadays. Tell us all about the mighty, undefeated Capital Systems."

"Petty Officer, the Capital Systems or Capital Worlds, was founded in 2496, Old Time. Year Zero, New Time, Petty Officer."

"Schoolchildren know that, Pretty Boy."

"Petty Officer, the homeworld, Centralia, has been settled since time immemorial. The first great military leader on Centralia was Ana the Sea Lioness, who conquered the savages and drove them off the planet."

"More schoolboy facts, Pretty Boy. Front leaning rest." Brill said casually, and Jules dropped to the deck. Undeterred, Brill continued:

"Everyone knows about Ana the Sea Lioness and if you don't you can repair the outer hull of your first duty ship during blast off," The gorilla like blond man told the assembled recruits while Jules struggled and sweated. "Shit, the Capital Systems Navy wouldn't be what it was without her. She's on our emblem. And she was the first to use one of these, but hers were made of crab claws and seaweed. Look."

Brill showed them all the chained batons, two forearm length rods of wood connected by links of metal. They could be disconnected and each used as a simple bludgeon. One could screw then into one another, chain dangling from one end, to make a heavier, longer club for even more powerful blows. Chained together, they could be spun to intimidate or dazzle an enemy or swung in a deadly arc to incapacitate or kill. Each noncommissioned officer, petty officers in the Navy or sergeants in the Army, carried them. Any commissioned officer carried the wicked scourge, the symbol of the Capital Systems itself and its ruler, currently an empress.

"They also say the Sea Lioness was a mermaid who was kind or destructive, depending on her mood, and could turn men to pillars of sea salt and command the weather." Brill's small blue eyes narrowed. "Ana is half a legend—get up, Pretty Boy—but one wonders how she drove the savages off planet when we were still a wet Navy back then."

One thing was for sure, Jules knew, as he retook his seat, smarting from being dropped. There were no more aliens on Centralia and hadn't been for a long time. No way the officers and lords would abide that.

"Petty Officer, Recruit Magdalena requests permission to speak."

Jules was careful not to turn his head or change his expression. But there was a kind of concerned intake of breath as 89 people waited. One very rarely asked for permission to speak from a Petty Officer.

"Go ahead."

"Recruit Jules is lacking any pertinent information. I can fill in the gaps."

Jules could just picture Magdalena, a solid, tall girl of 23. Black hair always pinned up in a regulation style. A wide face. Thick arms and legs and big breasts and ass, large hands and feet. She was physically fit and practically radiated good health in a visible aura. From day one, her nickname from the petty officers had been "Breeding Material" or "BM", either due to her zaftig build or because they thought she resembled a bowel movement. If any of it bothered her, Magdalena never let on. She was tough, even with her snooty, noble accent. She was one of the few that had come from the homeworld, and the only one to come from any privilege or wealth. Jules had hated her on sight, hated her beauty, her well fed body and her rich girl attitude.

"Do so, or stop wasting my time, BM."

"Centralia is the center of human culture and of human dominance. Eons ago our ancestors dreamed of the cosmos and now hold them in our grasp. Our Navy flies from star to star and our Army fights from mountain to sea. All in between and that can be conceived is ours."

"Spoken like a do goody little asshole who knows only what's in the book. I asked for history, not propaganda, Tell me something I don't hear every time the empress opens her mouth, Breeding Material."

"Very well, Petty Officer," Magdalena said in a respectful but strong voice. "The legend says that Ana the Sea Lioness drove the aliens on Centralia off planet. But that's impossible, as you said. No space travel existed. It's more likely they were exterminated. Also, no Navy, wet or otherwise, existed at the time, though the news reels like to take credit for it."

Another sharp in take of breath. Jules had rarely cared to do that much thinking about history. The present was always a struggle, let alone reliving the struggles of the past. What Magdalena had said wasn't taboo, but who she had said it to was. To disagree with a petty officer was madness.

"You got a pair of tits on you, Recruit Magdalena," The senior petty officer said in a serious tone. "You're not wrong. Who do you go in for, recruit?"

"Sorry, Petty Officer?"

"Did you just call me a sorry petty officer?!" Brill demanded in a fiery voice. "Now. Who do you like, BM? Men or women? With what combination of parts?"

"Both, Petty Officer. With any kinds of parts." She said uncertainly.

"I'll send one of each, then. Choose a friend by lights out tonight. I'll bring in one of the mats from the gym. This is your reward for having the temerity to speak up when it comes to what's important. Our founding, our history, is important. It's important to get it right and to take pride in it." Brill stood, six feet six inches and two hundred fifty pounds of menace and motivation in a cream uniform, with the weapon of his people at his side. His cold blue gaze raked them all.

"Some of you were born into rich families and others weren't. Some of your mothers were dockside whores and others wore jewels. Your fathers were either lords or you had no fathers at all. You came from different worlds, and had different lives. But by the time you leave Bulwark, if you leave Bulwark, you will all be the same. You will be confident like me. You will talk like me. You will stand tall like me. You will have courage to defend Centralia and it's history, like Recruit Magdalena did. You will all have balls as big as this young lady has by the time your six weeks are done here. If you don't, you'll be washed out or dead. Class dismissed."

***

The rest of that day dragged for Jules. Even counting it by the meals didn't help, his usual way of judging the passing of time. After class, they had lunch chow, all 90 of them filing into the mess hall. Over the clatter of metal cutlery, the hiss of steam and the chow line workers yelling at one another, he could hear plenty of whispering. Whoever Magdalena chose as a friend was going to be in for a sweet reward that night. Jules wondered how anyone would have the energy, after all they went through each day. Hell, Senior Petty Officer Brill had dropped them three times on the way to chow.

His thoughts were interrupted by the plop of food onto a metal tray. Jules glanced down, and noted with pleasure that the meal of the day was some kind of saucy meat, stretched out with a lot of noodles and vegetables. He felt a pang of sadness. Back home, this would be an entire day's nutrition if they were lucky. Maybe if his little sister had eaten this well...

Another ladle full of food hit his tray. Jules saw that the mess hall worker had deposited some kind of pseudo gelatin dessert, a spoonful of red cubes. The recruit next to him elbowed him urgently. Jules moved on.

Jules piled more food onto his tray as he glided down the line: a hunk of bread, some cheese, a cold vegetable dish. It didn't matter what it was or how it tasted, but he found he needed it all to get through the day.

Recruits were to go to the first available seat. Jules gripped his tray and saw that the next available seat was right across from none another than Recruit Magdalena. Great.

He sidled in next to her, unaware that another had been jockeying for it. An elbow jabbed him in the side. Jules grunted, and turned his head. The kid who had crawled under his bunk that first morning glared daggers at him. Everyone wanted to talk with Magdalena, it seemed.

Of talking, they could do a little. There were always moments to catch a word or three. To talk at all was unwise, unless ordered to do so by a petty officer, but there were only seven of them and 90 recruits.

"If you're going to ask me, don't," Magdalena said around a mouthful of food, slightly muffling her insufferably noble accent. "Plenty have. I haven't decided."

"No one's asking you anything," Jules hissed back. He was only supposed to look down at his tray, but he found that over this week he had learned many skills. Eating fast was one and being able to see nearly everything from the corner of his eye was another. Carrying out an understandable conversation while eating, another newly developed skill that was proving useful now.

"Really? You're some hood rat from the outskirts. You don't want up in these noble lady's guts?"

If he hadn't found her so infuriating, Jules would have laughed. She did sound and act like a rich girl, but her language was that of the streets.

"It may surprise you but not everyone wants you, rich girl." He refused to call her Breeding Material. He had no desire to breed with her or any other woman.

"Plenty do. Brill is sending over a man, a woman, and a woman a cock from the sailor's brothel in town. Don't tell me you don't need relief."

Jules found he couldn't lie. Now, a handful of days in, he found he could enjoy things like food again. Every moment of his new life was still stressful, but his initial confusion and fear were no longer his emotional starting point for every reaction. He no longer experienced flashbacks. He was listening, learning a bit, and even taking a moment to eye up some of the recruits around him. No more playing or "racking up" as the recruits had called it had taken place after that first night. He hadn't even considered it, but as Magdalena spoke, he found that she was correct.