Horden had used Osman as an early test case. A successful one too. Either Horden was a fraud or Osman really was Turkish.
Rekka stepped back a few paces. “I know all about Horden’s lies. Haven’t you realized yet that we’re all such a thoroughly jumbled-up mongrel mess that any genetic markers present in our distant ancestors have long since been lost in the homogeneous genetic paste that fills the bones of every Marine. And that’s a good thing! I understand the human need for a tribe to belong to. You already have yours. Have you learned nothing, McEwan? Your nation is the Human Marine Corps. Your clan is the 412th Marines, or the 412th Tactical Marine Regiment for those who enjoy the long-winded version. I don’t hold with all this Earth drent that the Jotuns indulge you in these days. I’ve been out there in the wars, and I can tell you it’s the belief in your unit, and in your comrade standing alongside you that holds Marines together. Not some dumb romantic guff about Earth.”
She paused to stare at each cadet in turn, daring them to so much as breathe in a manner that she could construe as backchat. She stretched that moment of tension to her satisfaction before continuing. “Last I heard, Sergeant Horden was en route to the Akinschet system. I expect when he gets there that he’ll change his tune pretty damned sharpish.”
Rekka rocked back on the heels of her prosthetic legs. They were her everyday pair, encased in gleaming black plastic and silvered metal, except for the rubbery sole to the built-in feet. She lifted her stick and used it to poke Arun in the chest.
“I’ve warned you before about speaking out of turn, McEwan. Give me twenty squat jumps.”
“Ma’am. Yes, ma’am.”
Arun’s anger returned in ever-increasing waves. Arun tried to suck it back in but today his self-control was shot to hell.
The instructors claimed that many of the rituals of training and command had been gleaned from practices used centuries before on Earth. The Jotuns reasoned that military training evolved over centuries to match the human psyche would be a better starting point than anything they could devise.
And so punishment for minor infractions often meant press ups, digging and filling in fighting holes, or similar pointless physical activity, even though in comparison with the original humans of Earth, the Marine cadets possessed immense physical strength and endurance. Wetware augmentation and genetic manipulation meant Marines were different mentally too. When not succumbing to a tendency toward ill-disciplined rage, they took an iron will for granted.
All of that meant punishment exercise was easy. Normally. But not today.
The anger in Arun’s breast tempted him to glance meaningfully at his rack where he’d placed the walking stick the medics had given him.
He didn’t. Rekka knew perfectly well that he’d suffered a leg wound. Drawing attention to his stick would be weak, and achieve nothing but win contempt from everyone in the room. Instead, he drew upon his mental strength and gingerly crouched down into a squat position. His wounded leg felt stiff, but only when he got into the deepest position of the crouch did his left knee grind as if his joints were made from rusting steel that hadn’t seen oil for decades. With a supreme effort, he managed to cap his scream of agony. He looked down at his limb, expecting to see the blood seeping out the wound opened up by the Troggie guardian’s claw.
There was no blood, no bone shards poking through the skin over his knee.
“Begin!” Rekka ordered.
Arun jumped as high as he could, flinging his arms up as he leaped. He knew that if she decided he’d made a halfhearted jump, she would make him start again at the beginning.
At the top of his jump, Arun pointed his toes down and lifted his head high, as per the prescribed form. The jump was easy. The descent was not.
When he landed and his legs took his weight it felt as if hot blades were
Rekka stepped back a few paces. “I know all about Horden’s lies. Haven’t you realized yet that we’re all such a thoroughly jumbled-up mongrel mess that any genetic markers present in our distant ancestors have long since been lost in the homogeneous genetic paste that fills the bones of every Marine. And that’s a good thing! I understand the human need for a tribe to belong to. You already have yours. Have you learned nothing, McEwan? Your nation is the Human Marine Corps. Your clan is the 412th Marines, or the 412th Tactical Marine Regiment for those who enjoy the long-winded version. I don’t hold with all this Earth drent that the Jotuns indulge you in these days. I’ve been out there in the wars, and I can tell you it’s the belief in your unit, and in your comrade standing alongside you that holds Marines together. Not some dumb romantic guff about Earth.”
She paused to stare at each cadet in turn, daring them to so much as breathe in a manner that she could construe as backchat. She stretched that moment of tension to her satisfaction before continuing. “Last I heard, Sergeant Horden was en route to the Akinschet system. I expect when he gets there that he’ll change his tune pretty damned sharpish.”
Rekka rocked back on the heels of her prosthetic legs. They were her everyday pair, encased in gleaming black plastic and silvered metal, except for the rubbery sole to the built-in feet. She lifted her stick and used it to poke Arun in the chest.
“I’ve warned you before about speaking out of turn, McEwan. Give me twenty squat jumps.”
“Ma’am. Yes, ma’am.”
Arun’s anger returned in ever-increasing waves. Arun tried to suck it back in but today his self-control was shot to hell.
The instructors claimed that many of the rituals of training and command had been gleaned from practices used centuries before on Earth. The Jotuns reasoned that military training evolved over centuries to match the human psyche would be a better starting point than anything they could devise.
And so punishment for minor infractions often meant press ups, digging and filling in fighting holes, or similar pointless physical activity, even though in comparison with the original humans of Earth, the Marine cadets possessed immense physical strength and endurance. Wetware augmentation and genetic manipulation meant Marines were different mentally too. When not succumbing to a tendency toward ill-disciplined rage, they took an iron will for granted.
All of that meant punishment exercise was easy. Normally. But not today.
The anger in Arun’s breast tempted him to glance meaningfully at his rack where he’d placed the walking stick the medics had given him.
He didn’t. Rekka knew perfectly well that he’d suffered a leg wound. Drawing attention to his stick would be weak, and achieve nothing but win contempt from everyone in the room. Instead, he drew upon his mental strength and gingerly crouched down into a squat position. His wounded leg felt stiff, but only when he got into the deepest position of the crouch did his left knee grind as if his joints were made from rusting steel that hadn’t seen oil for decades. With a supreme effort, he managed to cap his scream of agony. He looked down at his limb, expecting to see the blood seeping out the wound opened up by the Troggie guardian’s claw.
There was no blood, no bone shards poking through the skin over his knee.
“Begin!” Rekka ordered.
Arun jumped as high as he could, flinging his arms up as he leaped. He knew that if she decided he’d made a halfhearted jump, she would make him start again at the beginning.
At the top of his jump, Arun pointed his toes down and lifted his head high, as per the prescribed form. The jump was easy. The descent was not.
When he landed and his legs took his weight it felt as if hot blades were
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