arrived at the earthen track feeling at ease, limber, ready to face her Marines. The hulking girth of Gunnery Sergeant Tomas Ramuel crested the hill a moment later. Victor Company was struggling to keep up with the veteran senior noncommissioned officer. And, Promise noticed at once, the gunny looked pissed. Uh-oh.
Ramuel and Victor Company jogged past Promise and circled the field. Her Marines were dressed in PT uniforms with pulse rifles cradled in their arms. All except one. Private Atumbi had forgotten his, again.
Promise’s eyes narrowed and zoomed on the Marine’s face. “Figures.” Why can’t he remember his wep?
* * *
As Victor Company circled back to Promise’s position, the gunny called out his first preparatory command. “Company, double time, march!” The company dropped out of a steady run and into step with the gunny, at a slight jog. A squat Marine fell out of formation and promptly threw up.
* * *
Private Race Atumbi was admiring Private First Class Jupiter Cervantes’s backside when the gunny’s order came, and his reaction time was far too slow to avoid a collision with her. When the company slowed, Atumbi plowed through Cervantes and burst through a platoon of Marines, sending every one of them to the deck.
Cervantes ended up on top of Atumbi. “Don’t get any ideas,” she said as she backhanded him across the mouth.
“Hey, chica! What was that for?”
“For your wandering ojos. Keep your eyes on target and off of me.”
Cervantes stood first, and then offered a grudging hand to Atumbi. Her grip was like a vise, and she kept squeezing until he cried out. “What was that for?” he said, rubbing his hand, which now hurt worse than his throbbing jawline.
“So you don’t forget.” Cervantes looked pleased with herself as she shoved Atumbi forward. He fell in beside the Marines he’d just knocked down, and Cervantes joined him on his right.
“Where did you get a grip like that?” Atumbi asked as they jogged.
“Bion-ics,” she said, and held up her right hand. “I don’t regen. I lost the original in a training accidente.”
Atumbi took a closer look at the skin’s color. It was slightly off but pretty good for synthetics.
Colorful metaphors and insults erupted all around Atumbi as he found his place in formation.
“You fool. The gunny’s gonna make us frog-jump around the field.”
“Hey, Atumbi, you make me believe in reincarnation. No one gets so stupid in one lifetime.”
His one-word nickname earned in boot camp—a solitary, cold dismissal—rolled off the lips of the woman who’d caught his eye. “Trip.”
He brushed each aside with the dirt on his PT uniform. Jupiter’s next words knifed the deepest. Cervantes eviscerated his manhood, shot through two magazines without so much as reloading. “Tirar de su cabeza fuera de su asteroide.” His Spanish was north of rusty, but he caught the gist. Because they’d come from her they cut him to the core.
Atumbi’s stomach sank when he realized the gunny had turned around and was marching backward with his eyes on him. They weren’t quite smoldering. Then Ramuel did an about-face and started singing “The Old Lady.”
Here we go again, Atumbi thought.
Three
APRIL 14TH, 92 A.E., STANDARD CALENDAR, 0623 HOURS
REPUBLIC OF ALIGNED WORLDS PLANETARY CAPITAL—HOLD
MARINE CORPS CENTRAL MOBILIZATION COMMAND
Gunnery Sergeant Tomas Ramuel ran astride Victor Company in a sweat-stained shirt and shorts, his pulse lightly elevated. He’d just finished chanting, “Gimme some, gimme some. PT! PT! Good for you and good for me!” It was a legendary cadence in the storied history of the RAW-MC. In fact, the United States Marine Corps from the wet-Navy days, back eight hundred years ago, had sung the cadence too. This reminded Ramuel of the one about Ho Chi Minh and something about crabs and the seven-year itch. He couldn’t remember it all or place the time period it was from, but he was pretty sure that this guy—HCM—had been a real SOB.
From the corner of his eye Ramuel saw a Marine fall out of formation and throw up, which made him smile. Looking over his shoulder, he found two stragglers about a quarter klick behind the rest of the pack. Good, he thought. Still there. Still toughing it out. Still loving the suck. Good, girls and boys. He grunted in satisfaction as he turned around and pounded over the next few meters of caked earth.
Ramuel clicked his tongue as he ticked through his repertoire, until he came to a personal favorite. “The Old Lady.” Oh yeah. Ramuel cleared his throat. “Hmm … la, la, la.” His deep baritone voice bellowed out