He stood at parade rest, hands clasped behind his back, alongside his peers. The four companies of the graduating training battalion stood in mass formation on the parade ground as the post commandant gave his graduation speech, but Reza paid him little attention. His thoughts focused on the single stripe now on his sleeve that, lowly in rank as it was, signified that he was worthy to be a Confederation Marine. He had made good Wiley Hickock’s faith in him from those bittersweet days that he had once forgotten. Past that, he thought of the future, of the time – soon, now – when he would be cast into battle and his blood would again sing in time with his sword.
The pomp and ceremony of graduation finally came to a close, the last comments and speeches rendered. It was now time for the trainees’ last act as a battalion.
“Battalion…” he heard Eustus’s voice boom over the field. He had been chosen as battalion trainee commander for this final day, and had loved every minute of it.
“Company…” each of the trainee company commanders echoed.
“Atten-SHUN!” Over five hundred pairs of boots stomped the ground, heel to heel, as the battalion came to attention.
“Dismissed!” Eustus’s final command was drowned out by a sea of jubilant cries as the former trainees voiced their thanks that the hell of the last weeks was finally over. Hundreds of hats flew into the air, and the once orderly formation broke down into a riotous mob that surged toward the barracks area to prepare for whatever Fate had in store for them.
No longer old or young, man or woman, rich or poor: they were Marines.
Reza’s platoon stood at attention before Sergeant Major Aquino in what they knew was a private ceremony he conducted for every platoon that graduated under his tutelage. Out in a far corner of the post, arrayed before an abandoned storage building that was away from any prying eyes, he began the ritual.
“Listen up, Marines,” he bellowed in the tinny, heavily-accented voice that they had all come to respect, a note of pride in his words that he was no longer addressing recruits, but young warriors ready for battle.
“Some of you now will be going on to more training, to be specialists of some kind. The rest of you will be going straight to a combat regiment somewhere. But all of you, sooner or later, will be out in the fleet. And in the fleet there is no room for petty personal problems or grudges. Life, as you will soon find, is too short for that, and there is no room for it on a warship or in battle.”
He held up an electronic notepad that they already knew was their unit roster. “When I read your name, you are to go into the building,” he nodded to the door behind him, “and wait. Then anyone who wants a piece of you will get their chance, and all of you can get any hard feelings out of your systems now and leave them here, where they belong. We want you to take out your aggressions on the enemy, not on each other.” He paused, surveying his audience, looking for squeamish faces. He saw none. Good. “When you’re done, come back out and take your place in formation, then we will go on to the next one. I will observe to make sure no one gets carried away. Any questions?”
There were none. While the ritual they were partaking in was officially prohibited, it was a longstanding tradition that would survive anything less than outright murder, and Aquino was not about to let anything like that happen on his watch. “Very well,” he said, focusing on the roster. “Alazarro!”
Jose Alazarro broke ranks and double-timed into the building.
“Anyone want a piece of him?” Aquino challenged. Four Marines nodded. “What are you waiting for?” the sergeant major snapped. The three men and one woman hustled through the door, followed by Aquino. There followed a few minutes of muffled grunts and groans, after which all five Marines, three of them with bloody noses or lips, returned to the formation. Together.
And so it went.
Reza stood in the building after his name was called, wondering about this strange practice as he took his turn being “on the spot,” as some of the others called it. Eustus, called long before him, had cleared up some things with the young men who had once bullied him, and who now had broken noses and bruises, plus some respect, for their one-time scapegoat.
But such things held no interest for Reza. He loathed some of his companions – he did not consider them peers – disliked a few more, was neutral toward most, and genuinely liked a very small few. Despite any negative feelings he held for any one of them, however, he had no reason to assert himself. He was a priest of the Desh-Ka, and any matters of import would not be settled to his satisfaction outside of the arena and the clash of sword and claw. And this, to be sure, was not the arena.
He turned as two figures entered the building, their footfalls soft on the stained concrete floor. He nodded at Aquino, who took his place to one side in the role of officiator to make sure things did not get too ugly, and the older man nodded back gravely. Reza understood that his situation was somewhat different than that for the others. He would have to meet a higher standard of “satisfaction.” Reza would be happy to oblige. His only real challenge would be to prevent himself from seriously injuring or killing his challenger.
Washington Hawthorne stepped forward. A towering pillar of ebony muscle, Hawthorne made a mockery even of Thorella’s imposing form.
“I don’t have anything against you personally, Reza,” he said, “but I wanted to know if I could take you on man to man, without all the usual bullshit. You understand?”
Nodding at the man’s candor, understanding him perfectly, Reza stepped up to meet him. Hawthorne’s motives, while not particularly wise, were nonetheless honest and understandable, at least to Reza. He made a note that this was a man who might someday make a valuable ally and friend.
“When you are ready, Marines,” Aquino announced.
Hawthorne nodded, happy not to be disappointed. He had not worked very closely with Reza, but he had heard about how great he was supposed to be in close combat. He wanted to find out for himself without wearing all the protective gear and playing by all the stupid rules the instructors sometimes – but not always – required. He raised his fists like a pugilist and moved in, anxious to see how Reza would react. Reza was a lot smaller, probably more agile than Hawthorne, but he was certainly a lot more vulnerable to any blow that the larger man could deliver. Hawthorne smiled.
The contest began as a black fist the size of a cantaloupe shot toward Reza’s face with all the force and speed of a jackhammer…
Reza gave Hawthorne the feeling of a real fight without really offering him one. He easily dodged the larger man’s blows, and only when Hawthorne began to feel frustration and anger at not being able to get a solid hit against his opponent did Reza finally bring the match to a close. Dodging another of Hawthorne’s Herculean strikes, Reza nimbly stepped forward to deliver a carefully placed blow to the larger man’s solar plexus, dropping him without doing any damage. Reza was hardly using his true combat skills, but Hawthorne was not an enemy.
“Son of a bitch,” Hawthorne gasped as he collapsed, doubled-over with the pain that had exploded inside him. After gagging and choking for a few moments, effectively paralyzed from Reza’s single strike, he looked up through tearing eyes to find a hand extended toward him.
“You fight with spirit, my friend,” Reza said, “and shall prove a worthy opponent for your true enemies, whom we shall face together. Come, let us leave this place.”
Nodding slowly, his curiosity satisfied at the expense of a slightly bruised ego, Washington smiled as he took Reza’s hand, allowing the smaller man to help him up. “I just had to find out for myself, Reza. I’m just glad you’re on our side.”
Together, the two of them headed back outside where they would await the completion of their platoon’s unofficial farewell party.
A much-relieved Sergeant Major Aquino followed them out.
The newly appointed Marines stood in murmuring groups in the main hall, waiting for the harried cadre officers to post their orders. One after the other, they were called forward to the rows of tables at which the officers and NCOs sat, presenting and explaining each trainee’s first official orders. There was no reason for people to be doing this, of course: the trainees could have their orders posted just as easily by electronic mail, and very few actually needed anyone to explain orders. But the Corps had developed a tradition of seeing their people off to their first assignment with a human face and a word of encouragement, rather than a sterile electronic beep followed by an equally lifeless form letter.
Nicole and Jodi stood beside Reza as they all waited for Eustus to return with his orders. Nicole was nervous,
