The mess hall was filled with down-at-the mouth soldiers. The tension was evident as they huddled over their steaming cups of coffee, whispered to each other, jabbed fingers, and cried.
Fuck me, what the hell have I had land in my lap? And a promotion is small consolation, Clark thought as he sipped on a cup of coffee and watched the soldiers before him. They were from every unit possible, every one of them was a veteran, some having fought in dozens of battles. Each of them had fought the enemy. Each of them had died.
Every one of the personnel standing before him, including the sobbing chef in the corner, had died forty-nine times. Every one of them had one life left. Lose that, and a poison-filled syringe would be plunged into their arm by an automated system, and they would die in the sensory units that were their real-life position. After all, as the game's tag said, War has its casualties. His mouth twisted at the thought. Whilst civilians watched the battle streams from the safety of their homes, soldiers on both sides died time and time again, dreading the moment when the red 49 would appear, the harbinger of their imminent true death.
The knowledge that the virtual wars of Duty Calls Online prevented such horrors as were visited upon the earth by the Last Gasp, meant nothing when you could still feel every moment of your death. If you were lucky you’d die straight off. But death wasn’t always that quick, and if you lacked the ability to end your life, you could spend hours in agony before finally succumbing to your wounds.
His body ached in all the places that had suffered wounds, and sometimes he could still feel the death wounds as if they were fresh. Every soldier could. Fortunately, his death wounds had never repeated on him in battle in a future life, but it had to others and cost them dearly. The psychological damage was incalculable. A glitch, it was called. Patches had been released to address it, but the flashbacks still happened.
The thought made him look over to iSergeant Major Patterson, one of his NCO cadre and a highly-experienced soldier. His dossier had been quite clear on the fact that Patterson was borderline psychotic due to repeated death-wound experiences both on, and off, the battlefield.
One to watch, seems all right to me at present however, he thought.
Duty Calls Online might have replaced war in the physical sense, but soldiers still died and armies still advanced. As of this morning, Britain and Ireland were the last remnants of European resistance against the ChinKor forces that had swept westward. Troops from every European country had been evacuated from the shores of France.
History repeating itself, thought Clark. He knew there was some philosophical statement, but right now he couldn’t sum up the energy to give more thought to it.
Pushing away from the wall he had been leaning against, Clark straightened his uniform and placed his cup onto a table.
''ten hut! Officer present!' bellowed iRegimental Sergeant Menefee, a real-time war veteran with the scars to show it. Not many of the Old Guard were still around, many unable to make the transition from real-life to virtual war, but Menefee had over 70 battles and literally hundreds of kills to his name. He was an absolute legend and there was a 1 Billion Credits award on his head. Whenever he was marked as a VIP target, he still managed to instil terror in all those he faced on the field. He had enough DPs to be a Field Marshal in the old game and had steadfastly refused to attend officer training. Something Clark was happy about. Some NCOs were perfect in the role, and he needed men like Menefee to get the regiment up and running.
The terror Menefee inspired was evident in the faces of the soldiers in the canteen. Over two hundred jaws hit the floor as, eyes wide, the soldiers braced themselves.
'Thank you RSM. Very good.' Clark took a moment to study the soldiers before him. Now that they were acting like soldiers he needed to see who would be trouble, and who not.
'My name is iColonel Clark,' he paused, letting that sink in, resisting the urge to look at the two golden lions on his shoulder boards, the novelty of his promotion still new, 'You will call me Colonel, or sir. Nothing else. As of now, you are part of a new regiment.'
Rumblings and murmurs broke out at this news, regimental pride was instilled in the troops from the moment they stepped through the door of their training barracks, and many would resent being placed into a new regiment.
'Shut the fuck up you horrible puss-riddled twats!' Screamed Menefee, barrel chest jutting out, handlebar moustache practically quivering. INTIMIDATED icons popped up over the heads of many in the room as silence descended.
'Thank you RSM. Very good,” Clark said, trying to ignore the fact that he’d jumped as much as the others in the room. Thankfully, he wasn’t intimidated. ‘As I was saying, you are part of a new regiment, the 49ers. Things have got somewhat sticky. We were unable to get more than 100 million of our troops out of Europe in the evacuation.' There was a collective gasp, just over a quarter of their army had escaped, 'The rest are either dead, or POWs. RSM.'
Menefee stepped forward and activated a holodeck, 'You are 1st Battalion, 1st 49ers. No doubt there will be more. But always remember, you were the first! You will be assigned to squads, platoons, and companies later. Our glorious regiment is to take on missions that the Command don't want to lose their nappy-wearing special forces troopers on. Special Missions.'
Because they can’t afford to lose any more, he left unsaid. Although judging from the faces of many in the room, they’d followed his train of thought.
The holo projected their new unit badge, It was a stylised shield rimmed with gold, the numbers 49, overlapped by a screaming skull were laid over a red field. A scroll read “One Last Chance”. It was about as subtle as a chainsaw to the groin, and Clark hated it.
UNIFORM UPDATED
Clark could tell the others had got the message as well as they all looked down to see what had changed. No matter what unit badge they’d had previously, it was gone, replaced with the new 49ers badge.
Menefee didn't stop the murmurings that arose after that statement. Special Missions gave troopers the opportunity to gain 1 extra life, 5 mission credits, valuable power-ups, and special weapons. And the more the special the weapon, the more the ability to kill the enemy and stay alive.
A soldier tentatively raised a hand.
'Yes, iPrivate ...?' Clark smiled as Menefee let the silence draw out.
'Hotston RSM. I'm on 94 missions. A Special Mission gets me five credits and a life. If I drop to 48, can I RTRL?'
Clark knew what he was asking. If Hotston was involved in a Special Mission, he’d gain a life, dropping him back to 48 lives gone. The Special Mission would give him 5 mission credits instead of the usual one, taking him to 99 missions. And if he managed to get through another mission he’d hit his century. And a century would see him return to real life. RTRL. The dream.
'No, you fucking can't. The Century Directive is suspended for all 49ers. Including myself and iColonel Clark.'
Discipline broke at that point. The well-established rules of the war were that any soldier who completed 100 missions would be released from their tank and allowed to return to civilian life. This was an utter breach of the rules, and represented a loss of hope. Clark knew as he’d felt exactly the same when he’d been told of his fate.
A number of the soldiers surged forward, their faces twisted, red, eyes narrowed. Veterans all, they were capable of extreme violence.
'If you would be so kind RSM,' murmured Clark.
Menefee didn't blink an eyelid as he stepped forward and hoofed the lead soldier straight in the groin. Stepping past the now screaming soldier he laid out the next two with punches and the fourth with a head-butt that made Clark wince. The others stopped in their tracks, doing their best to look as though they weren't present.
Shocked silence descended, broken only by the groans of the still-conscious troopers. They might have been strapped into simulation tanks, but pain was still real.
'Better,' said Clark, pitching his voice low so that they would have actually listen to hear him, 'I understand how you feel. As iRegimental Sergeant Major Menefee stated, it affects the both of us as well. We're all in this together and I'm determined to make sure that we bloody well come out of it together. Your assignments are on the holodeck. I must now go and speak to the other members of the regiment. Get to know each other. Your lives depend on it.'
Menefee bellowed at the troops to come to attention as Clark left.
*
We're absolutely bollocksed, thought Hotston as he watched his new commanding officer leave the room. Legs shaky, he sat down on a nearby bench. I'm meant to be a bloody actor, not a fucking soldier.
The thought had become a mantra. It was as if he could repeat it enough, it would become true. Only, deep down, he knew it wouldn’t.
Like many in the room, he had been conscripted as the war had expanded and more and more of the regular soldiers, men who hadn't gamed as much as the couch potatoes that replaced them, were killed. Hotston was part of a new generation of soldiers; men and women who were used to gaming, used to being strapped into tanks.
Looking around the room he could see many others felt exactly the same way.
'This is fucking cool!' A large woman dropped onto the bench next to him, jogging his elbow and sending tea spilling everywhere. 'Whoops! All hands on deck!' she laughed.
'I'm Joanna, Joanna Windsor, like the Queen,' she stuck out a hand that he dutifully shook. The grip hurt, it felt as though his bones were being ground to dust, 'Used to be a Gorilla. Now it seems like I'm going to be a guerrilla.' She laughed again and slapped him on the back, causing him to spray tea all over.
'Pleased to meet you', croaked Hotston as he anxiously scanned the room for anyone else from his old regiment. The woman turned his stomach. She was a freak. A genetically altered soldier. Everything about her was wrong, from the stubble on her jaw to the body that made her head look too small. Her arms were longer than a normal human’s, giving her greater reach in close combat and allowing her wield heavier weapons than those portable by normal human beings.
She was also given super-human strength, three times stronger than a normal human. But the modifications came at a price. The price being that they would be like that in the real world, and the upgrade actually cost them ten lives. Which was the key reason why so few people volunteered for the modifications. There were also limits as to how the numbers that could be deployed in any given battle.
She actually smelt wrong. Worse, in his mind, was that she had volunteered for the duty knowing everything that he did. Actually allowed the modifications to be made so that she could be a Gorilla-class soldier. As keen as he was to survive, he wasn't that desperate.
'I'm a double '9er, makes me sound like a Mister Whippy,' she laughed at her own joke, again. This time he was braced for the slap, 'I've got 99 missions under my belt and I'm down to my last life.' Her massive shoulders heaved as she cried silently, tears streaming down her cheeks.
'There, there, things aren't that bad. At least we'll be able to gain lives with every mission,' he said as he patted her massive thigh awkwardly. The muscles felt as hard as stone and his guts twisted at the touch.
'Yes they are mate; the freak's right, we're fucked. We're in this until death or victory,' said another soldier holding a datasheet in his hand. Three stripes and a crown showed he was a senior NCO, 'iSergeant Major Patterson. According to this, you two star-crossed lovers are assigned to my Platoon.'
Hotston didn't like Patterson's tone when he spoke about Windsor. Although he felt just as disgusted as the NCO, he would never give voice to it in her, or any Gorilla's, presence.
I might be disgusted, but I won't treat them like animals, he thought. Their body, their choice.
'Freak,' Patterson leaned over and prodded the still crying Windsor in the back, 'stop fucking crying. You're the platoon's heavy gunner. Hotston, you're her loader since you two are so close.' Patterson smirked as he spoke.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
The door to the canteen opened and a group of five soldiers stepped into the room. Hotston watched as Patterson's eyes lit up as soon as he looked at a soldier whose name tape read 'French'. The little man was red-eyed and wiped nervously at his nose with his sleeve. The others with him were a few feet away, carefully avoiding him. French’s specialty looked to have been in some sort of admin role. Something usually reserved for NPCs.
'Ah, good, scouts have arrived. Got to go. No kissing in public.' Patterson smiled, a smug, horrible smile that made Hotston want to punch him. His fists curled as he watched the NCO stride over to French.
'I don't like him. He likes to hurt people's feelings.' whispered Windsor.
'Nor do I. He's going to be trouble.'
*
‘That went better than I thought,’ said Clark as he looked around the officers congregated in the briefing room. The battalion was currently understrength, barely two companies in size, but he’d made sure that he had his battalion headquarters fully staffed. All of them were 49ers, and all of them were as unhappy as him at the change in the rules. ‘Desperate times, desperate measures, he said, quoting a speech from the Prime Minister which had been broadcast as part of the declaration of the new rules.’
There were a couple of rueful smiles, but none of the drama that the other ranks had displayed. That happened behind closed doors, never in public. He winced at the conversation he’d had with his wife when he told her about the changes. Both of them had wept.
The battalion command structure had him, the battalion commander, at the top of the food chain. Below him was his second in command, or 2ic, Major Bradbury. His adjutant, the person who assisted him with day-to-day administration, was Captain Pace. There was a general Quartermaster, Captain Randall, and a technical Quartermaster, Captain Campbell.
The Medical Officer was a Captain Wickersham, and the Padre (non-denominational) was a Chaplin 4th Class called Compton. The Operations officer was an eager-looking Lieutenant Canavan, and next to him was his partner-in-crime, the Intelligence Officer, another Lieutenant called Street. Looking at them with a slight frown on her face was Captain Leckie, the Regimental Signals Officer.
Across the room from Clark was the Regimental Sergeant Major Menefee, who ruled the other non-commissioned officers with an iron rod, and made sure that everything ran smoothly. He was sat with the Regiment Quartermaster Sergeant, and the technical Regimental Quartermaster Sergeant. All three were looking at the officers with a look that said they hadn’t quite worked out whether they approved of them or not.
And that’s just the headquarters staff, thought Clark. Whilst they had some NCOs, such as Patterson. They still needed company commanders, usually majors with a captain or lieutenant as their 2ic, as well as platoon commanders – captains or lieutenants – and the NCOs needed to run those. It was, as RSM Menefee had said, ‘A right fucking ball ache, sir’.
‘Next wave of recruits arrive in seven days sir,’ Bradbury said. ‘Pace has it in hand. We’ve been told that they’ll be arriving as a company.’
Pace gave a tight-lipped nod as Bradbury looked over at him. ‘Correct sir, but we could also look at soldiers who have sufficient DPs and promote them. Especially as they’re the first. Build in some redundancy as well as some regimental pride.’ His voice trailed off as he spoke. They all knew that their next mission could be their last depending on its parameters.
‘Let’s wait, I don’t want to start using up DPs or Command Points right now. We’ll keep the Command Points and spend them on armour and weapons upgrades.’
Both of the Quartermasters looked pleased at that. Command Points were earned both in battle as and part of the administration sub-simulation.
No doubt they’ll be arguing over who gets to spend the points on what kit.
‘What’s the plan for training sir?’ asked Menefee. Although he already knew the answer since he and Clark had been the first two members of the HQ staff to spawn at the base.
‘Back to basics. Break them down, get rid of their old regimental attachment, build them back up as a regiment. If I have to unite them in their hate towards us, so be it.’
‘I look forward to it,’ Menefee said with a large smile.
*
'Get up and out of bed you 'orrible little shits!' Hotston bolted upright, hands snatching for a rifle that wasn't there, kicking his legs as his blankets got wrapped around them. All about the barracks men and women were falling out of bed, literally in a number of cases as the as-yet unknown screamer continued to beat something large and metallic with something else large and metallic.
It was as if they’d been sent straight back to basic training. Intimidation, sleep deprivation, long hours of physical exercise with physical punishment thrown. His heart pounded like a day one recruit.
Somehow Hotston managed to untangle himself enough to be able to leap from his bed and stand to ramrod attention at the end. The lights suddenly flickered to life, and he squinted at the stabbing pain in his eyes. The lights were particularly bright, and he resisted the urge to shade his eyes.
'I am iCompany Sergeant Hoffmeister,' the speaker was huge; another Gorilla. At a good two metres tall he dwarfed the man stood beside him. 'And you all know iSergeant Major Patterson, your platoon sergeant.' Hoffmeister walked along the line of bunks, pausing to look at every man and woman as he did so. Hoffmeister was the senior NCO of the company, whilst Patterson was the senior NCO of the platoon. All part of the pecking order. Shit, as they said, flowed down.
'We don't give a flying fuck what regiment you were in before. We don't give a flying fuck about how unfair it is that Command has waived the Century,' Hoffmeister paused in front of Windsor, one bunk down from Hotston, 'What we do care about is that the 49ers is your regiment now!'
He nodded at Windsor and carried on, stopping in front of Hotston.
'What regiment are you from son?' Military protocol ruled that a raw recruit – as it now seemed they were – should never meet the eyes of an NCO. Not unless they had a death wish, but Hotston was dammed if he was going to talk to the man's nipples.
'Grenadier Guards, iCompany Sergeant. 1st Battalion. The Stiff Backs,' he said with pride, the Grenadier Guards still being viewed as one of the best in the world. It didn't matter if it was a fully immersive simulation, he took pride in the reputation of his regiment. Everyone did, although from the look on Hoffmeister's face, the Gorilla might have felt differently. Just how differently was hammered home when pain exploded in his stomach and he found himself collapsed into a ball, rocking back and forward as the pain threatened to overcome him.
'Wrong. I think that Private Hotston is a little hard of hearing. That, or he's mildly retarded.'
Through his tears Hotston saw Hoffmeister leaning towards him, 'Are you deaf, or mildly retarded son?'
Hoffmeister's tone was nice, fatherly. The sort of voice that Morgan Freeman would have killed for if he hadn't just died at the ripe old age of 163. The hand that grabbed Hotston by the throat and hauled him to his feet was far, far removed from being fatherly.
Unless your father was a total cunt, thought Hotston as his feet scrabbled to find purchase.
Hoffmeister let go of him as soon as he was able to stand, 'Let me try that again. What regiment are you from son?'
'49ers, iCompany Sergeant,' rasped Hotston, closing his mouth quickly as his stomach tried to spew its contents over Hoffmeister's neatly pressed uniform.
'Well done. Not deaf, retarded then. You'll do well as a heavy gunner's assistant, too stupid to know to be afraid.' Hoffmeister patted him on the shoulder, buckling his knees with every slap, then strode away, Patterson chasing after his heels like a terrier.
'I like him, he's funny,' whispered Windsor, 'Good looking too.'
The lights clicked off again, dousing them in darkness, 'Well? Get to fucking bed!' roared Hoffmeister from the barrack door.
Hunched over, his bruised stomach muscles too sore to let him straighten, Hotston collapsed into bed, praying for sleep.
*
'Thoughts RSM?' iClark watched the troops under his command being put through their paces. It had been determined that 1st Battalion would earn their wings, following in the tradition of the Paratroopers. He hadn’t had a choice in that decision however, and was decidedly dry-mouthed at the prospect.
Gravchutes strapped to their backs, the troops were jogging up and down a nearby hill. Caked in dust, sweat streaking down their faces, the soldiers struggled to breathe let alone salute as they passed their commander.
'Speaking freely sir, I reckon that most of these poor sods are going to be killed on their first mission,' growled Menefee.
'What makes you think that RSM?' Clark's arm was aching from holding it to salute the passing soldiers. He decided to settle on just waving.
Not that the lads and ladies will give a shit, they're beyond that now.
'We've got everything from bandsmen, pen-pushers and chefs through to former Guards. The pen-pushers and chefs were pressed into action with short notice and fuck-all training. They're not fit for action, which is why they died in droves during the last week of the retreat. And why they're 49ers now.'
'And the rest?' murmured Clark.
'Some will die through natural attrition, can't soldier forever. The rest will come through as born-again hard bastards,’ growled Menefee.
'Well, some silver lining I suppose. Let's get the poor bastards jumping. We've only got a week to get them into shape.'
'Job on the horizon sir?'
'Most certainly, can't let those ChinKor bastards think they've won. We might be hiding here, but reports are there are a lot of our people still doing their best to fight over in France. Lots of pockets that were missed. We're going to be going over there to add to the fun.'
'Joy. I'll get the pilots to warm up their engines.'
'Carry on RSM.' Clark returned Menefee's parade ground salute then strolled after the soldiers that were still straggling along behind the main body, nodding to the NCOs that were screaming at the stragglers to move faster.
*
'I don't want to jump!' French clutched at the straps lining the jet's fuselage, screaming every time someone tried to remove his hands from their desperate hold.
Patterson's face burned as he stared at his best friend. They had been through the same battles, nearly always dying together.
But I haven't been reduced to shitting in my pants and screaming like a baby, he thought bitterly. Conveniently forgetting those times that he had been doing exactly that, both on and off the battlefield.
Striding over he flicked his electrobaton open, keeping it turned off, and rapped his friend's hand hard. French immediately released the straps.
Staggering backward as the men behind him kept pulling, French was unable to prevent Patterson from grabbing his throat and walking him backward on his tiptoes. With no warning, Patterson was falling through the air.
Pushing French away, he tucked his arms in by his side and angled his body down towards the ground, hoping that his friend would remember his training and not turn himself into a smear on the ground.
A distance counter ticked down as he sped through the cloud cover over their landing site, his visor misted over before the speed of his descent forced it away from his face. Below were the landing zones. Each marked for the different squads.
As soon as the counter hit 100 hundred metres, Patterson slapped the 'chute release button. His breath woofed out of his lungs as his plummet snapped to a drastic halt.
Two mechanical arms, one with a joystick attached snapped down beside him. Grasping the stick in his right hand, Patterson steered for the blinking yellow market on his HUD, trying his best to follow a series of arrows that showed him how to line up and find the optimal path to his target.
Every time he hit an arrow a blue +5SP would appear, adding to an ever-increasing total in the right of his HUD.
'You've got a good line Patterson, keep it up and you'll get a nice skill bonus. Don't forget all NCOs are aiming for a minimum of 1000 skill points. We'd hate to have to demote you.' It was Hoffmeister.
Fucking smug piece of shit, thought Patterson, teeth gritted at the chiding voice. You're not a human, you're a fucking freak, an animal.
His attention wavered and he missed the next three arrows, earning himself three blue -1s. 'Steady Patterson, you don't want to be doing that!' crowed Hoffmeister.
Fuck me! If he wasn't such a freak of meat, I'd kick the living shit out of him. The idea of fragging Hoffmeister strongly appealed.
'Whoops, there goes another one!'
Patterson's teeth squeaked as he clenched his jaw. Shaking his head, he got himself back into the game, nudging the 'chute back onto track and acing every arrow, gaining bonus point every time.
Aiming for the gold bull's-eye, he landed spot on the middle. His visor flashed up a score of 150 with a bull's-eye bonus of 50, awarding him with Golden Parachute Wings.
UNIFORM UPDATED
NEW SKILL – GRAVCHUTE
NEW TITLE – PARATROOPER 1ST CLASS
NEW CLASS – PARATROOPER
NEW BERET
Looking down he saw the wings appear on his sleeve, a Paratrooper 1st Class badge appearing on his uniform jacket. Grinning so hard he thought his face would split, Patterson removed his helmet, pulled out his once-black and now -maroon beret and set it at a jaunty angle on his head.
'iCompany Sergeant, my visor seems to be on the fritz, could you just confirm whether I hit the 100 please?' Patterson continued to smile as nothing but silence came over the radio, 'Roger that, I'll take that as a job well done.'
*
'Five refusals sir. The rest all jumped.' Menefee handed Clark a datasheet containing every member of 1st Battalion's scores, 'What do you want to do about them?'
Taking the 'sheet and smiling as he looked at the top scorers, Clark thought for a moment, 'Well, we can't bloody-well RTU them. Stick them into two battalion's Engineer Company. Make them work out their penance, then give them another chance in a couple of months. Maybe they'll jump, maybe they'll like digging trenches and blowing things up.'
Although they’re going to have to jump whether they want to at some point, he thought, absently-minded rubbing at the wings on his right shoulder.
Looking back down at the 'sheet, he scrolled to the bottom ten percentile, 'These ones though, give me more concern. They only had to get fifty points and most of them seem to have hit that bang on. I think they need more practice.'
He passed the 'sheet back to Menefee who smiled knowingly, 'Understood sir, I'll have them jumping until they're flying in their sleep.' The two of them shared a laugh as Menefee saluted and left Clark's office.
Clark spun his Captain's chair around so that he could look down from the Commander's Tower onto the training area in front of it. Soldiers raced each other around the assault course, trying to level up and get their stamina up. Others were on the range, spending round after round, qualifying in every weapon they could as fast as possible. The final group was knocking lumps out of each other on a series of mats. Hand-to-hand weapons of all sorts were employed along with their hands and feet weapons. Some were actually using their heads in a rather concussively creative manner.
Zooming in on the action, he activated a sub-menu on the drinks dispenser next to him, and selected a whisky, settling back to watch the fight on one of the mats.
*
'Fucking twat her, Hotston!' Hoffmeister's voice boomed across the hand-to-hand mats, bringing all the other fights to a standstill.
Hotston snarled and threw a half-hearted punch at Windsor. Not bothering to block it, she swayed back, letting it cut through the air. Coming back in she gave him just as half-hearted a push on his chest.
It felt like a log had smashed into him. His breath hoofed out of him as he staggered backward, the stamina metre that was projected above him crashing to less than half as he sprawled onto the floor. They were only visible to friendly forces, as were their names. It made no sense to fight tactically if the enemy could see your position due to your name and rank hanging three metres above your head.
'Oh dear, did the widdle man get spwatted?' Hoffmeister's bulk blocked the sun as he leant over the still wheezing Hotston, 'Get up, or I'll rename you Retarded Fairy.'
Hoffmeister didn't wait for Hotston to get up. Grabbing him by his combat vest, he hauled him up and slung him physically back onto the mat, 'Fight, you fucking norm!'
Slack-jawed Hotston turned to look at Hoffmeister, face burning, 'What did you f ...' Pain exploded on the side of his face and his legs turned to jelly, the mat rushing up to smash into his face.
'S ... sorry Hotston, I thought you were ready!' Windsor's voice seemed to come from a distance, as if she was speaking through cotton wool.
As he struggled to get to his feet, darkness descended.