He Who Dares: Book One

By Rob Buckman

For Mike Gray, his life was a series of mysteries and unanswered question. Even the man who raised him, his paternal grandfather, was a question mark. After helping to save a passenger liner from certain destruction, he ran to escape the publicity and responsibility of who he was, yet fate dogged him to his new life, forcing him to face who and what he was.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 21, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483567648

Book preview

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CHAPTER ONE:     HMSS March wood UK (Royal Naval Shore Station)

The study of warfare in all its forms is the responsibility of all. Every war ever fought by man should be examined, analyzed, and pondered upon. For, it is in the understanding of these conflicts that we learn the truth about ourselves. If we examine the so-called Second World War, the last question we should ask is why Hitler went to war and what he hoped to gain. Before that, we should ask what circumstances led him to a position of power where he could lead Germany down that terrible path to destruction. Each question begs another question rather than an answer, and as we progress backwards, they enlighten us further. What root causes, such as social and economic conditions existed before Hitler came to power? Step by step, we gradually find the first question to ask. And that is, why do we fight, why do we permit governments of various forms to lead us into the insanity of war?

Mike Gray woke with cold sweat beading the fading tan on his forehead. The memories of Professor Canning’s interminable virtual lecture slowly fading into the background sounds of the bus. For a terrible moment, he thought he was still trapped there forever in the virtual lecture hall. Unable to escape an eternity of the professor’s dry monotone voice while the blackness of space and the haunting stars beckoned to him with their siren song.

The bus lurched to a halt and for a moment cold, wet air invaded the damp, stuffy interior as the front and rear doors opened. Mike wiped his hand across the steamed up window and peered through the blurred circle to see who was getting off. More to the question, why? The last view he had before the bleak wintry light faded was bare, snow covered fields and lonely forsaken farmhouses. The countryside beyond the pool of illumination streaming from the bus windows remained invisible. No welcoming lights of some farmhouse or village, just fat flakes of wet snow drifting slowly past his vision to settle on the head and shoulders of the departing passengers. The doors hissed shut as the lonely couple lifted their burden of shopping bags and slowly vanished into the swirling snow to some unknown and unseen destination. The bus moved on, its headlights cutting a gleaming white tunnel through the winter darkness. Here and there, the headlights picked out a bare tree in stark relief, leafless branches reaching down with skeletal finger as if grasping for the bus like some starving alien monster clawing for a meal. The last town or village he’d seen was Tottenham, and for a moment, he wondered if he was on the right bus. The warmth and motion of the slowly moving double decker omnibus soon lulled him back to the twilight zone between asleep and consciousness and he was back in the lecture hall.

How many times had he wished he could have dozed then, but Avalon’s ionized, oxygen-rich air kept them all awake as he and his classmates suffered through that and other lectures? For three long years, the hard seat numbed his rear end while the professor numbed his mind as he waited for what seemed like an eternity for his eighteenth birthday. More often than not, he wished he were back in the forest and jungles, exploring, prospecting, or just lazing the day away fishing in some quiet mountain stream as he’d done for so many years. And yet, each night as he lay in his sleeping bag looking up, the gleaming stars in the heavens beckoned him with their siren song. Calling him back to their welcoming embrace. His eighteenth birthday finally arrived, and like his older friends, he too went to college as a right-of-passage into manhood and full citizenship. From that moment on it seemed that all their studies related to warfare in one form or another. From basic combat training in weapons and unarmed combat, to advanced classes with various implements of war, such as tanks, manned battle suits, aircraft and starships. At nineteen, he went on to the War College, and there the emphasis was on the philosophy of government in all its subtle forms. From family and tribal socialism to communism and capitalism, in one way or another they studied all the izums, learning the supposed benefits and pitfalls of each. Someone touching him on the shoulder brought Mike back to the present with a jerk. He looked around to find an old lady in the seat behind poking him with a bony finger.

I think this is your stop young man. The old woman’s eyes twinkled with some secret knowledge, a slight smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Mike stood and thanked her, careful not to hit his head on the roof.

The old woman in her faded winter coat sat and watched the tall young man move to the back of the bus and the stairwell. The hard lines of her aged face softening for a moment, a sad smile playing at the corner of her mouth, remembering other handsome, bright-eyed young men in uniforms from days long ago. A bright star of a tear gathered in the corner of her eyes as she remembered the Wednesday night dances at the local church hall in Tottenham, of warm hands and even warmer lips in the darkness. Of whispered promises and words of love. She let out a soft, wistful sigh for days gone by and looked out the window for one last glimpse of the handsome stranger, smiling slightly as she wondered what young woman would listen to his whispered promises and words of love.

How the old woman knew this was his stop Mike wasn’t sure, but going downstairs, he saw the conductor nod to him, and shouldering his duffel bag he hunched his shoulders against the coming chill. The conductor hit the door release and he stepped out into the cold, forbidding darkness. Wet snow immediately settled on his bare head, dusting his short-cropped sandy hair and the shoulders of his overcoat. He stood there shivering, glumly watching the bright yellow, double-decker bus rumble off down the road and vanish into the darkness. Across the road from the lane, he saw a dimly lit bus stop that said Marchwood. That meant he was here, wherever here was. Through the falling snow, he could see a small village. The light from snow-haloed street lamps picked out the almost ghostly outlines of small houses, and what he took to be shops on each side of the narrow road, now all shuttered and dark. A naval vehicle should have picked him up at the mag-rail station in Southampton, but after waiting for over an hour in the freezing cold, he’d taken the bus, which at least was warm. Up to this moment, he’d managed to hold his emotions together, but gradually a feeling of loneliness began to penetrate his defenses, something he wasn’t used to. He clamped down on the feeling and let out a snort of disgust, more at himself than anything else. Shouldering his bag, he started down the lane on silent footsteps, hoping he was going in the right direction. The soft, scrunchy snow deadened all sound and he wondered for a moment if the bus conductor was playing a joke on him.

There was nothing to indicate this was the way to a naval base or anywhere else for that matter; just a narrow country lane, poorly lit and badly maintained, attested to by the number of snow-filled potholes he kept stumbling into. Around him, the dense thicket of leafless trees and bushes prevented him from seeing anything of the surrounding countryside, but he supposed it was the same as he’d seen from the top of the bus. Bare, snow-covered fields stretched away on either side of the road with an occasional light from some lonely farmhouse piercing the gloom for a brief moment; pools of warmth in an otherwise cold, alien landscape. A gust of salty wind smelling of fish, seaweed, and tar blew wet snow down his collar adding to his misery. His thinly insulated shoes had long since given up the job of protecting his feet. Now they were just dead lumps at the ends of his legs that kept finding things to trip over, or ice covered potholes full of freezing water to step in to. Rounding a sharp bend in the lane, he saw the gleam of a dim yellow light through the falling snow and headed towards it like a moth to a flame wishing for the thousandth time he were back on Avalon. At least there, he’d be warm. Much to his surprise, the poor excuse for a streetlight illuminated a turnoff that ran fifty yards to a rusty, chain-link gateway and a painted brick guard shack. A sign over the gate said HMS Marchwood and, from its new condition, it spoke volumes of how recently and with what speed, the Royal Navy re-commissioned this old base. Somewhat heartened he picked up his steps and at least tried to look like a Naval Cadet instead of some poor beggar looking for a handout. Walking through the pedestrian gate, he knocked on the steamed-up window. A misty figure inside moved towards him. The sliding glass window opened a crack and warm steamy air flowed over his face, full of the rich smell of coffee, food and stim smoke.

Yes! the gruff voice from inside asked.

Cadet Gray reporting as ordered, he answered, offering his movement orders.

You’re late! You should have been here three hours ago.

I know, but the mag-lift train from the space port was running late… The man pointedly ignored the offered orders.

Go to barracks number five! The voice cut off his excuse by slamming the window shut in his face.

But… he said, tapping on the window again.

What!

…can you tell me where I can get a meal? I haven’t eaten since this morning.

Your problem mate, not mine. You should have been here on time. The man let out a nasty chuckle, slamming the window shut.

Mike Gray felt his temper rising and resisted the temptation to put his fist through the window and grab the jerk by the throat. It wouldn’t do any good and wouldn’t be an auspicious start to his naval career. Gritting his teeth, he shouldered the duffel bag and trudged off through the falling snow to find barracks number five. As he trudged down the unseen road, a dark shape loomed up out of the wintry monochrome landscape while the half-moon played hide-and-seek between the scudding clouds. Wet gray concrete and the unlit windows of a three-story barracks materialized out of the snowy landscape with a large black number ONE painted in five-foot high letters on the end wall. With a sigh, he hunched his shoulders against the cold, wet snow and trudged on counting off the ghostly shapes of the buildings as he did. At last, the fifth building came into view looking as bleak and lonely as the first one. On dead feet, he walked around it looking for the front door, finding it on the fourth side he checked. He swore. Had he turned the other way, he would have found it on the first try. Shaking his head in exasperation, he tried the door to find that accumulated snow and ice had jammed it shut. It finally gave in to the persistent pounding of his broad shoulder only to dump him on the wet floor of the dimly lit lobby. This time he swore in three different languages, two of them alien. Getting to his feet, he dragged his duffel down the hallway trying one door after another, finding them locked or nothing more than utility cupboards smelling of damp mops and floor polish. On the second floor, he found one that opened into a dorm room complete with eight single beds with the mattresses folded on the end, blankets and sheets on top. With a sigh, he stumbled in taking the bed by the far window and dropped onto the bare springs. For a moment, he just sat there while the snow and ice melted into a pool of dirty water around his feet.

What the hell am I doing here? he muttered. I should be home. Not in this God forsaken shithole. For a moment, loneliness, like a black smothering blanket threatened to choke him, something he’d rarely felt before.

On Avalon, he’d spent days, weeks, away from home on his own, roaming and exploring the mountains and forest, but he had never felt anything like this. The last time he was off world, he’d been in a barracks with people around so he never had time to feel sorry for himself. Everything said this was a mistake, and that he was just running from one problem to another, just like before. The feeling was almost a physical weight, and it was only by a sheer act of will that he pulled his mind back from the descending spiral of loneliness that threatened to engulf him. At first, the whole idea of coming to Earth and entering the Royal Navy seemed like the answer to a prayer, an escape, somewhere to hide, a means to escape the spotlight again, but now he had his doubts.

Nevertheless, he was here, on Earth, at the Naval Training College, HMS Marchwood about to become a Navy Cadet Midshipman. Thinking back, he tried to understand the source of the crystal-clear vision he’d had of himself dressed in a fleet admiral’s uniform. In a flash of foresight, he’d seen the long, twisting path that led him to that point. This was what he was supposed to do, his destiny. He’d also seen a brief glimpse of the people he’d send to their deaths, and that vision alone almost stopped him from leaving home again. Was he condemned to get people killed as he had his grandfather? Whatever the root cause of the vision he knew he had to follow the path no matter the cost but not for himself he knew. He had to follow the death-laden path for the sake of humanity, for he knew without a doubt that failure meant the end of the human race itself.

With a sigh, he stood at last and peeled off his wet overcoat and shoes, shivering as he did. Looking around he spotted a control unit on the wall and hopping across the ice-cold floor, he cranked up the heating unit. Somewhere in the heating duct overhead, a fan spun into noisy life, squeaking and clicking as the old oil in the bearings protested at the sudden workload, the tip of one bent blade hitting something with an annoying metallic clicking sound. At least it began to pump warm air into the room along with some dust and an odd musty smell. Hanging his wet overcoat in the locker, he lifted the blankets and sheets and unfolded the mattress finding two pillows tucked inside. He carefully made his bed; if nothing else, he’d have a place to sleep tonight. He wasn’t sure if he’d be staying here, but suspected not so he didn’t bother unpacking, just took out his towel, soap, and shampoo, before placing the duffel in the locker. Even with the heating on he was still shivering, and he decided to investigate the shower facilities. Much to his surprise the water ran hot once the brownish ice water cleared itself out of the pipes. Closing the door to the cubical, he undressed and climbed under the stream of hot water with a contented sigh.

Oh my lord! Heat! He sighed, closing his eyes in sheer bliss. That was the one disadvantage of coming from a mostly sub-tropical planet; it never really got cold except in the mountains, and then he was usually dressed for it. Mike took his time, enjoying the sensation of the hot water flowing over his skin, occasionally letting out a long groan as various parts of his body defrosted. Like all good things, it had to end, and it did when the water suddenly turned ice cold.

Arrrrrrrrr! he yelled, jumping back. Son of a pox-ridden dock whore! he growled, grabbing the control handle.

Cocking an ear, he heard another shower running and guessed that some other late arrival was taking a shower to warm up. Whoever it was, they might have at least had the courtesy to turn the water on slowly or yell out. Out of spite, he reached over and cranked the temperature control all the way to cold, moments later hearing a scream from a neighboring shower stall. He waited a moment, counting off the seconds, then cranked the control all the way to hot.

SON OF A BITCH! a distinctively female voice yelled.

Mike quickly turned the control to the center blushing furiously. He’d forgotten that both male and female cadets shared the same facilities here on Earth. A moment later, someone started pounding on his shower door.

You in there! Are you the misbegotten dickhead that played around with the controls? a female voice asked angrily.

Who me? Mike asked. Holding a towel around his waist, he stuck his head out of the door, giving her his most innocent look. A girl stood there glaring up at him, her long fair hair hanging around her pixy face in wet disarray. She’d wrapped a towel wrapped around her body and tucked it together in the cleft between her small breasts.

Yes, you! she snapped, her hazel eyes flashing fire.

Me! No, I was just about to get dressed. I got a blast of ice water as well. It must be the plumbing in this old place. He looked myopically up at the piping on the ceiling, a puzzled look on his face, killing his first thought of telling her to go screw herself.

He could see she didn’t quite believe him, but without definite proof, there was no way she could call him a liar. Well, she could. Instead, she tried tossing her wet hair over her shoulder in the universal female gesture of dismissal and stormed back to her cubicle. Mike grinned wolfishly as he closed the door, quickly climbed into his clothes and beat a hasty retreat to the dorm. The moment he entered, he knew there was going to be trouble. Another late arrival was now lying on his bed, wet coat, snow, boots, and all.

Excuse me, but you are on my bed!

You’re excused, old man, just find another why don’t you. Plenty more to go round you know. The young man on the bed waved him away with a limp hand. He hadn’t even bothered to open his eyes to see who it was.

I said, you are on my bed! Mike gritted his teeth feeling hot waves of anger radiating from his gut.

The pale faced young man opened his eyes, watery blue, with definite signs of being under the influence of something and looked him up and down. The slight sneer on the man’s face that galled Mike the most. He acted as if he were talking to some servant.

Plenty of other beds, old boy. Why don’t you go and use one of those. The watery blue eye traveled over Mike’s rangy body as if weighing him like a side of beef.

You can either remove yourself, asshole, or I’ll move you, your choice! His off-Earth accent coming to the fore.

Do you know to whom you are speaking, you bog trotting colonial reject! The young man yawned, shifting his dirty boots on the covers.

Not having heard that particular slur before Mike didn’t take as much offense to it as maybe he should, but he’d be damned if he’d let this limp dick wimp take his bed without an argument. Personally, I don’t give a flying fuck!

I am James Heartmore, Third Duke of Richmond.

I don’t give a fuck if you’re the bloody king. Get your ass off my bed, dickhead… Mike felt the fury inside rising, and the pain in his head started to build as his hands closed into a fist.

Jimmy! Get your lazy butt off the man’s bed and find one of your own, a female voice said from behind him, cutting off the rest of his angry remarks.

Whipping round, Mike found himself looking into the hazel eyes of the girl from the shower. She looked at him a moment, as if deciding something, then down at the man on the bed.

Jan, give me a break. The young man sighed, waving his hand in the air. I’m feeling a little under the weather right now. I’m sure we can straighten this all out in the morning. James Heartmore yawned, smacking his girlish lips together as if he had something unpleasant in his mouth.

Now, Jimmy! she said, walking around Mike and reaching to grab the young man’s coat front. Even as angry as he was, Mike noted in passing that the material of her silk pajamas stretched very nicely over her tight round bottom.

All right! I’m moving, Jimmy rolled away from her descending hand. You have always been a spiteful person, Jan. He gave Mike a dirty look as if to say it was his fault and dragged his duffel bag over to an empty bed muttering under his breath.

Thank you… Jan? But I could have handled the little twit myself. In a way Mike was glad she’d stepped in, as pounding the shit out of another cadet might not be a good way to start his new career.

The name is Fletcher, Cadet Fletcher to you, she corrected in a snotty tone.

Well, excuse me! Mike snapped back, biting off any more.

And who might you be? she asked, turning to walk away.

Me? My name is… Gray, he growled, then softened his tone, Mike Gray.

And what… planet do you come from?

From… Kellman, he lied. He suspected that the girl was about to say colony instead of planet but let it pass. She had at least tried to hide her feeling about someone not from Earth. She looked him up and down for a moment much the same way Heartmore had.

Oh, one of ours. That’s nice, she commented in a condescending offhanded way as she walked across the room to her bunk.

She made it sound as if she didn’t care where he came from if it wasn’t Earth. He knew from experience how Earther’s thought about people from the colonies and especially about someone from a place like Kellman; antediluvian neobarbs to their way of thinking. It was an old story, told many times throughout human history, the citizens of the mother country looking down their collective noses at anyone from the colonies. Even if those selfsame colonies made the mother country rich in the process.

In this case, once Captain William Enright invented a working FTL drive, the nation states of Earth rushed to found colonies on every available M Class planet they could find. Great Britain made trillions in the process and made still more from the output from the colonies. At least they hadn’t made the same past mistakes and tried taking territory with an indigenous sentient life form. Russia, the United States, China, Japan, and countless other countries claimed planets and star systems for themselves. They packed every available ship with people and supplies, some willing, some not so willing, and shipped them off world. Many were simply dumped on some godforsaken chunk of dirt to fend for themselves, often failing through sickness, famine or some indigenous life form incompatible with humans. Usually, the Royal Navy had to go in, clean up the resulting mess and arrange for the survivors’ transport to another, better-founded colony, or back to Earth even if the mother country didn’t want to take them back. After the first rush gobbled up the readily available M Class planets, the governments and ethnic groups began clambering for more, and the UK sent out a swarm of scout ships to search.

Mike’s great grandfather had been a scout ship pilot for a few years seeming to have a nose for finding livable space. He had more than a few claims to his credit and used them to retire to Avalon, which he had also discovered. By that time, the first impulse to migrate had died down, so no one challenged his right to purchase his discovery. He bought the sole rights to the whole star system and used the reward money to set it up the way he wanted. Therein lay the second reason Mike had lied about where he was from. Off-worlders looked at people from Avalon with deep suspicion. The only way they could live and procreate on a heavy world like Avalon was through genetic manipulation, but it also engendered stories and half-truths about genetic supermen that no amount of PR could change.

Cleaning off his vacated bunk the best he could, he made himself comfortable eyeing his fellow travelers as more late arrivals came in. They were a mixed bunch, ranging from tall, and blond, to short and dark and everything in between. His mind immediately picked out the leaders and the followers, the bigmouth braggarts, and the softly spoken ones who liked to stay in the background. From what he could see, there were no truly dangerous ones here except probably Heartmore. He was a back stabber and a manipulator of other people’s misery. Mike made a mental note to keep an eye him, not that he expected to catch him doing anything direct, just manipulating any situation to his advantage. Mike used his data-comp to bring his log up to date and checked for mail. As yet, the local mainframe hadn’t registered him, so it would be a few days before anything caught up to him, not that he expected any mail.

Anyone know what time we have to get up? someone asked the room at large.

When they start yelling at us I presume, Jan answered with a chuckle.

That received a few groans around the room, especially from James Heartmore, Third Duke of Richmond, as he tried for the third time to make his bed. Mike smiled, feeling no sympathy for the man. He pulled out two bars of trail rations, and munched on one as he climbed into bed to get warm. So much for the wonderful welcome to Earth, he’d dreamt about. This was about as far down the scale as he could have imagined, and he doubted it would get better any time soon. Other late arrivals came in but they didn’t bother him nor did the lights going on and off, even though it did bother the others trying desperately to sleep before reveille. One poor individual sported a large knot on his head in the morning from the boot that struck him when he switched the light on one too many times. Mike’s ability to sleep anywhere under almost any conditions served him well, and he awoke refreshed even before someone started yelling for them to get up.

Opening one eye, he looked around, but the view wasn’t any better than when he’d gone to sleep; it was still dark outside. A quick glance at his wrist crono showed it was 05:30 GMT or half an hour before dawn. A hard-faced, middle-aged man in uniform walked down the room ripping bedclothes off the sleeping forms and throwing them on the floor where they soaked up the melted snow. To add to the impending misery some fool had turned off the central heating during the night and now the dorm was freezing cold. Mike sat up and crossed his arms, leaned back against the wall, a slight smile on his face as he watched the reaction of the others as they came awake. These ranged from screams of outrage, to swearing, but all met with the same response.

Get your lazy ass out of bed, Cadet – Move it! This isn’t a bloody holiday camp!

Mike looked for and found the man’s rank; he was nothing more than an Able Rating and probably, as the last man on watch, ordered to wake up the new recruits.

He was obviously taking malicious pleasure in doing it, and even from the quick glimpse he had got through the sliding glass window last night, he could see it was the same individual who’d greeted him at the gate. The man walked towards Mike’s bed, his hand reaching out, even thought he could see Mike was awake.

You touch this bed, asshole, and I will personally throw you out the fucking window.

You think so? The man gave him a hard look and nasty grin, reaching for the covers anyway.

I know so, you brain-dead dock rat. Mike answered in a hard voice. The man hesitated. And do it with great pleasure, without a second thought, he added, baring his teeth in a parody of a smile.

Oh, you are one of those colonial boys who thinks he’s a hard ass.

You touch these covers and you’ll find out just what a hard ass I am.

The man hesitated before pulling his hand back. I’d watch my back if I was you, Cadet!

For a dock rat like you, I don’t need to, I can smell you coming.

The man clenched his fist again and gave Mike a hard look before turning away.

Time to get up. Reveille in five minutes and first muster at oh six hundred, the man bellowed. He looked over his shoulder, thinking to say something else. There was something in the cadet’s eye that said that might not be a good idea. He looked big enough. He wondered for a moment where he’d learned the Marine nickname dock rat for shore duty sailors then brushed it away, not his problem.

Thank you for the information, asshole, someone else yelled.

First muster at 06:00! he bellowed again as if everyone was deaf and, after looking over his shoulder and giving Mike a last dirty look, walked out of the dorm.

My, my, you took a chance there, Mr. Gray, Janice Fletcher grinned at him from across the room.

The man’s a jerk and just taking his frustration out on a bunch of poor cadets. Mike smiled, wondering how on Earth she could look that great this time of the morning.

Everyone outranks us, Gray! Don’t you know anything? Heartmore sneered.

Not an Able Rating. Only the training staff and instructors, he shut up then, realizing it was something he’d have to watch. Knowing too much could be a danger.

I hope he’d not one of those, or your ass will be grass with him, Janice said, shaking her head.

Mike shrugged and climbed out of bed, doing a little dance on the cold floor until he got his socks on.

Luckily, someone yelled down the room to turn to heat back up then asked what icebound planet the idiot who turned it down came from. From the red face of one young man, it was obvious who the culprit was.

I’m sorry; it’s just that I like to sleep in a cold room…

The next time you want a cold room, take your fucking bed and sleep outside, you stupid Burk! someone shouted, amid the general sounds of displeasure.

Taking his toilet kit, Mike went off to the bathroom before the general stampede started. Even so, he only just managed to get a sink. He washed with just enough warm water to rinse off before it turned ice cold. So much for the hot water supply. He pitied the poor sods that had to shave and silently thanked the genetic engineer who’d taken facial hair out of his genes. With chattering teeth, he rushed back to the dorm and dressed, silently cursing the man who’d turned the heat down.

At 06:00, they stood in the freezing cold while a petty officer called out their names, ticking them off on a lighted clipboard. It was still dark, and the only light came from the barracks around them and a nearby streetlight that proved totally inadequate to illuminate the scene through the falling snow. They stood there for fifteen minutes, stamping their feet and blowing into frozen hands to warm numb fingers.

Welcome to your new home, H.M.S. Marchwood. He gave them an evil grin. My name is Jackson, Senior Petty Officer Jackson. His voice sounded like an old foghorn. This training establishment has been re-commissioned solely for your benefit. From the way he said it, it was clear he personally disapproved.

You are the first contingent in the Royal Navy’s plan for an accelerated training schedule and this will be your home for the next six months. After that, you will go to other facilities for additional training. That is, if you complete basic training and graduate. He walked slowly back and forth in front of the twenty-odd people, looking them over.

How many of you will still be here a month from now I don’t know, very few unless I miss my guess. That brought a few heads up.

To leave, all you have to do it ask, he grinned at them over his scarf, and I know many of you will. This is not, I repeat not, a boy scout camp, a vacation resort, or your whore mother’s cozy little home. He strolled up and down in front of the first rank, taking his time.

I am going to make it my personal ambition to make your collective and individual lives as miserable as possible, and bounce as many of you worthless, pathetic idiots out of here as fast I can. That brought a few heads round to look at each other, and a murmur of protest.

How any of you thought you could ever become officers in His Majesty’s Royal Navy is beyond me. As of now, you are all on defaulters for mustering late.

What! You can’t do… someone protested.

Petty Officer Jackson stormed over to the unfortunate man in the second rank, shouldering people out of the way, as he did, standing nose to nose, as he shouted the question, Did I give you permission to open your fucking mouth, Cadet?

No, sir.

I’m not a SIR! You poncy little baboon. I work for a living, unlike you; you pile of worthless dog shit! Drop and give me ten! After that, he worked his way down the line, asking each his name, eyeing him or her up and down as the poor individual did his pushups with frozen hands.

Where are you from, Gray? Mike’s tan was too obvious.

Kellman, Senior Petty Officer Jackson! Standing this close, Mike could feel the heat radiating from the man. The miserable bustard was wearing a powered thermal suit and taking malicious pleasure in watching them all freeze. Hearing Mike’s answer, his eyes narrowed slightly.

You’ve done this before, haven’t you? he asked sharply.

Done what, Senior Petty Officer Jackson?

Don’t fuck with me, son, I know a retread when I see one. His eyes narrowed even further.

I have no idea what you are referring to, Senior Petty Officer Jackson. Mike bit his tongue against saying more. Pricks like Jackson pissed him off no end.

From the top of his close-cropped sandy hair down to his shiny snow covered shoes even the way he stood spoke volumes. However, that wasn’t Petty Officer Jackson’s concern. The man obviously had military training somewhere before, say on Kellman, if that was where he was really from. If so, so much the better. It would make his and the rest of the training staff’s life that much easier.

I’ll be watching you, son. You fuck up this much, Jackson held his gloved hand out with about half an inch between his thumb and forefinger, you’ll be out of here so fast it’ll make your head spin.

Yes, Senior Petty Officer Jackson. Mike mentally kicked himself. Old habits die-hard. He’d have to watch himself very carefully from now on.

That set the tone for the next six months. As Mike expected, after breakfast they gathered their belongings and moved to another barracks. There, they joined other recruits who’d arrived in the past two weeks. In all the 150 men and women made up number three training squadron and began the transformation from civilians to Naval Cadets. They marched to the quartermaster’s store and drew their basic equipment. Three sets of dark blue uniforms with a cadet’s insignia, a white plastic circle with an anchor in the center, one on each collar. This designated them as cadets and easy for anyone to recognize. Boots, socks, and an assortment of underwear came next, plus caps, gloves, and sundry other items they’d have to learn how to use. After that, it was back to the barracks to change, but no time to sort out their gear, that would come later. Everything was done on the run, and no matter how fast they were, someone always managed to get them extra demerits by arriving late. From the moment they woke in the morning, to the last second in the evening people were constantly yelling at them. Mike was thankful he was in top physical condition as the daily routine the instructors put them through was murder. For the first two weeks, they did nothing but march endlessly up and down the ice covered parade ground for hours on end in the freezing cold. Many a cadet ended up with a trip to the Medical Center with bumps and bruises from slipping on the ice, and the JDI seems to take malicious delight in making it happen. Mike had to admit the JDI, junior drill instructor, did have a good line of sneering remarks for the unfortunate souls, especially those that fell down, some of them quite original.

Left – Right – Left – Right! Pick your bloody feet up you pathetic little man!’ was the mildest. Do I need to shove a broom handle up your fucking ass to make you stand up straight, you worthless twat? he yelled at one of the female cadets, bringing her to tears. If someone slipped on the ice covered parade ground … who gave you fucking permission to lay down on MY fucking parade ground, moron?" … and so it went. The assault course and physical training were worse and more than one gave up and went home.

A five mile run across snow-covered open country in subzero temperatures was one quick way to weed out the soft ones in a hurry, not that it bothered Mike, he got to the finish line even before the instructors. One or two eyed him as he stood there running in place as they waited for the slower members of the class to arrive. Gradually the discipline sank in until their responses became automatic. Within two weeks, they gave up any resemblance to normal, rational, thinking human beings and turned into automatons. They simply reacted to any shouted commands no matter how idiotic. From the level of shouting, it was clear the instructors thought they were all hearing impaired and took great delight in yelling in some poor cadet’s ear at the top of their lungs. The worst part was the daily inspections ritual, and Mike saw more than one cadet reduced to tears as the instructor tore their locker apart. When it came to his turn, the instructor’s always gave him a surly look as they found nothing out of place, but even so, once or twice they’d turn his locker over on principle. Of course, the barracks were never clean enough, no matter how many times they swept, washed, polished, and dusted. They quickly learned that no matter what they said, they were wrong. To the instructors a cadet midshipman was the lowest form of sentient life on the planet and ranked somewhere between a worm and a dog. Dogs were credited with a slightly higher intelligence as they were smart enough not to be here.

Petty Officer Jackson was right as day-by-day trainees simply vanished. They’d return to the barracks to find another mattress neatly folded in half with blankets and pillow on top, the signal that another cadet had quit. It was unusual for the training staff to actually let someone go, but Mike knew of two cases where the person in question was discharged, obviously considered unsuitable to be a Naval Officer. It didn’t help Mike’s mood any when he realized that both the people were off-worlders like himself. PO Jackson looked at him several times in an odd way, usually when he did something too well, and Mike wondered if he would be next to go. In answer, Mike redoubled his efforts, but deliberately fouled up occasionally. He dreaded the moment when it might be his turn to get kicked out. After the first three months of basic, the original 150 was down to 75. The days gradually rolled into one another, each more miserable than the last. By now, they just reacted to whatever someone yelled. It was with an enormous collective sigh of relief that they made it to graduation day without further casualties. Not that their time in purgatory was over, just the first part. So far, they’d learned nothing about being a Naval Officer, just how to march up and down, look smart and jump like a frog at any orders screamed at them.

That’s the point, Mike, Janice Fletcher pointed out one day when he asked. That’s all this six months is about.

Seems like a waste of time to me, he grumbled. Janice chuckled. He was grateful that at least she’d thawed out to the point where he could use her first name. He carefully framed his questions and responses to sound like just another no-nothing-hick recruit from the colonies.

That’s because you’re not from Earth and don’t know the history of the Royal Navy.

Oh, I know a lot about it. I’ve read about its history since I was three. That remark brought an odd look.

Yes, the official history in the books, all the battles and famous officers and all that, but not about what made is as good as it is… Did you say three?

Yes. And that is?

Discipline, Mike, basic, down to earth, excuse the expression, discipline.

All they’ve done is got us to the point where we jump around like idiots the moment they shout something at us. He lay back on his bunk with a sigh, willing to suffer the consequences just for a moment’s relaxation.

Exactly. In combat when you want something done instantly under fire, or while the ship is disintegrating around you, you know that when you give an order it will be obeyed, right?

Mike thought about that for a moment. It seemed simple enough, yet it was the opposite of what they taught at home. Where he came from, everyone had to think for themselves and take responsibility for their actions. On the other hand, he could see that when you had a wide range of human beings from different backgrounds, there had to be one common denominator. Something that everyone knew and respected. Considering the Royal Navy’s record over the last 800-odd years, he had to admit that discipline might just be the key. Even with all its ups and downs, it was still considered the best and most copied Navy on and off planet. They managed to get two days off after the graduation and Mike ventured outside the gate for the first time. He took the naval ferry across the Solent to Southampton, braving the cold, gusty wind and light chop on the surface. He wandered through the town for a while just soaking up the atmosphere, finding the ultra-modern structures set amongst the older historic buildings slightly jarring. At one time, this port was the one of the busiest in England with surface ships leaving to distant ports-of-call all over the world. From here, the great ocean liners took the rich and famous to New York, Sidney, Rio and points beyond. Standing on the old docks, he could almost imagine the original Queen Mary or Queen Elizabeth steaming down the Solent on yet another transatlantic voyage. He took in dinner and a drink at the Royal Crown on High Street before heading back to the dock and the ferry back to Marchwood to finish packing his gear. Tomorrow they’d move to another base and make way for the next intake of poor recruits to spend their time in purgatory.

* * * * * *

Settling into the padded seat the next morning, he took a short nap despite the noise from the crowded shuttle and the muted thunder from the reaction drive, waking just as the shuttle touched down on the landing pad at Dartmouth Royal Naval Academy. If they thought it would be better or different here, that illusion vanished the moment the ramp hit the ground as the instructors started yelling at them all over again. This immediately dispelled any lingering thoughts that they’d left all that behind them. All morning they charged about from the hairdresser to the quartermaster’s store for new uniforms and equipment, still doing everything on the double. No matter what they did, it was still wrong, from standing up straight to sitting down, and he pulled more than one set of fifty pushups. Just to be funny, Mike did it one handed complaining he didn’t want to get the other dirty. There was no trick to it, as Avalon sat at the bottom of 1.9 gravity well. The Petty Officer Instructor didn’t see the humor in that, and made him do fifty more with both hands. The other cadets eyed him enviously as even after the last six months, few of them could do more than thirty before exhaustion set in.

At ten o’clock, they ran to the barracks, carrying a pile of equipment in their arms, including blankets, sheets, pillowcases, and a miscellaneous assortment of additional uniforms. Falling in line behind the rest of the trainees, Mike waited his turn for a room assignment, vainly trying to see who was ahead of him over the pile in his arms. Another gravel-voiced petty officer called out their names as the line followed him down the hallway, assigning two to each room. It wasn’t a straight two for two as he suspected, as some trainees dashed off down the hallway once their heard their room number called. It was with a certain amount of uneasiness that he waited his turn.

Gray! M! The instructor yelled.

Sir! He replied.

Room 27.

Aye-aye, sir! – Room 27, he yelled back, kicking his knee up to shift the load a little higher. Mike could feel something dragging but couldn’t do anything about it.

"All right Gray, get a bloody move on then. We