Chapter 2 – First Forge

“If you have run with footmen and they have tired you out, then how can you compete with horses? If you fall down in a land of peace, how will you do in the thicket of the Jordan?”

Jeremiah 12:5

Bitter Farewells

The thrumming hangover pulsed in Wade’s head, a discordant symphony accompanying the Martian sunrise bleeding through the dusty window. Last night’s farewell party, fueled by poor decisions and a desperate need to forget, echoed in fragmented memories – forced laughter morphing into panicked scrambles as security patrol showed up before things got too out of hand. Saying goodbye to his friends, their voices thick with a mixture of sadness and envy, felt like tearing out a chunk of his soul. Now, alone in the cramped apartment, the weight of his decision settled upon him like a Martian sandstorm.

It was O4 hundred and he had to get his bearings. He could not afford to be late. Wade stumbled out onto the balcony, the cold thin air of the terraformed city nipping at his lungs. Below, the newly formed Martian ocean shimmered under the rising sun, its vastness both captivating and terrifying. This alien world, once a desolate canvas of reds and oranges, now held the promise of a new life, a life he’d dreamt of since he was a child playing amongst the rusty equipment of the local church playground. That playground, a stark contrast to the harsh beauty of this Martian landscape, seemed a lifetime ago.

As Wade slung his small gym bag over his shoulder and opened the door to leave, he was lost in thought. Before he had a chance to shut the door, a groan from behind jolted him back to the present. His father, Samuel, stood in the doorway, the familiar scowl etched deeper on his weathered face. The veteran Marine Regular stood looking at Wade with a bitterness that clung to him like the dust on an old uniform, Samuel had never approved of Wade’s obsession with the Deep Space Rangers and he never held back his criticism.

Their goodbye was a familiar dance of unspoken resentment. “When the crack of your backside is full of lunar dust and you’re half baked on some radioactive planet, remember, I told you, you should have been a naval weapons systems specialist,” Samuel spat, his voice laced with a barely concealed anger. Wade clenched his jaw, the sting of the jab mixing with a surge of defiance. He extended his hand, a silent plea for a semblance of respect. But Samuel, with a shake of his head, turned and simply shut the door behind him, leaving Wade alone with the fading echo of his words. He thought to himself in consolation, “Well, at least he got out of bed at zero dark thirty to insult me.” A ghost of a smile flickered across his face.

First Roll Call

Walking towards the familiar church playground, a pang of nostalgia hit him. It was once his haven, but seemed small and insignificant now. The neighborhood kids, once playmates, were now strangers embarking on their own paths. Here, amidst the remnants of his childhood, the weight of his decision threatened to consume him. Was this his destiny? This one-way journey into a future as vast and uncharted as the galaxy?

The pre-dawn Martian air hung heavy with a mixture of nervous anticipation and rocket fuel fumes. A sea of weary faces, sleep etched into their features, shuffled and mumbled amongst themselves as they awaited the O5 hundred roll call. Already, a handful of would-be Rangers had faltered, succumbing to doubt or fear. Their empty spaces in the line spoke volumes, a stark reminder of the unforgiving nature of their chosen path. Those deserters now faced a harsh reality – a life as a Marine Regular, or worse, a decade rotting in a military prison.

The booming voice of Staff Sergeant Harris sliced through the chatter like a plasma blade. The roll call, a blur of hollered names and mumbled responses, moved with ruthless efficiency. With the final recruit confirmed, Harris barked another order, her voice laced with a drill instructor’s signature blend of venom and challenge. “Double time, maggots! Let’s see if you can move faster than a crippled sandcrawler!”

A collective groan rippled through the ranks, but legs began to pump, soles pounding a staccato rhythm against the landing pad’s cold metal surface. The massive maw of the waiting transport loomed ahead, a gaping metal cave promising an uncertain future. As the line surged forward, Wade couldn’t help but feel a tremor of fear mixed with a surge of adrenaline. This was the point of no return. They were about to embark on a journey that would forge them, break them, or leave them somewhere in between. But one thing was certain: life as a civilian was a distant memory now. They were Rangers in the making, and Carthis 7 awaited.

The Argus – Transport of Agony

The ISC Argus was an aging interstellar transport ship, its hull streaked with charred entry scars and radiation pits from countless atmospheric insertions. Having been rebuilt and refitted dozens of times over its 120 years of service, it was an ungainly patchwork of mismatched hull components and battered hatches. Cylindrical living quarters modules cobbled together from salvage ringed the central cargo-turned-barracks bay, while twin Zürich ion drives flared angry blue from the rear motivators. The ship’s interior was a dimly-lit, claustrophobic maze of low corridors, access tunnels, and compact crew stations – all bathed in the pervasive stench of burned plasma conduits and recycled air. Clearly designed from the outset with pure utility rather than comfort in mind, the Argus was a fittingly spartan introduction to the harsh realities of life in the Marine Corps.

The Argus cut through the inky blackness of space with its newest crop of Marine recruits. Among them was Wade Kovacs, who had barely slept since boarding five days earlier.

Every minute was a new challenge, a new demand to push himself to the limits of physical and mental exhaustion. It had started at 05 hundred hours on day one, when the booming voice of Marine Drill Instructor Bronski had torn through the barracks.

“Alright, maggots, rise and shine!” the towering figure had bellowed, his face a mask of sneering disdain. “You had your last good night’s sleep, because from now on you live on my schedule!”

What followed was a barrage of intense physical training, regulation familiarization, and the unrelenting psychological stress of constant ridicule and hazing by the DIs. Wade and the others were forced to recite mantras while holding excruciating poses, or do pushups until their arms gave out whenever they made the slightest mistake. The merciless push-up drills seemed to go on forever, with Drill Instructor Bronski pacing back and forth, his boots thudding inches from the recruits’ straining faces. Wade’s arms shook violently as he struggled to keep his body rigid, sweat pouring off him in sheets. He could feel the saltwater stinging his eyes as it streamed down from his soaked hair and brow. Beneath him, a slowly spreading puddle began forming from the deluge of perspiration dripping off his body. Wade groaned through clenched teeth, willing himself not to falter or collapse face-first into the small pond that was accumulating on the Argus’ metal deck.

The humiliations only escalated from there. At one point, they were herded into the ship’s tiny med-bay for what Wade could only describe as the most demeaning and invasive series of physicals, inoculations, and tests he had ever endured. He had never felt so violated, so stripped of his dignity and sense of self.

“Get used to it, worms!” one of the corpsmen had snarled as Wade squirmed under the needle delivering another burning inoculation cocktail. “You have no privacy, no rights other than what we allow. You belong to the Corps now.”

The Alien Enemy

But as miserable as the hazing and conditioning was, Wade found the long hours spent in darkened briefing rooms even more psychologically taxing. There, on crisp holographic displays, they studied every horrific detail of the Skravak forces – their biology, weapons, starships, interrogation methods, and combat tactics.

The Skravak were an imposing race, with slender but powerfully muscled frames standing over 7 feet tall on two digitigrade legs. Their bodies were hairless and smooth, a sickly grayish-green in coloration. But most unsettling was their heads that tapered smoothly to narrow, articulated points. At the end of each point was a circular, funnel-like aperture lined with fine cilia that constantly wavered and flexed as if tasting the air. Above this quivering lenses and sensor nodes – the creature’s eyes, ears and olfactory receptors all amalgamated into one unblinking, all-observing sensory nexus.

Wade found himself gripping his restraints tightly, his hands slick with nervous sweat. How could anyone hope to combat such an efficient, implacable killing machine?

In place of a mouth, each of their four arms ended in a circular, puckered orifice lined with rows of long, razor-sharp teeth. During combat, the Skravaks would unleash spine-chilling screeches as these hand-mouths opened and their teeth gnashed wildly. Worse still were the brief glimpses recruits got of their feeding habits, as the vicious aliens used those same toothed appendages to tear into live prey.

What made the Skravaks truly terrifying was not just their grotesque anatomy, but their utter single-mindedness when engaged in battle. They were unhesitating, remorseless killers, utterly devoid of restraint or fear. To confront the Skravaks warband in close quarters was to stare into the face of oblivion – only the most rigorously trained warriors stood a chance of surviving such an encounter.

Wade winced as the holographic combat footage played out, unable to tear his eyes away from the gruesome scene unfolding. A squad of Marines was pinned down by withering plasma fire from a Skravak armored personnel carrier, the flickering blue bolts cutting through their ranks as they desperately tried to find cover.

One private wasn’t fast enough. A blast caught him square in the chest, instantly searing away his armor’s outer layer. The Marine went down hard, writhing in agony as smoke poured from the smoldering crater in his torso.

Then the Skravaks were upon them.

Wade’s stomach churned as the hulking aliens surged into view, their sinewy, multi-limbed forms a horrifying ballet of lethal grace. The handheld cameras captured every brutal detail in agonizing high definition – the gnashing of teeth, the sickening spray of crimson as the Skravaks’ monstrous “mouths” clamped down on helpless Marines. Limbs were wrenched free, bodies torn apart in a whirlwind of violence.

A young Marine nearby, his face a mask of sheer terror, clutched his rifle with trembling hands. Before he could even raise his weapon in defense, a Skravak lashed out with two of its powerful arms. Bony digits, inhumanly strong, clamped down on either side of the man’s head with a sickening crunch. The audio feed transmitted the horrifying crack of the Marine’s neck snapping with chilling clarity.

Wade felt bile rising in his throat. The alien casually lifted the lifeless corpse in the air, dangling it for a moment before ripping into it with its gaping toothy mouth. He could no longer hold back the tide of nausea. Doubling over, he vomited onto the steel deck, the sounds of carnage and inhuman screams a horrifying symphony in his ears.

Friend or Foe

Drill Instructor Bronski loomed over his heaving mass, a cruel sneer twisting his features. “You just earned yourself another two hours on the base plate tonight, maggot! You better get used to scenes like that, because your pretty little blue eyes are going to see plenty of the same!”

As the hateful laughter of the DIs echoed through the cramped briefing room, Wade wiped his mouth, a newfound resolve burning in his eyes. He would not break. He would become strong enough, hardened enough, to survive anything the Skravaks could throw at him.

Night after night, they were bombarded with a relentless barrage of alien atrocities, a kaleidoscope of violence that seared itself into Wade’s mind. It was a brutal education, a constant reminder of the monstrous enemy they were preparing to face.

To further complicate matters, they were expected to master a labyrinthine web of ranks, roles, and regulations that spanned the complex command structures of the Rangers, Marines, and the Navy. Failure to properly address a superior officer, or even a misunderstanding of the most subtle distinctions between rating insignias, could result in harsh punishment.

By the tenth night, his body a tapestry of aches and his spirit pushed to the brink, Wade felt like a marionette on the verge of collapse. Every muscle screamed in protest, and the never-ending psychological evaluations felt like a relentless mental meat grinder. As he lay on his thin bunk, exhaustion a heavy shroud over him, the dread of another surprise “motivation session” courtesy of the DIs gnawed at him. And all this before boot camp even began.

A crackle of static from the ship’s comm-panel shattered the oppressive silence. The announcement they had all been waiting for, weeks of grueling preparation culminating in this single moment.

“Attention on deck! Attention on deck! We will be making planetfall on Carthis 7 in approximately six hours. All recruits report to staging bay 16 for disembarkation prep at 0430 hours. That is all!”

Wade closed his eyes, the weight of exhaustion a constant companion. Yet, beneath the fatigue, a spark of exhilaration flickered to life. After endless days and sleepless nights being broken down and rebuilt into a uniform nothingness, all previous identity was lost. They were now a blank slate ready for reprogramming as seen fit by the Marine Corps. They were finally approaching their crucible. The crucible of boot camp, specifically designed to forge them into first Marines and then raw material for further training. At the end of this grueling gauntlet awaited the infamous “Dropship Insertion School,” the ultimate test that would determine their eligibility. And then, and only then, they would be allowed the privilege of undergoing the most challenging military training known to man, Deep Space Ranger Training. Those who faltered might be reassigned as Marine Regulars, a respectable path in itself, but a far cry from the elite ranks of the Rangers. Many more would likely wash out, being assigned to the less perilous confines of the Navy or entirely returning to civilian life.

A small smile tugged at the corners of Wade’s chapped lips as sleep, mercifully dreamless, began to claim him. In less than six hours, he would be setting foot on Carthis 7, the unforgiving bootcamp world. Here, he would either etch his name as a bootcamp graduate, or be utterly crushed under the weight of his own ambitions.

Carthis 7

A dull gray orb in the dimly lit observation deck windows, loomed ever larger as the Argus made its final approach. This harsh, desolate world would be his home for the next six grueling months.

As the Argus’ atmospheric thrusters flared, a fiery halo against the pitch blackness, Wade squinted through the observation window. Below, a spattering of lights winked on – Ramsey Station, the Ranger Regiment’s boot camp primary training outpost. Named after a legendary Ranger from Earth’s golden age, the 1970s and 80s, it sprawled before them like a heavily armored village. Compact and squat, the station was ringed by a motley crew of prefabricated habitats and garage bunkers, clinging to the tortured caldera of an ancient meteorite strike. Row upon row of landing pads fanned outwards from the central hub, a constant ballet of shuttles a testament to the relentless activity within.

The veteran DIs’ words echoed in Wade’s ears. Carthis 7, a harsh mistress, would become their new reality, their world, their very reason for being. Brutal heat, radiation storms that clawed at sanity, and dust clouds that choked the lungs – all were to be conquered through sheer grit and determination. Life here meant embracing a relentless existence, a crucible designed to forge them into the galaxy’s most self-reliant, indefatigable warriors.

As the Argus shuddered upon landing, its ramps extending with a hiss onto the baked Carthis surface, Wade sucked in a deep breath. He forced himself to exhale slowly, trying to quell the knot of dread twisting in his gut. Surviving Carthis 7 would be the first of three challenges to become a Ranger.

The newly formed recruits, a ragtag bunch of hopefuls, were herded off the ship and marched at a brisk pace towards the camp, their boots kicking up puffs of reddish dust. This was “home” for the next six months.