Chapter 3: First Days of Boot

Your eyes saw me when I was formless; all my days were written in Your book and planned before a single one of them began.

Psalm 139:16

The Pit

The ramp of the landing craft hissed shut, as the weary recruits of the Deep Space Rangers double-timed into Ramsey Station. All eyes were wide as they took in the unforgiving surface of Carthis 7. A desolate world stretched before them, sculpted by volcanic fury and bathed in the unforgiving glare of a binary sun. Dust swirled, stinging their eyes and coating their sweat-slick bodies as the Argus bounded into space with a roar leaving an eerie silence.

Before Wade could absorb it all, a booming voice shattered the silence. “Move it, maggots! You think you’re on a sightseeing tour?” The speaker was a mountain of a man, clad in olive drab armor that glinted in the harsh sunlight. His face, etched with battle scars, was dominated by a single, bright red scar that ran along the right side of his chin. Staff Sergeant Hathras, Wade learned later, was the epitome of a Drill Instructor – a walking embodiment of discipline and fear.

Hathras wasn’t alone. A pack of Drill Instructors descended upon the recruits, barking orders and shoving them into a semblance of formation. Hushed whispers broke out as the recruits recognized them – veterans hardened by years of fighting the intergalactic war against the Skravaks.

Hathras barked a final order, gesturing towards a large, sunken area ahead, Get in “The Pit!” They stumbled forward, legs weak from the cramped quarters of the Argus and the unfamiliar pull of Carthis 7’s lower gravity.

Reaching the Pit, Wade saw its brutal reality. A patch of sand, with the consistency of fine broken glass. The harsh sunlight glinted off the tiny particles, creating a blinding haze and every step kicked up dust as fine as talcum powder.

“Drop your civilian gear!” another DI roared. “On your face!” Confusion turned to panic as the recruits dove to a prone position on the rough sand. Wade wincing as his hands dug into the scorching shards.

Hathras’ voice cut through the chaos. “Roll right, maggots! Roll left! You think the Skravaks are gonna care about a little sand in your eyes?!”

Minutes turned into an eternity as they rolled left, right, up, down, push ups, jumping jacks, and then down again. Their clothes were shredded and the fine dust seeping into every crevice. Wade’s vision blurred, sweat stinging his eyes. His hands, raw and blistered, felt like sandpaper against his sweat-slick skin.

A choked sob escaped from beside him. A young woman, barely out of her teens, clutched her ripped sleeve, her face contorted in pain and humiliation. A nearby DI loomed over her, his voice dripping with disdain. “What’s wrong, little lady? Missing your mommy?” He shoved her roughly, sending her sprawling into the sand.

Wade’s face burned with a mix of anger and helplessness. Here, compassion was a weakness, a luxury they couldn’t afford. This was boot camp, Ranger style, and survival was the only game in town.

Gear Up

A whistle pierced the air, signaling the end of their ordeal in The Pit. They were herded towards a cluster of prefabricated buildings, the white paint already peeling under the relentless sun. Inside, a new kind of torture awaited them.

Gruff-looking civilian contractors, mirroring the DIs’ hostility, barked instructions as they were issued uniforms and equipment. The olive drab fatigues felt stiff and restrictive, a stark contrast to the worn jeans and graphic tees Wade was used to. Each piece of gear – the heavy body armor, the clunky helmet, the unfamiliar pulse rifle – weighed him down, a constant reminder of the new reality he had signed up for. The weapons, though intimidating, held a strange allure. They were tools, instruments of survival in this hostile world.

As he slung the pulse rifle across his back, the contractor barked, “Careful, sunshine. Don’t point that at your buddy unless you mean it.” He leered at Wade, his words laced with a dark humor.

Wade swallowed, meeting the contractor’s gaze. Fear danced on the edge of his vision, but something flashed within him – a spark of defiance. He wouldn’t be cowed, wouldn’t be another scared kid in the sand.

Across from him, Mike Jansen, a wiry kid with a mop of unruly brown hair, chuckled. “Don’t worry,” he said, his voice surprisingly steady for someone who looked like he could have just stepped out of high school. “They wouldn’t let us shoot each other… yet, anyways.”

Wade managed a half-smile. Jansen, ever the optimist, was a welcome sight in this sea of harsh reality.

The final stop was a metal podium where a woman stood, her arms crossed and face etched with a permanent scowl. Gunnery Sergeant Phoebe Harris, as Wade soon learned, was the Senior Drill Instructor. Compared to Hathras’ brute force, she was a different kind of predator – she was as calculated as a rattlesnake, her voice dripping with a lethal calm.

As they received dog tags, heads shaved, and were assigned their barracks, a streak of anxiety coursed through Wade. He’d heard stories about the barracks – cramped Quonset huts notorious for their suffocating heat and questionable plumbing.

Reality lived up to the rumors. Thirty bunks stacked three high, crammed into a stifling metal box, the air thick with the smell of disinfectant and nervous sweat. The latrines were a communal nightmare, devoid of privacy and reeking of something far worse than disinfectant.

Despite the discomfort, Wade found solace in his bunkmates. Mike Jansen, his easygoing nature a welcome contrast to the harsh environment, and Alejandro Torres, better known as Alex, a quiet, stoic boy with eyes that seemed to hold a lifetime of unspoken stories.

Nightfall, when it arrived, brought no respite. The thin metal walls did little to block out the constant sounds of shouting and the rhythmic thud of boots against the sand. Sleep, when it came, was filled with fragmented dreams of alien landscapes and insectoid horrors.

The Carthis Forge

The first sunrise on Carthis 7 was a brutal awakening. A piercing whistle ripped through the barracks, jolting Wade out of a restless sleep. Muscles screamed in protest as he scrambled to his feet, a chorus of groans echoing around him.

They were herded outside by the ever-present DIs, the unforgiving sun already baking the sand. Ahead lay a massive obstacle course, a twisted metal jungle gym designed to test their physical and mental limits.

Staff Sergeant Hathras’ voice boomed, laying down the rules. Fastest time wins, slowest gets “special treatment.” The intended threat hung heavy in the air.

Fear turned Wade’s legs to lead. His lungs burned like fire as he navigated the course, the unfamiliar gravity throwing him off balance. He stumbled, scraped his knee, but pushed himself forward, fueled by a raw determination not to be the slowest.

He finished somewhere in the middle, his body a mess of sweat and grime. Others weren’t as fortunate. One recruit lay crumpled at the base of a wall, clutching his ankle, his face contorted in pain. Another, a hulk of a man, stood defiantly before Sergeant Hathras, refusing to budge after failing an obstacle. Hathras’ response was swift and brutal – a single punch sent the man sprawling, his face a bloody mess on the sand.

The rest of the day was a blur of activity – a grueling five-mile run across the unforgiving landscape, followed by hours of weapons drills under the scorching sun. Wade’s arms ached from the unfamiliar weight of the pulse rifle, his vision blurring with exhaustion.

As the day bled into twilight, they were subjected to what the DIs called “motivation sessions.” Standing under the gaze of the twin suns, they were barraged with brutal truths about the Skravak threat, about the sacrifices that had been made, about the lives hanging in the balance.

Staff Sergeant Hathras’ words were a twisted mix of patriotism and fear-mongering, designed to break their spirit and rebuild them as Marines. Wade felt a knot tighten in his stomach. The threat seemed more real now, the stakes higher than he’d ever imagined.

Later that night, huddled on his bunk in the stifling heat, a wave of exhaustion and uncertainty washed over Wade. He didn’t miss home like a normal recruit but he did miss the freedom he had back on Mars. Here, on Carthis 7, everything felt scripted, stifling, and hostile. From time to time he even wondered if he had made the right decision. The crushing weight of responsibility, the constant threat of failure, pressed down on him like the unforgiving gravity of the alien world.

A metallic clang echoed through the barracks, followed by the rhythmic thump of boots. Mike, his face streaked with grime but a hint of a smile playing on his lips, slid onto the bunk under him.

“Rough day, huh?” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

“Yeah,” Wade admitted, his throat parched. “I thought I was ready for this, Mike.”

“Yeah man, it’s been crazy to be honest, but we’ll get through it.” Mike said with a confidence that belied his own exhaustion. “It’s gonna shred us, heh, but like the DIs say, “Pain is just weakness leaving the body.” They laughed together. “We just gotta keep pushing, keep reminding ourselves why we’re here.”

Wade stared up at the bottom of the third bunk above him, the harsh light from the hallway casting long shadows across the room. Images of his room in the cramped apartment and the halo-deck streaming news feeds. This wasn’t just about proving himself, about escaping the dead-end life that awaited him back on Mars. This was about getting in the fight, doing something meaningful, and proving his dad wrong.

“Yeah,” Wade finally said, his voice finding a new resolve. “We’ll get through it.”

The next morning, the now-familiar blare of the whistle ripped through the pre-dawn silence. Wade stretched his aching muscles, a dull ache throbbing in his head. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep going, but he knew one thing – he had to keep pressing.

As he stepped outside into the harsh sunlight, squinting against the glare of the twin suns, a new determination burned in his eyes. Carthis 7 was a crucible, a forge designed to break the weak and mold the strong.

The Price of Failure

One day drifted into another. The confidence course became a daily torment. A web of ropes, walls, and precarious beams twisted into a sadistic test of agility and strength. Today, fear had a name – Private Sinclair. A wiry young man with terrified eyes who froze halfway across the swinging rope bridge. His panicked screams echoed through the training grounds as he dangled precariously above the sand.

Hathras’ response was swift and unforgiving. A barked order, a yank on the safety harness, and Sinclair plummeted with a sickening thud. He lay crumpled at the base, a bone protruding at an unnatural angle from his arm. The DIs wasted no time, dragging him away like a fallen Marine, leaving a crimson stain on the sand as a stark reminder of the consequences of failure.

The incident cast a pall over the rest of the day. The ever-present threat of injury, the constant pressure to excel, gnawed at Wade’s morale. The camaraderie forged with Mike offered a lifeline, their shared silent understanding a flicker of hope. But the pressures were not all external. Soon a more menacing insider would take his toll.

The Camp Bully

The mess hall echoed with clattering trays and clanging utensils as the recruits ate without a word. Kovacs, Jansen, and Torres stared at their mystery meat stew warily, shoulder to shoulder at the crowded table. Across the aisle, Private Briggs nudged his buddies, chin jutting towards the trio.

With a mischievous grin, Briggs loaded a hefty spoonful of lumpy mashed potatoes. In one swift motion, he flung the gloopy mass, nailing Kovacs square in the face and whispering…”Hey Kovacs. Didn’t your mommy teach you any manners?”

The steaming potatoes plastered Kovacs, gravy dripping down his reddening cheeks. He frantically pawed at his face, torn between humiliation and rage, as the scene caught Sergeant Ramerez’s attention.

“Quiet, crutes!” he barked, voice cutting through the commotion. “This ain’t no social club. Shut up, eat up, and get up. You got two minutes!”

As Wade continued scrubbing away the embarrassing mess, he could feel his temper rising. Briggs was going to pay for this. Mike leaned in, murmuring “Just let it go man, he’s not worth it.” But Alex shook his head. “Nah, you can’t let a punk like Briggs get away with that.”

Kovacs glared at the smirking Briggs. He was already concocting a plan for revenge. That jerk was going to get his, one way or another.

Desolation Run

Chow was followed by another five-mile run. It was a brutal trek across the alien landscape. The air, thin and dry, scraped at their lungs like sandpaper. The unforgiving sun beat down, turning the already oppressive heat into a relentless furnace. Each step felt like wading through molasses, their boots kicking up plumes of red dust that hung in the air like a perpetual haze.

Wade stumbled, the world blurring at the edges of his vision. His legs felt like lead weights, his throat parched. He glanced sideways to see Mike, face grim but determined, keeping pace beside him. A silent nod of encouragement from Mike was all it took to push Wade forward.

They finally crossed the finish line, collapsing onto the scorching sand in a heap of sweat and exhaustion. Around them, others staggered in, their faces contorted in pain, vomiting the last vestiges of lunch. One recruit, overcome by heat stroke, lay unconscious, his body convulsing. A team of corpsmen rushed forward, their arrival a stark reminder of the dangers they faced, even during seemingly mundane training.

Twisted Motivation

The evening brought the next schedule session of torture – the nightly motivational session. Gathered in the crowded hall, monitors posted on every wall, they were subjected to a barrage of propaganda videos detailing the Skravak threat. Repulsive, insectoid creatures swarmed human settlements, their clicking mandibles and glistening carapaces filling the screen. Images of burning cities and mutilated corpses flashed by, each one a hammer blow designed to instill fear into their hearts.

Hathras’ voice, amplified through loudspeakers, cut through the graphic imagery. He spoke of sacrifice, of bravery, of the burden they now carried as the last line of defense against an unstoppable enemy.

Wade felt a cold dread pool in his stomach. The videos, carefully curated to maximize shock value, painted a bleak picture of the war effort. Were they truly prepared for what awaited them on the front lines?

Then came the stories – tales of fallen Rangers, their heroism immortalized in grainy video clips. Each story was a carefully crafted inspiration, turning fear into a sense of duty, sacrifice into a badge of honor.

The Ranger Chaplain

Finally, another Sunday arrived, offering a precious one-hour break from the relentless grind of training. After morning chow, the recruits were allowed to attend the religious service of their choice or remain behind to clean the barracks. Wade had barely slept the night before, his mind a whirlwind of doubts and anxieties. He figured an hour at the chapel might help clear his head. Mike, ever the devout believer, never missed a Sunday service, no matter the circumstances. Torres tagged along, going through the motions of his Catholic upbringing more out of habit than genuine faith these days.

As they made their way toward the chapel, Private Briggs lounged on the stoop of his platoon’s hut, a sneer etched on his face. “Off to get your praise on with the God Squad?” he mocked. Torres brushed it off with a shrug, but Wade felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment. He’d grown up without religion, and these habits were still new and unfamiliar to him, leaving him feeling self-conscious and out of place.

The dusty light filtered through the stained glass windows as Chaplain Jesse Bronson took his place at the lectern. Though his hair was fully gray and his lined face spoke of many years, he carried himself with a quiet strength that commanded respect. His warm brown eyes held a perpetual kindness that instantly put Wade and his buddies at ease. The chaplain had served as an enlisted Deep Space Ranger years ago; he was no stranger to the costs of war. Now, he helped these new recruits and the battle tested Drill Instructors alike carry their spiritual burdens.

Bronson’s rich voice filled the humble space as he spoke of the bravery and sacrifice of Jesus Christ, willingly going to the cross. “Our Lord was very familiar with hardship. He walked through suffering and death itself to pay for humanity’s sins. He took the bullet for us. He died a death to pay the penalty for our rebellion and demonstrated the ultimate act of valor.” The chaplain paused, his gaze sweeping over the assembled men and women. “There’s only one time a Marine should ever surrender, and that is to God’s love and mercy. We will either surrender now or we will be forced to bow the knee in the final judgment. What will you Marines choose? His love today or His judgment tomorrow? It’s your choice.”

With challenging truth and firm empathy honed over decades of service, Bronson continued sharing the light despite having witnessed untold horrors. To Wade, he embodied a peace that could only come from the deepest faith in something greater than oneself. Perhaps that’s what he needed most now, as the doubts and fears threatened to overwhelm him. But he was not ready to fully commit to something he didn’t understand. His mind was already burdened with too much to process; it didn’t seem wise to add yet another weight to his rucksack. For now, he would enjoy the Sunday breaks and leave religion for later, when he had more time to relax and think about the “extraneous” things of life.