C.R.O.W. (The Union Series) (10 page)

New Earth was
the oldest colony ever to be established by mankind outside of the solar
system, first stood upon some three hundred years ago. Like every other world
that humanity would discover in its corporation driven spread into the stars,
New Earth was dead, as it had always been for the several billions of years it
had existed. To look at New Earth you might identify a close similarity with
parts of Mars;  jagged mountain ranges, gaping canyons and vast empty deserts
scattered with rocks from ancient asteroid impacts. New Earth had a similar
mass, temperature and composition to Earth itself, hence its name. It sported a
large surface of water – eighty-percent we were told - and a weather system
that included rain and even snow. Like Uralis, though, and many of the other
major colonies, New Earth’s atmosphere was impossible to breathe unassisted,
the deadly difference given away by her turquoise sky. Inhabitants wore
respirators and lived underground, or in domes of glass or airtight buildings.
We were used to such an environment anyway, so that made no difference to the
way that we would operate.

The
population of New Earth had increased since its colonization to somewhere in
excess of fifty million, a number dwarfed by the billions living on crowded
Earth - but for any colony that was quite a number. That fifty million was
divided into three significant parts, the two larger and equal portions at
twenty million a piece was made up of European and Chinese nationality, with
the smaller part being Russian. There had been a tradition of acceptance
between the ethnic groups, who lived as neighbours on sections of the planet’s
continents that had been neatly divided up by the colonial powers and the
corporations. It was only in the recent few decades - as relations between the
old allies began to cool - that tensions on the colony rose.

‘The Chinese corporations
wanted more land and demanded the Union give up her own territory,’ the
lieutenant explained to his audience, showing us a rotating New Earth atlas on
the hologram, divided into sections that were coloured in the flags of the
three colonial powers that controlled the surface, ‘In particular the southern
continent, where most of the Union mines were located.’

The
lieutenant went on to describe more of the geography of New Earth and the
patchwork of colonial territories that appeared to follow no obvious pattern
across the four main continents and smaller islands. We learned about the
planet’s Union capital; the Emerald City, a beautiful arrangement of glass
domes, spheres and tunnels lit with all the colours of the rainbow. With a
population of two million, it could be seen from space.

New Earth had
nothing in the way of materials that couldn’t be found closer to the home
planet. What made it so desirable was its booming manufacturing industry.
Unlike asteroids and some of the moons found orbiting many gas giants, the
planet had an abundance of raw materials from right across the periodic table.
It had no need for imports and could support a large human population without
assistance from Earth. Also, unlike Earth, the planet wasn’t divided by a
thousand borders, and so the movement of raw materials was simpler still. The
planet was a leader in nanotech, and was a leading mass producer in everything
from
computers to warships.

Due to the
large Russian and Chinese presence and the open trading society that had
existed before the Betrayal, English was widely spoken, although within the
Union sectors - German, French and Spanish were the primary languages. It
wouldn’t be a problem for us, since our respirator headsets and mouthpieces
were programmed to translate for us.

It was hard
to imagine what the population of that holographic planet had been through in
recent years, no news had escaped New Earth since its capture, except for
Chinese propaganda on the net back home that we were told to ignore, ‘What do
you think they’ve done to them?’ I wondered aloud.

Climo
shrugged, ‘Slave labour probably. Who knows?’

Joe Mac
turned from where he sat in front of me and Climo, ‘Oi, shut up you pair of
skid marks,’ he hissed.

‘Sorry,’ we
murmured. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Woody leaning forward to look
at us from a few seats down. His eyes bored into my burning cheeks, but I
pretended not to notice him and eventually he returned his attention to the
speaker.
Great
, I thought, no doubt he would come up with some way to
make me pay for that later.

He did. As
soon as the lecture finished and we were on our way back to our accommodation
to wait for more timings, Woody rounded on me and Climo, with Stevo and Brown
stood just behind him. The rest of the company crowded past us around the
circumference corridor, either unaware or simply uninterested in the
confrontation.

Woody
scowled, ‘What were you doing talking in that lecture? Not interesting enough
for you?’ Woody didn’t care about the lecture, I knew, he simply wanted some
reason to continue his campaign of intimidation against me, but this time his
contempt was directed at both me and Climo.

I tried to
cool things down, ‘I’m sorry, we weren’t thinking,’ I admitted, ‘It was really
stupid.’

‘Was I talking
to you, crow bag?’ Woody spat, then turned to Climo who had blushed crimson.

‘Crow don’t
speak,’ Stevo said to me from where he stood behind Woody’s hulking frame, ‘They
get
spoken to
.’

‘Are you
missing your crow days, Climo?’ Woody asked.

‘No,’ Climo
said, defiance in his voice.

‘You wanna
hang out with crow now do you?’

Climo looked
at me, then back at Woody and shrugged, ‘He’s alright,’ he protested, and Stevo
laughed as if such an idea was preposterous.

‘You did your
time as a crow,’ Woody went on, ‘Like we all have. I took you under my wing and
sorted you out. I could have smashed you far worse than you got, but I thought
you were a good lad. Now you’re mixing with this weasel,’ he jerked a thumb at
me where I stood awkwardly to one side, ‘Throwing all my hard work back in my
face. What’s that about, then?’ He threw his arms up in the air in a gesture of
futility.

Climo looked
to me again, ‘He’s alright,’ he repeated. I felt a lift to my spirits seeing
him stand up for me. Even though half of the platoon seemed to hate me, at
least there was one more person who I could call a friend.

‘He’s a
crow,’ Brown said, as if that were answer enough, but Climo, his defiance
growing, shook his head.

‘We’ll be
going to war soon,’ Climo said, ‘What’s the point in…’ he was cut short when
Woody grasped him by the throat and pushed him against the corridor wall so
hard that the metal panels echoed loudly about the confines of the ship. I
jumped back instinctively.

‘
Don’t
talk to me about war
!’ Woody shouted, his face pressed up against Climo’s
nose. Climo struggled for air and grasped at Woody’s arm in a vain attempt to
release the grip, but like me he was not nearly strong enough. When he wasn’t
working Woody lived in the gym, and his huge muscles bulged against his
fatigues.

‘What do
you
know about war? Nothing, that’s what. You think you got a pair now coz you did
a few drops with us on Uralis? Crow do drops on Uralis. But that’s what you
are, really isn’t it, Climo? A crowbag.’

‘You know
what crowbags get don’t you?’ Stevo prompted Woody with a grin.

Woody nodded,
and then he punched Climo full force in the gut. He let go and Climo, winded,
fell helplessly to the ground. For good measure, he then kicked him again in
the stomach as he retched on the floor.

It was at
that point that Joe Mac appeared over the corridor horizon and saw what had
happened. I was relieved, there was no way that Woody could explain this away,
they had been caught red-handed assaulting a fellow trooper in the corridor. He
lifted his cap, stooped over Climo and frowned, ‘Lads, screw the nut! Officers
walk down this corridor.’

I gaped as
Woody massaged his knuckles casually, ‘Sorry, mate, won’t happen again.’ Climo
still clutched at his stomach where he lay at our feet.

‘Get him out
of here,’ Joe shook his head, ‘Screw the nut, Woody.’ The lancejack was only
concerned that somebody outside the platoon might see what was going on. He was
happy to let the blokes serve their own justice if it kept them in line and it saved
him work so long as no one was around to see it. He walked away without looking
back.

Once Joe Mac
was gone Woody looked to me. I was rooted to the spot, staring at my mate as he
fought the urge to vomit on the metal floor. All the while Stevo and Brown
stood ready, clearly wanting me to try something so they could have a go. It
wouldn’t be much contest - there were three of them - and even if I went for
one, I doubted the other two would allow me a fair fight. Stevo was as old as
Woody, in his mid to late twenties I guessed, but he was little larger than me
and I could see weakness in the way he hid slightly behind Woody for
protection. Brown was less afraid, and he eyed me like a predator might eye its
prey, but he knew not to do anything without Woody saying so.

‘Fancy a go,
do you?’ Woody asked threateningly. My silence gave him his answer and he
smiled, ‘Didn’t think so. Sort your new mate out.’

Once the
three of them left I helped Climo up so that he sat with his back against the
wall. There were tears on his cheeks and at first I thought that was because he
was winded, but then he sobbed.

‘Are you
alright, mate?’ I asked, crouching on my haunches beside him. A couple of troopers
walked by chatting loudly, only briefly stopping their conversation out of
curiosity as they passed.

‘You
alright?’ I asked again, placing my hand upon Climo’s shoulder but he shrugged
it off angrily.

‘Just  give
me a minute, alright?’ Climo’s voice was breaking as he tried to take control
of himself once more.

I paused,
thinking of something to say that might lift Climo from his misery. Normally it
seemed like it was just me feeling miserable, ‘I’m sorry, I should have done
something.’

‘Like what, Moralee?’
Climo said harshly, ‘Do you do any martial arts?’ He shook his head and his
voice softened, ‘I didn’t do much good the other day anyway, did I?’

I realised he
was talking about the day that Woody attacked me and he had done nothing, ‘No,
not really,’ I agreed and Climo shot me an angered look - but saw that I was
smiling. After all we were only as bad as each other. Climo laughed and wiped
his eyes. He put out his hand and I lifted him to his feet like we would when
we were exhausted on Uralis and carrying too much kit to stand by ourselves. 

‘This place
gets too much for you sometimes,’ Climo admitted. He sniffed and regained his
composure.

‘You don’t
have to tell me that, mate,’ I agreed. My eye was still bloodshot in one corner
and probably would be for some time.

Climo
frowned, ‘I hate Woody,’ he said angrily, as upset turned to rage, ‘And his
cowardly little minions. This senior private show won’t count for nothing down
on New Earth. You’ll see.’

I nodded, not
necessarily because I agreed, but because Climo had begun to seethe with anger
and I wanted to humour him as we began to walk back to the accommodation.

‘It’s Andy,’
I blurted, surprising both of us, ‘My mates call me Andy.’

‘Well then,’
Climo exclaimed with a smile and renewed cheer, ‘Nice to meet you, Andy!’ We
shook hands, and I made myself a new friend aboard challenger.

9: Training

As Challenger
slipped through the cosmos at speeds I could scarcely imagine, the platoon
began training under Sergeant James. Hand-to-hand combat practice was followed
by first aid and respirator drills. We practiced weapon drills as well, but the
limited space on board meant ranges and exercises were impossible. The fact is,
skills fade when you’re cooped up for a long time aboard a ship.

The
simulators were the Union’s answer to that problem. They could recreate
anything - from ranges on Earth, to exercises on Uralis, to combat scenarios on
Eden fighting the Indo-Japanese Alliance - and make you feel like you were
really there by tapping into the neural structures of your brain. Troopers
being troopers, the programmers were asked to recreate bars, nightclubs and
even brothels, but they were always told the same thing: someone would have to actually
‘play’ the female. We always joked about someone taking one for the team.

The most
important weapon in our arsenal that we all had to practice with was the
MSG-20, or magnetic assault rifle, far superior to the silly carbines we’d had
in basic training. Its powerful magnets could propel a small steel dart, no
larger than the end of your little finger, at supersonic speeds up to five
hundred times a minute. It didn’t rust, it had a trigger, a catch to remove the
magazines, a firing selector to switch from single shot to burst to automatic,
and three equally simple buttons to control the sight: change view mode, zoom,
and focus. The MSG-20 was designed by a genius to be used by fools, in any
environment, from Earth to vacuum, and made the sniper rifle - though not the
sniper himself - almost obsolete.

Using the
simulators, me and the other new lads slowly began to settle in and see how our
new platoon worked. There seemed to be three distinctive tiers within the
platoon that were almost as rigid as the rank system itself, even if it wasn’t
official. The senior bods ensured we turned up with the correct kit. Woody in
particular appeared to take sadistic pleasure in dealing with anybody stepping
out of line; he thought up no end of humiliating punishments, including one
time when he made me and Gilbert clean the toilets with our toothbrushes as
punishment for not cleaning them properly that morning.

‘Don’t forget
to brush your teeth tonight,’ Woody had said with that same sickly grin that I
had come to loathe.

‘God, what a
sadistic freak,’ Gilbert had cursed under his breath, careful not to be heard
as we frantically scrubbed at green stains that had formed under the rim of the
urinals. I agreed with him but chose to say nothing, lest I earned another
black eye.

There were
about ten senior bods in the platoon, three of whom made up parts of the
headquarter element, including the platoon signaller - who was a slightly
strange looking skinny man with eyes that were perhaps a little too close
together - which earned him his nickname ‘Cyclops’. He never spoke much, but
supposedly he was a genius. By trooper standards that didn’t necessarily mean a
lot. Then there were of course Sergeant James’ smart launchers, Harmes and
Mitch, who were - as Sam had said - quick to point out the importance of their
role and how hard it was.

‘The platoon
won’t get anywhere without the launchers,’ Mitch would say, while Harmes would
nod his head furiously in agreement. During breaks in between shoots we would
be taken outside into the corridor so that we could practice handling the smart
launchers, loading them and unloading them with drill rounds and practicing
using the sighting system. It was ridiculously simple, most of the clever stuff
existed within the small missile which was indeed probably smarter than all of
us. All you had to do was verbally tell the missile what you wanted it to do, point
and fire, the missile worked out all the rest. You could even fire it blind
into the sky without saying a word and it would search for a target you hadn’t
seen and kill it.

‘There’s more
to it than just fire and forget,’ Harmes defended when one of the senior bods
made a sarcastic comment, ‘You gotta load it quick, fire from a good position
and know how it thinks!’

‘Yeah, you
gotta know how it thinks, man!’ Mitch agreed with far too much enthusiasm. They
were like a comedy act.

‘Be one with
the missile! They’re heavy, too, man, so you gotta be fit!’

‘Gotta be
fit!’

I lifted the
launcher in both arms. It was over a metre long, but built using lightweight
composites in the most advanced factories on Titan. It probably weighed less
than ten kilos with the drill round loaded into it. I decided that Sam had been
right about the two of them; they were idiots.

Jamo appeared
to have a soft spot for the two smart launchers, who were clearly in their
position because they were senior but none too bright. He would often refer to
them as his ‘
boys with the toys’
whilst the platoon referred to them - in
secret of course - as his
‘boys who are toys’.

The rest of
the senior bods were split amongst our sections with an aim to spread their
knowledge equally amongst the newer troopers. Woody and Rawson both presided
over One section, one of whom was in each of the section’s two fire teams.
Woody liked to think of himself as the top dog in the section, being the
biggest in bulk as well as the biggest bully, but we all knew that in fact the top
dog was Rawson, who would have been a Lance Corporal had his Junior Leader’s
course not been cut short in anticipation of the Invasion. Despite being a
cocky joker, he was calm and capable. Rawson appeared to let Woody have his
way, but both Corporal Evans and Joe Mac often turned to him when things needed
to be done - much to Woody’s apparent frustration.

Then there
was the new lads - us - who sat at the very opposite end of the food chain.
Even though some members of the platoon had warmed to us, including Climo who
had become a friend, we were still widely seen as outsiders and not considered
worthy of conversation. Some troopers, such as Sam and Davo, would extend us
the courtesy of one word phrases but generally wouldn’t go out of their way to
speak to us. We were used for menial tasks that the other lads didn’t want to
do, such as running errands and cleaning the accommodation in the mornings, and
we were always watched closely by troopers keen to spot our mistakes.

Those in the
middle weren’t referred to as anything specific, they were ‘the blokes’, ‘the
bods’, ‘the lads’,’ the toms’… whatever took your fancy. They ranged from
having served a year - to four years - and formed the main workforce of the
platoon. Some were clearly more capable than others, some even more so than the
senior bods, but they were seen as not having had enough experience to be
considered for additional responsibilities. Some, like Sam, outwardly resented
this, but made no effort to change a system that had worked for centuries.
Others, like Brown, followed the senior bods doggedly in an attempt to climb
the platoon pile, and I despised them for their shamelessness.

The platoon
itself had a hundred divisions, depending on where individuals came from,
ancestry, social class and religious beliefs. Most of our battalion were
recruited from the southern cities, but we did have some within our ranks who
came from the north, and even the odd Welshman - such as Westy. The platoon
accepted their differences, as only troopers could, united by a bond created by
shared hardship.

The rumours
amongst the platoon intensified as we neared the rendezvous, the platoon were
nervous and rightly so, and nothing made troopers more edgy than being left in
the dark.

‘I don’t
think it’s gonna happen,’ Woody said one time as we practiced using the under-slung
grenade launcher outside the simulators and away from the NCOs.

‘So what,
we’re gonna just turn up and the Admiral says “Shorry ladsh, falsh alarm?”’
Rawson mimicked the Dutch accent of the commander of the 3rd fleet and the
invasion of New Earth.

‘We’ll get
there, and they’ll think about it, and somebody will say it’s a stupid idea.’

‘What’s
stupid about it?’ Sam asked from where the rest of us watched the two senior
soldiers practicing with the grenade launchers. We were supposed to be taking
turns, but Woody had not handed his over for ten minutes, because he kept
making mistakes. He blamed it on being tired from a rough session in the gym
the night before, but we all knew better, senior troopers weren’t all perfect
and he was proving it, and getting angrier and angrier in the process.

‘Was I
talking to you, Sam?’ Woody snapped.

Sam’s eyes
burned with rage but he said nothing, and Woody carried on.

‘Think about
it,’ Rawson went on, ‘We get the order to take New Earth from Brussels, and they
would have thought about this whole idea a lot, not just drawn it up on a fag
packet. The big corporations have so much money held up in that place, they’re
probably putting a load of pressure on the Union to do something.’

‘Well, I
think they’ll bin it, we’ll get slaughtered down there. Why don’t the
corporations just
duke?’

Rawson shook
his head, ‘Isn’t it obvious? The corporations have loads of men and women who
could fight - if they were properly trained to - but we have
millions,
an
unending supply. It’s the only thing most nations have that the corporations don’t.’

Woody
bristled, ‘Well why don’t they just build some robots or something?’

Rawson
laughed, ‘Even in this day and age it’s all about money. Why build a load of
robots for billions when you can train a hundred troopers for millions? Besides
that, humans are more flexible in combat, can’t get hacked into by electronic
warfare teams and can win hearts and minds. As long as there’s war there’ll be
infantry, mate.’

‘The Chinese’ll
be dug in deep.’

‘Then we’ll
have to dig them out, wont we?’

During our
voyage we began to practice fighting as a section within the simulator. Most of
the simulator environments we used were set on the surface of Uralis and I
recognised them from my voyage to the home of the dropship infantry on board
the Fantasque. They had been reddened in colour, as the surface of New Earth
was bloody red instead of the dirty browns and greys of Uralis, but essentially
they were the same thing; rocky valleys, and expanses of desert, rolling hills
and towering mountains.

We fought
pitched battles against computer generated men, sometimes fighting across open
ground or amongst jagged rocks. It was the first time I’d had a chance to work
with my entire section and see who was in it. As I already knew, Corporal Evans
was our section commander, and Lance Corporal McAllister was the section second
in command. In addition to Woody and Rawson - Brown and Climo were also part of
my section. Then there was also Berezynsky, a lad who had arrived with me as a
raw recruit. He had kept himself to himself  since arriving, rarely speaking
even to acknowledge his old platoon team mates, but then I had remembered him as
always being the grey man and Gilbert confirmed this with typically few words,
‘He’s boring,’ he had simply said. Fair one.

We arrived at
our rendezvous some time while I had been sleeping. Our only way of knowing
that the jump was complete was a gentle chime on the ship’s announcement system
- which was only intended for the crew on duty to hear. Whilst the majority of
their crew slumbered, the vast fleet assembled silently in the darkness. It was
a fleet bigger than any that the Union had ever assembled, but none of us would
ever see it, for Challenger had no portholes for us to see out of, even if
there was anything to see in the dark anyway. Before lights out and the
bulkheads were locked shut again me, and Climo had contemplated it under
Woody’s increasingly hostile gaze.

‘Every Union
ship is painted black as space,’ Climo pointed out, although I already knew, ‘Camouflage
ain’t it.’

‘Even with
all the sensors ships carry?’ I wondered, ‘Surely painting them black wouldn’t
make any difference?’

Climo
shrugged, ‘Every little helps, mate.’

I would later
learn that a ship could reflect the rays off nearby stars, however little it
might be.  And although on an interstellar scale that light could take years to
be noticed - if at all - it could easily give a ship in orbit away and that,
after all, was where Challenger was designed to operate in combat.

And so
without a soul to see it, the Union fleet amassed, ready to take war back to
New Earth.

While
Challenger and the two fleets hung silent as ghosts in the night, and Generals
and Admirals thrashed out their plans, we were taken to practice survival
skills in the lock room at the back of the ship. We were all dressed in our
freshly issued combat equipment, instead of our drab grey ships fatigues and
peaked caps.

Most of the
combat equipment we had been issued on the ship was new, specially designed for
the unforgiving environment we were destined to fight in. It felt surreal
looking at us all in the tightly packed lock room, our new gel armour and
respirators coloured a deep blood red and streaked with sections of brown; the
camouflage pattern developed specifically for the surface of New Earth. The
last people to wear that uniform had retreated from a victorious Chinese horde
two years ago and now here we stood wearing it, contrasted against the grey
walls of the ship.

‘It’s red so
you can’t see the blood so much,’ Stevo said ominously, but Corporal Evans
snapped at him.

‘Don’t be so
stupid.’ The public reproof given by the giant section commander embarrassed
the big-eared bully into silence, and although I made no sign of it, inwardly I
smiled.

The
respirator filtration canisters which were connected either side of the
mouthpiece were slightly larger than those we used on Uralis, supposedly due to
an additional element in New Earth’s atmosphere that needed to be removed
before it entered our lungs. It wasn’t what was absent from the atmosphere that
made it deadly, but rather what was present; noxious gases that could make you
giddy after a single breath, knock you out in under a minute and kill you not
long after. The respirator’s filters cleaned the air and forced it into the
miniature atmosphere it held against the wearer’s face. It could even direct
the air flow and change its temperature to keep him comfortable, and more
importantly, stop the visor from fogging up. It was equipped with an in built
intercom system that allowed troopers to talk to each other over blasting dust
storms or over the noise of battle, and sounds were heard through earpieces
that hugged the user’s head. They were designed to cut out any noise above
eighty decibels - explosions for instance - but magnified quieter sounds such
as whispering. As if that wasn’t enough, the respirator visor used what was
known as Full Spectrum Imagining, taking all forms of energy from heat to
infra-red to create an image that was almost as perfect by night as it was by
day. It featured a targeting system that identified friends and foe and could
mark key points on the battlefield. All of this was controlled by a wristpad
that every trooper wore on his forearm.