Olivetti, wearing more complete body armor, painted white to mark him as a CI, stood in front of the class, explaining these things to the students. "Those casualty rates are only averages. Sometimes a class comes through without a scratch. Once we had seventeen men shot. Four died. If anyone wants to resign now, step to the rear and see Sergeant Major Schetrompf. He'll take your resignations." The CI didn't mention that after that particular day, the course had changed to give sixteen hours unbroken rest and five complete meals to the students before sending them to the graduation exercise. It was better they should believe the course was even more dangerous than it was.
Inside the ranks men wavered, Olivetti could see it in the way they shifted weight from side to side, looked around to see what their peers were doing.
Montoya finished their mental self debate for them. Speaking loudly, he said "You've made me shit myself more than once already, Centurion, although with the little bit you feed us there wasn't much shit. I'll be damned if all that, plus starving us and making us walking dead from lack of sleep, was for nothing. Bring on your fucking tanks, Centurion Olivetti. Besides, I need to pass one more patrol to graduate anyway." A few students laughed nervously. The moment of wavering was broken.
Olivetti nodded, seeing the men quiet down in the ranks. That's why you're still here, Montoya. You can't lead for shit. Your squad has carried you through every leadership phase you passed. But you're a tough little bastard and you don't quit. Your legion has use for those, too. At his signal, the three, much truncated, student companies began to shake out into tactical formations, separating and moving toward their objectives. Olivetti fell in with the center company, talking on his radio as he did so.
Overhead, real artillery, not simulators or preplaced charges, began to rumble across the sky toward small impact areas offset from the objectives. Though frightened, the men grinned. It was almost over.
Parade Field, Camp Gutierrez, 8/5/462 AC
The school commandant, Major Broughton, FS Army (retired), stood on a low reviewing stand. He looked over the ranks, 331 men of six hundred and ten who had started. Four were dead, about par for the course, most of the rest dropped with prejudice or quit. Some of those dropped were medicals. If they recovered, these would have a chance to continue the course with another class. A few others, hospitalized with wounds from the final exercise, would be graduated, and decorated, in their beds later in the day, their squads in attendance.
Broughton walked up to the microphone and began to speak. At his command the class stood at ease. He told the graduating students how tough they were, and brave; how they represented the best of their countries, and some of the best in the world. He said he expected great things of them, as they had proven themselves capable of great things.
Cruz whispered to Montoya, standing at his left, "You feel tough, bud?"
Montoya answered, likewise in a whisper, "He must be talking about some other people. I don't feel tough."
Broughton finished, calling the class to attention and ordering the school adjutant to call the roll.
The adjutant took Broughton's place at the microphone and began to read off names.
"Optio Enriquez."
The entire class answered, as rehearsed "Here!"
"Signifer Trujillo."
"Here!"
The adjutant finished the last names on his list of dead, each with the rank he would have held had he finished Cazador School and the next course for which he was scheduled. Following the last "Here!" he gave the command, "Open ranks, march!"
As the companies opened their ranks, the CIs of Camp Gutierrez trotted out, one to each rank of each platoon, each CI carrying a cloth bag draped over one shoulder. Olivetti came to attention to Cruz's right front.
"Present the tabs!"
Olivetti took one step forward, halted and faced left. He nodded, "Cazador Cruz?"
"Blood tab, Centurion." In the school's short life no Cazador had yet failed to ask for a "blood tab." It was an article of faith among the students that the first one to do so would have his name publicized across the entire legion.
Olivetti reached into the cloth bag and pulled out a full color black and gold half circle with the word "CAZADOR" spelled in bold, gold letters. A safety pin ran through the tab. Olivetti unlocked the safety pin, grabbed Cruz's sleeve near the shoulder, and drove the pin into the emaciated flesh beneath before withdrawing it, pushing it through the cloth, and hooking it back onto itself. Cruz controlled his flinch. What's a little more pain, after all?
"Good job, Cruz." Olivetti held out his hand.
"Thank you, Centurion. You, too." Cruz shook the hand with real feeling.
Olivetti passed on to Montoya.
Montoya smiled. "Blood tab, Centurion." He held his smile as the point pierced him.
"You're a shithead, Montoya. But you're a damn fine soldier. Congratulations."
When the last of the tabs had been awarded, Broughton returned to the reviewing stand. "Pass in review!"
Without further fanfare, the platoons faced right and began to double time past the reviewing stand. They only dropped to a walk when the last of them had passed. The students-no, full fledged Cazadors now-began to sing as they walked back to barracks.
Once he arrived back in Las Mesas, Cruz was very pleased to discover that his impotence was only temporary. Caridad was very pleased, as well.
Interlude
15 June, 2104 (Terra Novan Year 45 AC), Atlantis Base
The acting commander of Atlantis base was at wits' end. High Admiral Annan was gone; reported dead. The Marines and shuttle he had borrowed were gone as well and he had to presume them to be dead or captured, likewise the Supervisory Office in Balboa colony. He had no more Marines to spare. He had no more shuttles and only three helicopters. And until a new ship came in system he had no way of getting any more, either.
It was bad enough that Anglia colony, for now, reported only to its home government back on Earth. No one ever expected anything different from the stinking Americans beginning to fill up Southern Columbia, or indeed anyone from Earth's Anglosphere except for the people settling Secordia. But the colonies from the Earth's Third World? These were supposed and expected to stand by the UN, to toe its line, to build one-world government here to match the one building back home. Otherwise, Terra Nova would become just another twentieth-century Earth. And that, the acting commander knew, spelled danger.
"Commander?" an aide broke in, giving the honorific despite doubt about whether the title would become permanent. "News from our office in San Jose colony. They're under attack by hundreds of men armed with modern weapons."
"Shit!"
"It gets worse, Commander. The rebels are broadcasting from the radio station at our Balboa office-what used to be our Balboa office-calling on everyone to 'throw off Earth's chains.' And we have little or nothing to stop it."
That bastard, Annan, the acting commander thought. He could have bought all the little girls he wanted from the Yithrab, or even bought them from Earth at one of the open markets and brought them here. But nooo, the cheap son of a bitch had to go outside channels and avoid paying the little bit asked for. God save me from hereditary bureaucrats and their offspring. Now I get to sit, helpless, while the world we wanted to construct here falls apart around me.
"Can we contact the leader of the… rebels?"
The aide thought about that for a minute. "He's probably directing the attack in San Jose colony, sir. We can probably contact him after he's finished storming it."
"Great," the acting commander muttered, leaning his weary head down to rest it in his hands. "Advise the office in San Jose to surrender. Tell them to ask him to speak with me. Maybe I can make a deal to keep this from spreading."