Marko Kloos - Terms of Enlistment

Then we swear our Oath of Service. There’s something almost mystical about a few thousand voices chanting the same words in unison.

“I solemnly swear and affirm to loyally serve the North American Commonwealth, and to bravely defend its laws and the freedom of its citizens.”

Then we’re sworn in, active soldiers in the Armed Forces of the North American Commonwealth, graduates of Basic Training, the ten-percenters that have made it through twelve weeks of endless PT, lectures, physical and mental exams, and stress-test scenarios. We’re ready to be let loose on the universe, to fight and die for the Commonwealth. There’s only one thing left to do, and that’s to find out what exactly the military has deemed to be our best use.

Back in the platoon bay, our lockers are already emptied, and our duffel bags and rucksacks packed with our gear. Our instructors are standing in the middle of the bay, and we file into the room intent on taking our usual positions of attention in front of our lockers, but Sergeant Burke waves us off.

“At ease, people. Basic Training ended thirty minutes ago. Gather ‘round to get your assignments.”

Sergeant Harris hands him a stack of printed forms, and he goes through them top to bottom. We all cluster around him in anticipation. They’ve determined our final assignments, and now we will learn where and how we will spend the next fifty-seven months of our service careers.

“Garcia— Marines . Second Battalion, Fifth Marines. You’re going to tank school after Marine Induction.”

Garcia accepts the form with a grin, and Sergeant Burke shakes his hand.

“Well done. Kennedy— Marines . First Battalion, Seventh Marines. Infantry School.”

Kennedy accepts his orders, shakes the Sergeant’s hand, and steps out of the cluster of remaining recruits to gather his junk.

“Halley— Navy .”

The rest of us cheer. Navy is the brass ring everyone’s secretly aiming for. I grin as she steps forward to receive her orders. Sergeant Burke takes out another form and puts it on top of Halley’s orders before handing her both.

“You’ll be a drop ship jock. You’re also promoted to E-2 as of this moment. You managed the highest aggregate test scores. That’s quite an accomplishment. I haven’t had a graduate get a Navy slot in three Basic Training cycles.”

“Thank you, sir,” Halley says, her face radiant with excitement. I feel a stab of envy—she’ll be reporting to Fleet School right away, and she’ll probably get to see Earth from space before the end of the week.

“Ricci— Marines . Third Battalion, Third Marines. Mobile field artillery. You’ll be a cannon cocker.”

I had expected him to react to a Marine assignment by making good on his promise and resigning his contract on the spot, but he merely takes the orders from Sergeant Burke and gives him a sharp salute before stepping out of line.

“Grayson,” Sergeant Burke says, and my stomach twists as I await the final word on my fate.

“ Territorial Army . Congratulations—you’re staying Earthside.”

Twelve recruits left in Platoon 1066, and eleven of them are going into space. I’m the only one who will get to serve on Earth, doing the shittiest job in the Armed Forces: domestic garbage hauler for the NAC.

I stay impassive when I hear Sergeant Burke’s words, but my first instinct is to punch him in the face. Congratulations? I don’t think I’ve given him any reason to dislike me, at least no more or less than the other recruits, but that word makes it sound like he’s mocking me.

I gather my gear without enthusiasm, my head still spinning with the revelation that I won’t be going into space after all. Still, I made it through Basic, I want the bank account, and I don’t want to waste all the sweat I’ve put into this career already, so I suppress the urge to throw the print-out with my orders at Sergeant Fallon’s feet. The alternative is a shuttle back to the Public Residence Cluster, and whatever the TA has in store for me, there’s nothing that can be worse than that.

“Grayson,” Sergeant Burke says as I shoulder my duffel bag.

“Sir.” I slide the bag off my shoulder to stand at attention, but he waves his hand in dismissal.

“At ease. You don’t seem too happy with your assignment.”

“No, sir,” I say, trying to not look dejected.

“There’s not a thing wrong with the Territorial Army. I was TA myself before I was assigned a Drill Instructor slot.”

“I was looking forward to going into space, sir. TA gets all the shit jobs.”

Sergeant Burke looks at me and shakes his head with a snort.

“TA is the real military,” he says. “Let me tell you something about the spaceborne careers. The Navy guys spend their service mopping decks in windowless metal tubes. The Marines get to go play battle kabuki with the SRA, one company against another, arranged like a fucking sporting event. That’s not soldiering, that’s jerking off. They’re so convinced they’re the sharp tip of the spear, but you know what? Any TA company I’ve ever served with could mop the floor with any Marine company. You know why TA gets all the shit jobs? Because nobody else could handle ‘em, that’s why.

“Go and get on the bus,” he says, nodding toward the door. “Don’t listen to those future space bus drivers and garrison troops about how fucking lucky they are. They don’t know shit about shit yet, and neither do you. Now get out of here, and forget about what you were ‘looking forward to’. This is the military, and nobody gives a shit about what we want. We take what we’re served, and we ask for seconds, and that’s the way it goes.”

There’s a bus waiting to take us to the shuttle port. The ride into the base three months ago was a solitary experience, scared and anxious recruits sitting by themselves. The ride out is much more of a social event, as we take the opportunity to talk to our platoon mates one last time.

“You going to be okay?” Halley asks me as she watches me reading over my printed orders. I am to report to my Territorial Army unit at Fort Shughart in Ohio. She’ll be reporting to Navy Induction at Great Lakes.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll be fine. It’s not like I was expecting five years of milk and cookies, anyway.”

“Just keep your head low, you hear? I want to get mail from you every week.”

“You’ll be on a Navy ship,” I say. “You might be out of network for weeks, you know.”

“You’ll still send those messages,” Halley says. “I’ll check the time stamps. And if you get yourself killed, you’ll be in deep shit with me.”

“Noted,” I grin. “And likewise.”

At the shuttle port, we say our final good-byes to each other. The future Marines are all on the same shuttle to Camp Puller, where all the new Marines from east of the Mississippi are trained. Halley and I are on separate shuttles.

“Take care,” she says.

“You too.”

We kiss one last time, this time more like brother and sister. I watch as she walks to her gate, duffel bag over her shoulder.

And just like that, I’m right back where I was when I boarded the shuttle at the Processing Station twelve weeks ago: alone, anxious, and clueless about what the next few days will bring.

My new unit is B Company, 365th Autonomous Infantry Regiment, Third Infantry Division. The 365th is stationed at Fort Shughart, a massive base on the outskirts of the Dayton metroplex. The TA seems ruthlessly efficient—I am expecting a repeat of the administrative snail trail from the first day of my service career, but I am directed to my company building, assigned to a squad, and given a locker and bunk in one of the squad rooms not thirty minutes after my arrival on the military bus from the Dayton shuttle port.