First To Fight (The Empire's Corps Book 11) (10 page)

I felt a hot flush of rage.  I’d won - but he’d practically handed me the victory on a silver platter.  Didn't he give a damn?  I wanted to hurt him ... somehow, I managed to keep myself calm as Joker was ordered into the circle beside me.  Friend or no friend, I knew
Joker
wouldn’t go easy on me.  And I was right.  I was a little stronger than him, but he was fast and managed to land a number of punches before I knocked him to the ground and landed on top of him.  He kept struggling right up until I put my hand on his throat and the whistle blew.

“You should have ended that quicker,” Nordstrom snapped.  He jabbed a finger at Professor and Posh.  “You’re up.”

It was an interesting match, I decided, as the two oddballs squared off.  Posh seemed to be more aggressive, but Professor was definitely more of a thinker.  They both sparred carefully, rather than risk over-committing themselves; it was only when Nordstrom cleared his throat loudly that Posh jumped forward and slammed right into Professor.  The ensuring struggle sent them both rolling over the line.

“Draw,” Nordstrom said.  “Learn to focus your anger and beat the crap out of your enemy.”

I scowled.  I’d hated the first part of the training, but if I hadn't been taught how to take a punch Joker would have had me on the ground within seconds.  I watched several other matches, then scowled inwardly as I was urged back into the circle.  Viper was facing me again, his face impassive.  I glared at him - what the fuck was his problem? - and lunged forward.  This time, Viper blocked my punch and threw one back of his own.  I realised, too late, that I’d underestimated him; his fist slammed into my jaw, knocking me over backwards.  He lunged forward; I brought up my legs and kicked him in the chest as hard as I could.  I pulled myself upright as he staggered back, then slammed a fist into his chest, sending him falling down.  It would have been easy to shove him over the line, but I wanted him to hurt.

The whistle blew.  I threw another punch ....

... And a hand caught mine.

“Stop,” Nordstrom ordered.  He jerked a hand towards the edge of the training ground.  “One hundred push-ups, now.”

I flushed, embarrassed.  I’d allowed my anger and hate to overwhelm me, instead of stopping the second the whistle blew.  Nordstrom could have given me a far worse punishment and we both knew it.  I stumbled out of the circle, did my push-ups despite the pain, and thought dire thoughts about Viper and his attitude problem.  Maybe the beating I’d given him would force him to quit.

The training grew harder as the weeks turned into months.  We had already been introduced to sticks; now, we were introduced to knives - the feared KA-BAR - and a dozen other weapons, including some I hadn't seen outside bad martial arts movies.  I hadn't known there were actual uses for swords, throwing stars and whips, but the Drill Instructors were insistent that we needed to know the basics.  We were advancing, slowly but surely, towards weapons mastery. 
Anything
could be a weapon ...

... And we were meant to be able to use it as one, without thinking.

It was Joker who asked the question that was on all of our minds.  “Sir,” he said, “this recruit would like to know why we train with swords when we’ll have guns and our enemies will have guns too.”

I expected Nordstrom to demand a hundred push-ups.  Instead, he gave the question serious consideration.

“There are two answers to that question, recruit,” Nordstrom said.  “The first is that we are training you to be dangerous men and for that you need to develop an instinctive understanding of all manner of weapons.  To become dependent on one weapon, even one as dangerous as a gun, can undermine you when you lose that weapon. 

“But the second answer is that you may not always have a gun,” he added.  “Or you may find a gun a hindrance rather than a help.  There are plenty of situations - hostage rescue, for example - when you may not want to start firing off guns at random.  Killing an unwary man on watch is
so
much easier if you use a knife, because then there’s no noise to wake up his comrades.”

He shrugged.  “And shooting someone to wound only works in the flicks.  It's a lot easier to interrogate someone you’ve beaten into a pulp than shot, even if you
thought
you weren't shooting to kill.  Is that answer satisfactory?”

“Yes, sir,” Joker said.

I took Nordstrom’s words to heart; indeed, I think we all did.  Our weapons were tools, nothing more or less; it was our attitudes and training that made us dangerous.  I’d wondered why were weren't started on guns earlier, but now I thought I understood.  We needed the right attitude before we handled guns for the first time or we’d become convinced that our weapons made us invincible.

And that, I learned later, explained a great deal about the Civil Guard.  They thought their weapons made them gods ...

... And they were always wrong.

Chapter Ten

The Empire had an unthinking horror of guns in private hands.  There was no shortage of justifications - guns were dangerous, guns enabled crime, guns brought out the worst in people - but they all boiled down to a simple desire to keep power out of the hands of commoners.  Guns might be turned against criminals, yet they could also be turned against tax men, corrupt policemen and the bureaucracy.  It was vanishingly rare for anyone from the Core Worlds to see a gun, let alone use it ...

... This did absolutely nothing for social safety, of course.  By the time I left Earth, violent crime was still on the increase.

-Professor Leo Caesius

Our first visit to the Shooting Range was the first time we encountered another training officer, outside the trio of Drill Instructors.  Firearms Instructor Dexter Guptill was a tough-looking man, wearing a set of light body armour and webbing rather than the normal instructor uniform.  We stopped outside the building long enough to let him inspect us, then followed him into the building.  Inside, there were a set of tables, with a metal case resting on each one.  Our names were already written on top of the cases.

“Find your table, then stand behind it,” Guptill ordered coolly, as he strode to the front of the room.  “Like your teachers on Earth, I have to instruct you; unlike your teachers from Earth, I have the power to evict you without warning, if you misbehave.  That will result in you being recycled, at the very least.  You have been warned.”

He tapped a switch, activating a projector.  “Four absolute rules of firearms safety,” he stated, as a list appeared behind him.  “One: a weapon is always loaded until proved otherwise.  Two:
do not
point the gun at anything you do not want to hit.  If you think the gun is unloaded, see rule one.  Three: keep your finger off the trigger until you are ready to fire.  This is the most important rule; in my experience, violators are responsible for nearly all cases of Negligent Discharge.  Again, keep rule one in mind.  Four: identify your target and its surroundings.  Do
not
shoot at anything you have not positively identified.”

There was a pause.  “If I catch any of you violating these rules from this moment on, you will be doing hundreds of push-ups,” he warned.  “If you make a
habit
of violating these rules, I will assert my authority as Firearms Instructor and Range Safety Officer to get you dismissed from Boot Camp.  I have neither the time nor the patience to deal with idiots who blatantly ignore rules intended to ensure both their safety and the safety of everyone around them.

“For the record, the punishment for a Negligent Discharge - either a blank or a live round - that injures no one is a major fine and a black mark in your record,” he added.  “If you
do
injure someone, you will be in deep shit.

“Forget all the crap you might have picked up from the flicks.  This is the real world.  If you go into this with the wrong attitude, you are likely to get yourself or someone else seriously hurt - or dead.”

I swallowed.  I’d been looking forward to weapons training, but his warnings chilled me to the bone.  How many accidents had there been in the movies?  I’d seen millions of people gunned down, blood and gore splattering everywhere ... was it really like that?

“Open the cases,” Guptill ordered.  “Do
not
touch anything inside.”

I unclipped the case and stared down at the two shiny weapons, both fresh off the production line.  One was a pistol, large enough to be intimidating; the other was a rifle, gleaming faintly under the light.  My name was engraved into the metal, along with a pair of serial numbers I assumed they used to identify the weapons if they fell out of my hands.  I wanted to touch them suddenly, with a passion I hadn't felt since my first girlfriend had taken off her dress in front of me, but I held back.  There was no real chance of sneaking a feel without being caught.

“These are standard issue weapons,” Guptill informed us.  “The pistol is a SIW-32, carrying a magazine of nine rounds of ammunition, or cartridges; the rifle is a MAG-47, capable of switching from single-shot to automatic with the flick of a switch.  From this moment on, you will be expected to carry these weapons with you at all times, proffering them for inspection upon demand.  You will clean them - religiously - every day.  Take care of your weapon and it will take good care of you.”

He held up a pistol of his own.  “Your Drill Instructors - and myself - will ask for your weapons,” he said.  “When we do, you expose the chamber like so” - he opened the action to demonstrate - “to prove that the gun is unloaded, then you hold it out, careful not to point the barrel at anyone.  Your Drill Instructor will be furious if you point the weapon at him.  When he has finished his inspection, he will pass it back to you in the same manner.  If the weapon is dirty, or shows signs of having been abused, you will be in deep shit.”

“You are also expected to call us out if we do pass it back to you in any other way,” Bainbridge added, from the back of the room.

I groaned, inwardly.  Another bloody test!

“You’ll find a cleaning set in the case,” Guptill said.  “Take it out, then
carefully
remove the pistol and check it isn't loaded.”

I hesitated, then reached for the pistol, feeling ... conflicted.  Part of me was nervous at the very idea of touching a weapon, even though I’d spent the last few weeks training on everything from knives to throwing stars and staffs.  It felt almost as if I were touching a spider ... the others, save for Viper, seemed to be having the same problem.  But then, he would be repeating the class.  I opened the chamber, checked there wasn't anything inside, then locked the chamber open and placed the pistol on the table, pointed well away from anyone else. 

“Shit,” Joker said.  Something clattered out of his pistol and hit the floor with a sound that made us all jump.  “Sir ...”

“You found one of the training rounds,” Guptill said.  “Is the weapon empty?”

Joker looked hesitant.  “This recruit thinks so ...”

“Not good enough,” Guptill said.  He strode over to Joker’s table, then demonstrated how to clear the chamber and check there were no rounds left in the magazine.  “Be sure, recruit.  Check with me if you don’t understand what you’re doing.”

I watched closely, then checked my own gun.  The magazine was empty.  Guptill nodded in approval, then strode back to the front of the room.  “Watch carefully,” he said, picking up his pistol and holding it out to prove it was empty.  “You take the gun apart like this, piece by piece, and then you clean it carefully ...”

The gun was a remarkably simple design, I realised, as we worked our way through it.  Guptill was a patient teacher, more patient than any of the Drill Instructors, although that could have been because he was used to working with deadly weapons and recruits who had already had several weeks of training.  I took the weapon apart, then put it back together; Guptill inspected our work, corrected our mistakes and told us to do it again and again, until we were perfect.  The thought of doing the same thing every day was irritating ...

But you already do plenty of repetitive things every day
, my own thoughts pointed out, sarcastically. 
What’s one more
?

“Very good, for the moment,” Guptill told us.  “Now, the rifle is a slightly more complex beast, but quite simple once you get the hang of it ...”

It was definitely harder, I decided, as we took the rifles apart, cleaned them for the first time and then put them back together.  Guptill told us that the best marines could field-strip and reassemble their weapons in under a minute, but none of us believed him until he took Professor’s weapon and showed us exactly how it was done.  He didn't seem surprised at the question; he merely proved his point and then moved on.

“You will not be issued any ammunition until you complete the first two phases of training,” Guptill said, once we thought we knew what we were doing.  “You
will
, however, be carrying exercise magazines, as you will be using them when you start putting everything together for the first time.  You can find those magazines at the bottom of the case, marked with a pink line.  Take them out and put them on the table.”

He waited until we were done, then showed us how to load them into the guns.  “These behave like real ammunition in all, but one respect,” he said.  “They shoot harmless beams of laser light instead of lethal bullets.  As you can see” - he pulled the trigger; there was a loud bang and a beam of red light shot out of the gun - “the beam can be switched from visible to invisible with the touch of a button.  On exercise, you will be wearing suits that will automatically register a hit, should someone manage to tag you.  You will be declared dead and marched off the field.”

I smiled.  We’d heard enough about field exercises to know we wanted to try one.  It sounded like fun, from what the older platoon had said.  We’d even seen them going back to their barracks once or twice, covered in mud but grinning from ear to ear.

“They also produce a loud noise, should you have a Negligent Discharge,” he added.  He tapped the gun, which emitted another loud bang.  “This noise
will
be heard and you
will
be yelled at by your Drill Instructors.  And, as I said, there will be a fine and a black mark.”

He paused.  “Now, I will take the first squad into the range itself,” he said.  “The rest of you; sit here, read the papers in your case and practice taking the weapons apart.  Any questions?”

“Yes, sir,” Posh said.  “This recruit was wondering if we were allowed to keep the weapons.”

“Should you graduate Boot Camp, you will be allowed to keep the weapon,” Guptill said.  “I suggest you check out the firearms laws before you pick a final destination.  Civilians in the Core Worlds tend to get nervous around guns.  A colony world, however, will be quite happy to have you
and
your weapon.”

He raised his fist.  “First squad, with me,” he ordered.  “Bring both your weapons, chambers open.”

I rose, carefully carrying both weapons.  Guptill watched us carefully, then led us through a metal door into an antechamber.  Two large crates of ammunition sat on a table, sealed with a solid lock.  Guptill opened the first one, then produced his pistol and held it open for inspection.

“You’ll notice that these are dummy rounds,” he said.  “The pink line around the bullet signifies the lack of charge.  You could pull the trigger all day and nothing would happen, but in all other respects they are identical to standard-issue rounds.  As you can see ...”

I watched, closely, as he demonstrated how to load the magazine with bullets, then insert it into the pistol.  “The safety should be on right up until the moment you are ready to fire,” he said, showing us how to click it on and off.  “The weapon
cannot
fire as long as the safety is on.  Point towards your target and pull the trigger” - he pulled the trigger; there was a click and the cartridge was ejected from the chamber - “and then keep firing.  If you get a dud and the round refuses to fire, snap the chamber open and eject the cartridge.  Don’t worry about it hitting the floor.  It takes a solid smack to fire a bullet.  Any questions?”

“Yes,” Professor said.  “If something is coming backwards ...”

“The cartridge,” Guptill said.

Professor nodded.  “Is that dangerous?”

“Probably not to you,” Guptill said.  “You’re going to be wearing eye goggles - well, you’re already wearing birth control glasses so it shouldn't be a problem - and earmuffs.  But, just to give you a warning ...”

He leaned forward.  “I was assigned to teach a bunch of women to shoot, a couple of years ago,” he explained.  “They weren't soldiers, you see; they’d been assigned to serve on some shit-tip of a planet where attacks on offworlders were depressingly common.  I gave them pistols and ammunition, then took them onto the range.  It might have worked very well if one of them hadn’t been wearing a very low-cut shirt.  And the cartridge landed right between her tits.”

I snickered.  I wasn't the only one.

“So she drops the pistol, screaming her head off, and starts trying to get the cartridge out of her cleavage,” Guptill continued.  “It might seem funny now, but the poor bitch was quite badly burned ... the moral of the story is to listen to me when I tell you something, even if it’s merely an order to wear something that will protect you.”