The M109 automatic pistol in my hands bucks very slightly with every shot I fire at the troops in the hallway before me. Some are hidden behind makeshift cover, only popping out to return fire sporadically. Every time I am forced to fight with the pistol, it reaffirms my belief that the stupid thing is the most useless weapon in our arsenal, good for nothing but a display of rank.
One of my opponents pops his head up over the storage crate he’s using as cover and aims his PDW at me. I put the front sight on his helmet and fire a quick double tap. One round glances off my enemy’s helmet, but the other drills right through his lowered face shield. He drops instantly, and his PDW clatters to the deck. I don’t have time to celebrate my brief victory—two more enemy troops come around the corridor bend twenty-five meters ahead, and the slide of my weapon is locked back on an empty magazine. I eject the disposable cartridge pack, fish a new one out of a pouch on my harness, and reload with fingers that seem too clumsy and imprecise for the task. I release the pistol’s slide and switch the fire selector to salvo fire. Then I hose down the hallway with most of the thirty-round magazine. One of the new soldiers catches a burst to his armor, but the rounds fragment against the hard laminate of his breastplate. Then they return fire together, automatic bursts from two PDWs converging on my hiding spot. The hallway in front of me goes dark.
“Piece of shit,” I swear when the lights in the firing range come back on and the simulation resets itself. I unload the training magazine from the pistol and clear the action. “Who programmed these scenarios? Seven against one, and all of them armored and with buzzguns?”
“The lieutenant did,” Staff Sergeant Philbrick says. “We’re just a squad on this boat. We get boarded, we may have to hold down a corridor with what we have, by ourselves.”
“Remind me of that if I ever get the itch to put in for transfer to the SI,” I say.
“You did all right for a fleet puke.” Staff Sergeant Philbrick pokes at the display of the range computer on the bulkhead behind us. “Three kills. Seven more nonpenetrating hits.”
“Those don’t count for shit outside the sim.”
Staff Sergeant Philbrick is the leader of the embarked Spaceborne Infantry squad’s first fire team. The squad is split into three fire teams of four troopers each, twelve combat grunts, with a second lieutenant in command and a sergeant first class as his right hand. Fourteen battle-hardened SI troopers make up the sole ground combat component of the Indianapolis. A frigate usually has two squads, sometimes a whole platoon, depending on the mission. A carrier, designed as the centerpiece of a planetary assault force, never has less than a reinforced company on board, and often a regiment. If Indy bumps into problems that require infantry surface action or shipboard firefights, fourteen SI troopers won’t be able to plug too many corridors, not even on a small ship like this one.
The Indianapolis is hauling ass to the coordinates for the SRA’s Alcubierre node. We’re half a day away, and we went for turnaround and reverse burn almost two days ago after a fun little four-g sprint. Every day we spend in transit means fewer supplies and less food in New Svalbard and on this ship, and Colonel Campbell does not want to waste any time. I’ve been spending my shipboard time chaperoning Dmitry, and spending most of my downtime with the grunts of the embarked SI squad. Shooting up imaginary enemies is more fun than staring at a bulkhead, and it keeps my mind occupied and off the fact that in less than twelve hours Indy will transition into Lanky-occupied space.
“How is the Russkie behaving?” Staff Sergeant Philbrick asks.
“Fine,” I say. “He seems all right.”
“I’m not sure I’d want to sleep in a berth right next to his.”
“What, you think he’s going to go commando one night and start slitting throats?” I put the training pistol back into the holding bracket on the rear bulkhead for the next trooper to use. Access to live weapons is limited—you only get to sign them out of the arms locker if you have a pressing reason to go armed on the ship—but the training pistols can’t be loaded with live rounds, and they are molded in bright blue polymer for visual clarification.
“Something like that. We’re still at war with them out here, after all.”
“I’m not sure that’s true anymore,” I say.
“What do you mean, Grayson?”
“I mean that things have changed. A lot. We know the location of their inbound node for the solar system now, and they know ours. You think we’re going to go back to shooting each other any time soon? After trading top-level military secrets and running combat drops together against the Lankies?”
“Hell, I have no clue.” He shrugs and takes a training carbine out of the gun rack. Then he checks the action with a practiced motion and steps over to the range computer to call up another scenario for the shooting simulator. “Way above my pay grade. But you’re probably right. Be stupid to go back to the way things were. You coming down to Grunt Country for some sparring tonight?”
Grunt Country is the mission-personnel rec area at the back of the modular berthing reserved for attached personnel. It’s a big square room, twelve by twelve meters, and probably the only open space on the ship—other than the mess halls or the hangar—that isn’t packed to the ceiling with supplies or portable water tanks. The Spaceborne Infantry troopers have set up some improvised exercise equipment and a small boxing ring, to let off some steam and stay in shape while we’re in transit.
“Sure, I’ll come,” I say. “As soon as our Alliance friend is in his berth and I’m done chaperoning for this watch.”
“Hell, just bring him with you,” Staff Sergeant Philbrick says. “He can watch and learn how the SI does in the hand-to-hand business. It’ll be a cultural exchange.” He takes a pack of training magazines, loads one into his rifle, and puts the other ones into the pouches on his armor. “’Course, we grunts ain’t got much in the way of culture to exchange.”
I snort a laugh and leave the staff sergeant to his impending battle with imaginary faceless enemies.
Dmitry doesn’t object to joining me down in Grunt Country a little while later. If anything, he seems eager for some variety after days of boredom staring at the bulkhead in a berth the size of a closet.
When I open the hatch to the rec room in the back of the module and step across the threshold, none of the eight or nine grunts in the room take much notice. Some are working out on benches or heavy bags, someone is doing pushups in a corner of the room, and two of the SI troopers are sparring on a square of training mats in the center of the room. When Dmitry walks into the room behind me, however, the moderately busy din in the room dies down gradually as the grunts become aware of the SRA trooper’s presence. He has been around at mealtimes and in the corridors of the ship, so his presence isn’t a novelty anymore, but I’ve never brought him down here into the SI’s only private sanctum on this ship.
“Grayson,” Staff Sergeant Philbrick calls from the back of the room, where he has been doing pushups. He hops to his feet and walks over to us. “Come on in, join the fun.”