John Ringo: Vorpal Blade

“Bergstresser, Eric, PFC,” he said, holding up his ID to the guard behind the glass. The guard was a civilian, not a Marine, but he was relatively young and armed for war with an MP-7 on a three-point combat strap hooked into his chest, boron carbide helmet and heavy body armor. “I’m reporting for duty.”

“Hold your ID up to the scanner,” the guard said, gesturing with his chin. The guard checked his computer, then nodded. “Hold there for escort.”

“Aye, aye,” Berg said, taking a position of parade rest.

“Nugget?” the guard asked through the intercom, smiling slightly.

“Yes, sir,” Berg replied. “I’ve only been in Recon for three months.”

“I used to be Recon,” the guard said, glancing at his monitors. “Welcome to Wonderland. Here comes your escort.”

The heavy steel door to the room opened and a first sergeant in Mar-Cam stepped into the small room. The first sergeant was tall and slender with hair cropped so short it was hard to tell the color, hazel eyes and a slightly oversized nose. His right jaw was slightly protruding, the muscle clearly much larger than the left’s, a sure sign of a person who spent a lot of time in Wyvern battle armor.

“Bergstresser?” the first sergeant asked. His name tag read “Powell.”

“Yes, First Sergeant,” the PFC replied.

“ID?” the first sergeant said, holding out his hand. He checked the ID and nodded. “Welcome to the unit. I’m going to handle your in-brief then turn you over to your team NCOIC. Follow me.”

“Yes, First Sergeant,” Berg said, following the NCO into an even smaller room. The first sergeant waited until the outer door was closed, then cleared his throat. “Clearing Fourteen.”

The inner door, marked with a large red numeral 14, slid aside revealing a corridor. They took a right and headed down the highly polished tile floor, passing several doors. Unlike at Berg’s previous station, none of the doors had titles on them, only numbers. And most of them were sliding doors similar to the ones he’d entered the building by. For that matter, every ten feet or so there was a black pod on the ceiling that indicated a security camera. The interior of the building looked less like a headquarters than a prison.

The first sergeant stopped about halfway down the long corridor and cleared his throat again.

“Entering Seven-Six.”

“Seven-Six, opening,” a robotic voice replied as the door opened. “Five, four…”

“Come on,” the first sergeant said, stepping through quickly.

At “Zero” the door slid closed with Bergstresser barely clearing it.

“Hate that system,” said the Marine behind the desk in the office they’d entered.

“So do I,” the first sergeant replied. “But it’s there for a reason. Come on, Berg,” he added, opening the door marked “First Sergeant.”

The first sergeant took a seat behind the desk and looked Bergstresser up and down. The PFC had come to parade rest again, legs spread shoulder-width apart, hands folded behind his back, and was staring at a point six inches over the first sergeant’s head.

“Rest,” Powell said, ordering him to keep more or less the same posture but the PFC could talk. “I’ve read your service record. You were selected for this unit because of your IQ, your MGT scores, and your scores in Operator Training. But I’m going to ask you a few questions and I need straight answers. If you are wrong for this unit, then I need to send you back to your old unit. There won’t be any repercussions on that, trust me. But this unit can only afford certain types of candidates. I’d rather go on a mission short than with an unsuitable candidate. I’ll add that you’re going to be tested on some of the questions, if we have time. If we don’t and you’ve been anything other than perfectly truthful, you’re probably going to get people killed. Are we clear?”

“Clear, First Sergeant,” Berg said, wondering what the hell was going on.

“Have you ever suffered any form of the slightest anxiety at confined spaces?” the first sergeant asked. “For that matter, have you ever been in any confined spaces for any duration to test that?”

“I have never been in confined spaces for any significant time, First Sergeant,” the PFC replied. “I have spent small amounts of time in normal confined spaces and never had any anxiety.”

“Define normal confined space,” the first sergeant said evenly.

“I… I used to play around culverts, First Sergeant,” Berg said. “I’ve even gotten stuck in one. It didn’t worry me.”

“Not really what I’m looking for,” the first sergeant said. “Have you ever considered what it might be like to be on a submarine?”

“Yes, First Sergeant,” Berg said. “I don’t think I’ll have any issues.”

“Here’s a kicker,” the first sergeant said, leaning forward. “Have you ever considered what it would actually be like to be in space? Like being an astronaut in a space suit outside a ship? No air anywhere around for billions of miles and the only thing between you and a horrible death being a suit built by the lowest bidder?”

“Yes, First Sergeant, I have,” Berg said. “I considered trying to get in the astronaut program, but I’ve wanted to be a Marine for most of my life. I don’t see a tour in the Marines as necessarily standing in the way of that. Worked for John Glenn.”

“You’ve got the IQ for it,” the first sergeant admitted, leaning back. “Ever read any science fiction, Berg?”

“Yes, First Sergeant,” Bergstresser replied. He knew that that was as much an admission that he was a “geek” but the first sergeant had insisted on honest answers.

“What?” the first sergeant asked. “Or, rather, how much?”

“Quite a bit,” Berg admitted, knowing that it was probably going to be a downcheck.

“Define quite a bit,” the first sergeant said. “How many books? How many dealing with space travel? What sort of background on it do you have? Books, not TV shows or movies.”

“I have a library at home of over a thousand books, First Sergeant,” Berg admitted reluctantly. “I read all the time, both paper and ebooks. I’ve written game programs for space combat maneuvers. I’m a gamer and have played board games, role playing games and computer games that deal with space combat. I’m aware that that categorizes me as a ‘geek,’ First Sergeant, but I also—”

“Made it through the new qual course,” the first sergeant said, smiling tightly. “Shiny. You’re just what I was looking for.”

“Huh?” Berg said, astounded. It was hardly the response he was expecting.

“For your general FYI, Berg, my IQ is higher than yours,” the first sergeant said mildly. “So you seriously have thought about what it would be like to be in death pressure?”

“Yes, First Sergeant,” Berg replied. “Space is a stone cold bitch. I wrote a paper on it in high school as part of a book report on Have Spacesuit — Will Travel . The book is about a young man who wins a space suit—”

“I’m familiar with it,” the first sergeant said dryly. “Now the big question. This unit is going to be going on long deployments off-planet. The risk of loss of life is high. Most of it is going to be boring as hell with occasional moments, I am certain, of sheer terror. Actual conditions are unknown, but I would be unsurprised if casualty rates exceed thirty percent per mission. I’m saying that in my professional opinion, you , PFC Eric Bergstresser, have a one in three chance of dying . Possibly higher. Possibly much higher. And I cannot tell you the nature of the mission until you volunteer for said mission. So I’m asking, knowing the risks, do you wish to volunteer?”