Blood of the Ancient - The Helix Rebellion saga #1

Chapter 4

Sixteen weeks. The Malikan Marine Corps recruits course was hell. The first part was held in a depot in the north sector of South Barlow. Logan was subject to intense physical training and martial arts, moulding a buttered body into a military fighting machine. He was left aching in muscles he didn't even know existed. But his hard work and determination didn't go unnoticed by the instructors; they pushed him harder.

There was no time to rest, training was relentless, Logan even wondered more than once if he'd made a mistake signing up. From an initial two hundred recruits, fifty had already dropped out, and the intensity was growing.

During the second stage of training, the remaining recruits were organised into battalions, companies and platoons. The trainees presented themselves every morning before sunrise, accountable for immaculate dress and equipment cleanliness. The privilege of this early inspection belonged to Drill Sergeant O'Hara, who scrutinized every candidate thoroughly; ensuring equipment was perfectly assembled, maintained and uniforms were clean and ironed to military precision. If O'Hara was unimpressed with any individual, the entire battalion missed breakfast and were ordered to run ten miles carrying the failed recruit. Tempers regularly flared, and enemies were quickly made.

On a rare occasion when an inspection was passed, candidates were taken to class and introduced to field skills and marksmanship. During this process, heavy discipline was instilled; designed to psychologically break down the recruit and remove any civilian thoughts that might be detrimental to their training. Field formations and battle tactics were soon ingrained within their military thinking minds.

After class, they were allowed a fifteen minute break to eat and take fluids, followed by a long afternoon of practical field skills in the drill yard. Battalions were split into platoons and worked on battleground scenarios until dark. Each and every recruit felt O'Hara's wrath on more than one occasion for making a mistake, and again the entire battalion would suffer. During one scenario, Logan failed to spot a simulated injury to a platoon member named Rabb, their punishment was to clean and scrub the decks of the entire complex until the next morning.

Rabb never forgave his younger comrade, and took it as a personal insult. Rabb even took it upon himself to make the rest of the course as difficult as possible for Logan; once stripping his meticulously maintained weapon, and filling it with dirt and grime for O'Hara to find. He even maliciously ironed heavy creases into Logan's parade shirt, causing O'Hara to lose his temper worse than anyone had seen before, throwing his metal helmet into the boy's face. Logan knew it wasn't a fight he could win, so he picked himself off the floor, told the drill sergeant it wouldn't happen again and wiped the blood from his burst lip.

At the end of the second stage of training, recruits chose which individual weapon to specialise in. Logan chose the Sword Arts - a weapon he'd always admired. For three weeks he would wield a blade and train with Grand Master Sephus; a tall, elegant man with long silver hair who walked like he was floating. Only eight recruits chose the sword, with the majority fixated on rifles and heavy artillery. A few went for pole weapons and knives, and one chose explosives.

Logan was bitterly disappointed to see Rabb join his group, who nearly scuppered his chance of reaching the rank of Squire at the end of week one. This was a basic practical examination, where recruits were to show their understanding of the first two sword forms by a semi-contact sparring session. Most candidates took to it sportingly, but from start to finish Rabb had Logan on the back foot, hammering down on him with his blade in an attempt to make him fail. All eight candidates were granted the title, but Logan vowed to make Rabb pay.

The last week of the course was the final test, and entailed a sixty hour field exercise, followed by practical examinations within platoons. On day seven, Logan had his revenge.

"Candidate one-three-two, stand at ease." Drill Sergeant O'Hara was speaking to the smartly dressed recruit at the edge of the desk, his head down in a pile of paperwork.

Logan stood at ease with his hands behind his back, awaiting the full attention of the drill sergeant. He had a very minimalistic office, Logan thought, with only a few crooked pictures hanging on the wall. One was of him shaking hands with President Malik, another showed a young O'Hara presumably on a mission, sitting proudly with a rifle on the back of a truck. Logan observed the older version scribbling away at his desk, he was a distant shadow of his former self. He'd shaved off the big moustache from the picture, revealing ugly, pock-marked cheeks. His narrow eyes were dark and sunk into a pink, blotchy face. I wonder how many recruits have come to this office and left as a Marshal, what a moment of...

"Your report shows you have great potential son," O'Hara blurted out, interrupting his thoughts. "Both physical training instructors agree that your work ethic and fitness levels were one of the best on the course."

Logan beamed at the praise.

"Your control of the sword and understanding of the Sword Arts gave Grand Master Sephus great pleasure in awarding you with your Guardsman title." Logan fought to keep his pride hidden as O'Hara proffered a rolled up certificate of achievement. "Congratulations son, however--" he suddenly slammed his pen back down on the desk and leaned on his elbows, hands clamped in front of his face. "--You'll not be joining our rank of Third Class."

The blood drained heavily from Logan's face, he felt queasy and unsteady. He certainly hadn't expected O'Hara to announce that. "But, sir..."

"But sir nothing," O'Hara cut him off, spitting into the air as he shouted. He stood and walked towards Logan. "You showed great finesse and discipline throughout this course son, I had very high hopes for you." He pushed a fat finger into Logan's chest, nearly knocking him back. "But you ruined it when you lost your self-control and cut down your opponent during the finals."

Was that a grin on his fat face? Logan wondered. The words brought back an angry memory of the Sword Arts practical examination. He sparred first with big Joe, beating him with ease. Jack offered only a little more of a challenge, and then it was Rabb. A pretty even contest until Logan knocked his nemesis to the ground with a spinning side-kick, flowing naturally into a downward slash against Rabb's torso. It had all happened before Logan was even aware of what he'd done. He stood back, sheathed his sword and bowed to a terrified and slightly bloodied Rabb. Perhaps his revenge wasn't quite as rewarding as it had felt earlier.

"I can't believe it. Sir, he was after me the whole way through." Logan pleaded.

"Then more fool you for letting him beat you boy! Discipline, remember? This academy isn't about creating mindless barbarians, it's about crafting skilled Marshals who can utilise their brains. You had your chance son, and you blew it." O'Hara returned to his desk, and picked up a piece of folded parchment to read. "Tomorrow you will report to Lieutenant Cowans at zero-nine-hundred hours," he carelessly slung the parchment back onto the desk, then looked at Logan. "Candidate one-three-two, you are dismissed."

Logan angrily stood to attention, then marched from the drill sergeant's office. When the door closed behind him he fell against the wall, throwing his hands out to steady himself. He was a failure, and after everything Jax had done in persuading the commander to give him a chance with a place on the course. He'd let them both down because of his own pride and arrogance.

He began to walk along the corridor that lead back to the barracks, and caught a glimpse of a parade outside in the drill yard, one particular face stood out. Rabb. He was lined up alongside ten recruits, a high ranking officer walked down the line congratulating each candidate in turn. Logan realised the officer was wearing crimson - the colours of Second Class. His hands curled into angry fists, Rabb had somehow and unbelievably made it into the Marshal Ranks. Logan felt robbed, and as his blood began to boil he remembered O'Hara's last words of advice. 'Discipline remember. Skilled Marshals, not mindless barbarians'. Logan certainly didn't want to become the latter, so he bit his tongue for now and returned to the barracks, dragging his heavy boots that were weighed down by disappointment.