I'd thought about it at all I would have assumed that the senior officers were members of the political classes or some other privileged elite. The terrestrial armed forces were set up that way, but that's not how the off-world military worked. I'd learn a lot more about all of that much later on, but at the time I had no idea what to expect.
"So are you going to tell me what's next? Hopefully breakfast." Honestly, food was all I could really think about. I hadn't eaten anything in days.
He smiled and let out a small laugh. "Training is going to be the biggest challenge you've ever faced, but one thing we're not going to do is starve you to death. Let's go." He motioned toward the door. "You're shipping out to camp tonight, and you've got a right to do it on a full stomach."
I followed him through the door and down the same brightly lit corridor I barely remembered stumbling down the day before. The walls were spotless, the floor was polished to a glossy shine. One thing about the marines - everything was immaculate. Much cleaner than the public areas of the Protected Zone, not to mention the filth of the outer sectors.
We walked past about a dozen doors just like the one leading to my room - no doubt more little cubbies filled with new recruits sleeping off various medical abuses and other wear and tear. After a short walk we came to a large dining hall, filled with maybe 30 big tables that could each seat 10-12. It was at most one-quarter full, and though my just awakened brain had focused on breakfast, we were actually catching the tail end of lunch.
Captain Jack wasn't kidding about the full stomach either. Twenty-third century America was a land where virtually everything was rationed to some extent or another. Things were better in the Protected Zone, of course, but food, clothes, and medicine were still subject to various controls and shortages. So now, as a condemned criminal press-ganged into the military as my only escape from execution, I found myself for the first time in my life able to eat as much as I wanted without question.
While I sat and doggedly attacked the slightly obscene pile of food in front of me, Captain Jack grazed on a salad of some sort and tried to keep enough of my attention to let me know what was ahead of me.
"So, after we eat we'll go down to the quartermaster, and you'll be issued your uniform and kit. Then there are a couple of orientation sessions, and after those you can see how much damage you can do to the dinner menu before your transport leaves for New Houston."
So I ate as much as I could, on general principle once my hunger was sated, and then we went down to the quartermaster. A few minutes later I walked out wearing my first uniform, a set of gray training fatigues that looked nothing like Captain Jack's crisp attire. It was the only thing I would wear for a year.
I was given three sets of fatigues, socks, boots, a grooming kit, a bedroll, towel, and a duffel bag to carry it all. I was also given a personal data unit, but it was restricted, and the only things I could access were regulations and selected military history.
The orientation sessions were harmless but boring, and I'm pretty sure I dozed off once or twice during the video presentations. The one thing I did note from the sessions, and this was something no one had mentioned to me up until then, was that the training regimen was six years. Six years!
Training for the Earthbound army was only three months. Sure, it made sense that fighting in space required more skills, but six years? What could possibly take that long?
So I'd be 23 years old before I even started to serve my active duty time, and 33 before I could get my discharge. At 17 that seemed like an eternity. Not that I had a choice. Other than a bullet in the head. Or more accurately, a lungful of poison gas.
After the orientation we went back to the dining hall, with about an hour to
"So are you going to tell me what's next? Hopefully breakfast." Honestly, food was all I could really think about. I hadn't eaten anything in days.
He smiled and let out a small laugh. "Training is going to be the biggest challenge you've ever faced, but one thing we're not going to do is starve you to death. Let's go." He motioned toward the door. "You're shipping out to camp tonight, and you've got a right to do it on a full stomach."
I followed him through the door and down the same brightly lit corridor I barely remembered stumbling down the day before. The walls were spotless, the floor was polished to a glossy shine. One thing about the marines - everything was immaculate. Much cleaner than the public areas of the Protected Zone, not to mention the filth of the outer sectors.
We walked past about a dozen doors just like the one leading to my room - no doubt more little cubbies filled with new recruits sleeping off various medical abuses and other wear and tear. After a short walk we came to a large dining hall, filled with maybe 30 big tables that could each seat 10-12. It was at most one-quarter full, and though my just awakened brain had focused on breakfast, we were actually catching the tail end of lunch.
Captain Jack wasn't kidding about the full stomach either. Twenty-third century America was a land where virtually everything was rationed to some extent or another. Things were better in the Protected Zone, of course, but food, clothes, and medicine were still subject to various controls and shortages. So now, as a condemned criminal press-ganged into the military as my only escape from execution, I found myself for the first time in my life able to eat as much as I wanted without question.
While I sat and doggedly attacked the slightly obscene pile of food in front of me, Captain Jack grazed on a salad of some sort and tried to keep enough of my attention to let me know what was ahead of me.
"So, after we eat we'll go down to the quartermaster, and you'll be issued your uniform and kit. Then there are a couple of orientation sessions, and after those you can see how much damage you can do to the dinner menu before your transport leaves for New Houston."
So I ate as much as I could, on general principle once my hunger was sated, and then we went down to the quartermaster. A few minutes later I walked out wearing my first uniform, a set of gray training fatigues that looked nothing like Captain Jack's crisp attire. It was the only thing I would wear for a year.
I was given three sets of fatigues, socks, boots, a grooming kit, a bedroll, towel, and a duffel bag to carry it all. I was also given a personal data unit, but it was restricted, and the only things I could access were regulations and selected military history.
The orientation sessions were harmless but boring, and I'm pretty sure I dozed off once or twice during the video presentations. The one thing I did note from the sessions, and this was something no one had mentioned to me up until then, was that the training regimen was six years. Six years!
Training for the Earthbound army was only three months. Sure, it made sense that fighting in space required more skills, but six years? What could possibly take that long?
So I'd be 23 years old before I even started to serve my active duty time, and 33 before I could get my discharge. At 17 that seemed like an eternity. Not that I had a choice. Other than a bullet in the head. Or more accurately, a lungful of poison gas.
After the orientation we went back to the dining hall, with about an hour to
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