A murmur spread through the audience and cameras seemed to almost lean towards the Judge as they waited for the verdict.
“Based upon the crimes committed, the injuries caused and the death of a good police officer, I give Spartan two options and it is for him to choose one of them. Either he will face ten years for manslaughter and a following sentence of ten years for unlicensed gladiatorial combat at an unlicensed arena….”
Before he could continue, a volley of shouting came from the public gallery, as well as from the gathered press.
“Silence!” the Judge shouted as he brought down a heavy hammer that issued sparks across his desk. “I also offer Spartan the chance to redeem himself and his character by a term of service with the Interstellar Military. This term of service is to be no less than ten years and will involve a potential posting to countering the insurgency throughout Proxima Centauri.”
He turned to Spartan and stared at him for several seconds.
“The choice is yours, Mr Spartan.”
As the Judge sat down the two guards next to Spartan lifted him up so that he faced him. The attorney in the suit approached and stood to his right.
“I’m sorry, Spartan. We managed to get your murder sentence revoked but there is no way out of this manslaughter charge. We can go for the prison option and then go to appeal, but with the current waiting list for justice you could be in for two or three years before we could even consider going ahead. Alternatively the military option has risk, but based on your track record it could make you,” he said apologetically.
Spartan looked around, he couldn’t believe the situation he was in. Just a few weeks ago he was fighting for his life in a bloody arena just to pay for his mistakes years before. Indentured service meant he had to fight at twelve events and he only had two left before he was free. Now he was being offered a choice between prison or the military. He looked at the people around him and then at the Judge.
The room went quiet as everybody listened intently to his decision.
“You don’t give me much of a choice,” stopping as he gave the matter one last thought.
“You must decide or I will be forced to make the decision for you,” said the Judge firmly.
Spartan looked around the room one last time. He would rather die than be forced to prison. Some might think his months working in the pit-fighting world were akin to prison, but he could leave anytime he wanted. He only stayed to pay his debt. It wasn’t easy to stop an armoured-up, heavily equipped gladiator from leaving if he truly wanted to. He needed the work as much as the organisers needed him to fight. Twenty years would take away the best years of his life. By the time he came out what would he be able to do? At least with a full tour of duty under his belt he would have access to free education, state welfare, support and who knows, maybe even a career. He took a deep breath.
“I choose the ten years military service.”
“Good, I am in no doubt that your skills will prove useful in fighting the insurgency!” he sneered.
“It is the ruling of this court that Spartan will forgo his sentence and instead offer himself for voluntary service in the Confederate Marine Corps for a term of service of no less than ten years. He will join one of the military recruitment transports where he will be transformed into a man the Confederacy can be proud of. The journey throughout the System is long but it needs to be. By the time you have made several passes through the sector you will be fully trained and capable of any military posting. It is an efficient system where you train as you travel. The Marine Corps is always looking for strong and resilient young men and woman to serve, and though this man has shown poor judgement he has proven an ability to stand firm and to fight when the situation demands it. A full term in the service of the Confederation will strengthen his character and mould him into a citizen befitting this fine society.”
Spartan thought the Judge was now just enjoying himself with his little speech and was tempted to add his own thoughts to the proceedings, but the man continued with even more.
“It is of course assumed that to fully compensate the state for the damage he has caused he will give up a good and vigorous decade of training and service. If he fails to complete the full term for any reason, other than honourable discharge due to battlefield injury or similar, he will forfeit this verdict and be transferred immediately to a maximum-security prison to carry out the remainder of his sentence. Spartan, you will undergo two weeks additional medical assessment and care prior to your shipping to your boot camp. We need to ensure your injuries are fully healed before sending you on your way.”
Spartan thought carefully. So, if he had an accident in training, faced a court martial or for any reason messed up, he could potentially find himself being thrown into prison.
“Case dismissed!”
CHAPTER TWO
The Personal Defence Suit (PDS) is the standard set of clothing, camouflage and tactical armour in one comprehensive package for use by CMC Marines. It can be easily augmented with a zero gravity manoeuvring pack or sealed for operations in limited atmospheres. It is lightweight and covers the entire surface of the individual. In trials, the armour has sustained damage from thermal and kinetic energy weapons and been able to operate even after sustaining over fifty percent damage. Variants such as the Combat Engineer Suit (CES) feature thicker armour, powered tools and augmented strength for use in the sapper role.
Equipment of the Confederate Marine Corps
Spartan stood in the departure lounge, a large hall where about a hundred new recruits were waiting for their various boarding shuttles to arrive. At one end were a variety of displays, some showed boarding times others news and information. Spartan wandered over, watching several of the people operating the displays. Like most public access points there were no buttons or screens to touch, the entire system was body driven and much like the combat training simulators he had used. A woman in her early thirties was running through various news stories on a large display. Using her upper body and hands, she moved and slid the stories as though they were stacks of paper or video files to play. Next to her a man of a similar age scrolled through a list of flights and was looking more agitated as he went on. Something caught Spartan’s eye, it was live footage from the security feed. He looked down at the scrolling ticker text underneath about a suicide attack and it was coming from Proxima Prime.
“Oh shit! Have you seen this?” one of the recruits shouted.
Several more recruits wandered over to watch the details of the story. With a deft movement the woman enlarged the video and increased the volume. At the same time she slid over several more video feeds of the same event.
A man turned to Spartan. “Have you seen this shit? Apparently one of our compounds was hit last night.”
“I heard they took out the wall with a suicide bomber and then stormed the place. According to the feeds the entire garrison was wiped out,” said another.
Spartan looked at the video, saying nothing. The display showed a burning compound with a collapsed guard tower and several buildings still burning. Inside the base was an upturned armoured vehicle, one of the heavily protected transports used to ferry troops and supplies throughout the warzone. What really caught his attention wasn’t the casualties or even the damage. It was the small section saying over a hundred weapons had been stolen. Spartan thought to himself, with those kinds of weapons they could attack and expect to damage or destroy any structure, person or vehicle in the area.
As interest in the story faded the woman flipped to another one. It was about the offensive to take the Bone Mill, a nickname given to the rocky underground mining complex owned by the Metallurgical Research amp; Mining Company on the northern continent of Avagana. Since being overrun by the insurgency spearheaded by the Zealots, it had been turned into an impenetrable fortress. He watched the report for a while, interested in the detail of a conflict he’d never really given much thought to. According to the article the underground research was invaluable along with the rich mineral supplies and the difficulty of getting people that far underground. From what he could see it looked like an underground hell that seemed to eat up marines. Based on the fact that he would soon be shipped off for combat, it might be an idea if he did a little homework beforehand.
