John Scalzi - Old Man's War

We drilled. We shot. We learned. We kept going. We didn't sleep much.

In week six, I replaced Sarah O'Connell as squad leader. E squad consistently fell behind in team exercises and that was costing the 63rd Platoon in intra-platoon competitions. Every time a trophy went to another platoon, Ruiz would grind his teeth and take it out on me. Sarah accepted it with good grace. "It's not exactly like herding kindergarteners, unfortunately," is what she had to say. Alan took her place and whipped the squad into shape. Week seven found the 63rd shooting a trophy right out from under the 58th; ironically, it was Sarah, who turned out to be a hell of a shot, who took us over the top.

In week eight, I stopped talking to my BrainPal. Asshole had studied me long enough to understand my brain patterns and began seemingly anticipating my needs. I first noticed it during a simulated live-fire exercise, when my MP-35 switched from rifle rounds to guided missile rounds, tracked, fired and hit two long-range targets, and then switched again to a flamethrower just in time to fry a nasty six-foot bug that popped out of some nearby rocks. When I realized I hadn't vocalized any of the commands, I felt a creepy vibe wash over me. After another few days, I noticed I became annoyed whenever I would actually have to ask Asshole for something. How quickly the creepy becomes commonplace.

In week nine, I, Alan and Martin Garabedian had to provide a little administrative discipline to one of Martin's recruits, who had decided that he wanted Martin's squad leader job and was not above attempting a little sabotage to get it. The recruit had been a moderately famous pop star in his past life and was used to getting his way through whatever means necessary. He was crafty enough to enlist some squadmates into the conspiracy, but unfortunately for him, was not smart enough to realize that as his squad leader, Martin had access to the notes he was passing. Martin came to me; I suggested that there was no reason to involve Ruiz or the other instructors in what could easily be resolved by ourselves.

If anyone noticed a base hovercraft briefly going AWOL later that night, they didn't say anything. Likewise if anyone saw a recruit dangling from it upside down as it passed dangerously close to some trees, the recruit held to the hovercraft only by a pair of hands on each ankle. Certainly no one claimed to hear either the recruit's desperate screaming, or Martin's critical and none-too-favorable examination of the former pop star's most famous album. Master Sergeant Ruiz did note to me at breakfast the next morning that I was looking a little windblown; I replied that it may have been the brisk thirty-klick jog he had us run prior to the meal.

In week eleven, the 63rd and several other platoons dropped into the mountains north of the base. The objective was simple; find and wipe out every other platoon and then have the survivors make it back to base, all within four days. To make things interesting, each recruit was fitted with a device that registered shots taken at them; if one connected, the recruit would feel paralyzing pain and then collapse (and then be retrieved, eventually, by drill instructors watching nearby). I knew this because I had been the test case back on base, when Ruiz wanted to show an example. I stressed to my platoon that they did not want to feel what I felt.

The first attack came almost as soon as we hit the ground. Four of my recruits went down before I spotted the shooters and called them to the attention of the platoon. We got two; two got away. Sporadic attacks over the next few hours made it clear that most of the other platoons had broken into squads of three or four and were hunting for other squads.

I had another idea. Our BrainPals made it possible for us to maintain constant, silent contact with each other regardless of whether we were standing close to one another or not. Other platoons seemed to be missing the implications of this fact, but that was too bad for them. I had every member of the platoon open a secure BrainPal communication line with every other member, and then I had each platoon member head off individually, charting terrain and noting the location of enemy squads they spotted. This way, we would all have an ever-widening map of the ground and the positions of the enemy. Even if one of our recruits got picked off, the information they provided would help another platoon member avenge his or her death (or at least keep from getting killed right away). One soldier could move quickly and silently and harass the other platoon's squads, and still work in tandem with other soldiers when the opportunity arose.

It worked. Our recruits took shots when they could, laid low and passed on information when they couldn't, and worked together when opportunities presented themselves. On the second day, I and a recruit named Riley picked off two squads from opposing platoons; they were so busy shooting at each other that they didn't notice Riley and me sniping them from a distance. He got two, I got three and the other three apparently got each other. It was pretty sweet. After we were done, we didn't say anything to each other, just faded back into the forest and kept tracking and sharing terrain information.

Eventually the other platoons figured out what we were doing and tried to do the same, but by that time, there were too many of the 63rd, and not enough of them. We mopped them up, getting the last of them by noon, and then started our jog into base, some eighty klicks away. The last of us made it in by 1800. In the end, we lost nineteen members of the platoon, including the four at the beginning. But we were responsible for just over half of the total kills across seven other platoons, while losing less than a third of our own people. Even Master Sergeant Ruiz couldn't complain about that. When the base commander awarded him the War Games trophy, he even cracked a smile. I can't even imagine how much it hurt him to do that.

"Our luck will never cease," the newly minted Private Alan Rosenthal said as he came up to me at the shuttle boarding area. "You and I got assigned to the same ship."

Indeed we had. A quick jaunt back to Phoenix on the troop ship Francis Drake, and then leave until the CDFS Modesto came to call. Then we'd hook up with the 2nd Platoon, Company D, of the 233rd CDF Infantry Battalion. One battalion per ship—roughly a thousand soldiers. Easy to get lost. I'd be glad to have Alan with me once again.

I glanced over to Alan and admired his clean, new Colonial blue dress uniform—in no small part because I was wearing one just like it. "Damn, Alan," I said. "We sure look good."

"I've always loved a man in uniform," Alan said to me. "And now that I'm the man in the uniform, I love him even more."

"Uh-oh," I said. "Here comes Master Sergeant Ruiz."

Ruiz had spotted me waiting to board my shuttle; as he approached I put down the duffel bag that contained my everyday uniform and few remaining personal belongings, and presented him with a smart salute.

"At ease, Private," Ruiz said, returning the salute. "Where are you headed?"

"The Modesto, Master Sergeant," I said. "Private Rosenthal and I both."

"You're shitting me," Ruiz declared. "The 233rd? Which company?"

"D, Master Sergeant. Second Platoon."

"Out-fucking-standing, Private," Ruiz said. "You will have the pleasure in serving in the platoon of Lieutenant Arthur Keyes, if that dumb son of a bitch hasn't managed to have his ass chewed on by now by some alien or another. When you see him, extend to him my compliments, if you would. You may additionally tell him that Master Sergeant Antonio Ruiz has declared that you are not nearly the dipshit that most of your fellow recruits have turned out to be."

"Thank you, Master Sergeant."