Read Online The Empire’s Corps: Book 01 - The Empire's Corps by Christopher Nuttall - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Christopher Nuttall
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career. His face showed the signs of too many regeneration treatments, a certain lack of movement that suggested plastic surgery.
“Drill Sergeant Jared Barr reporting, sir,” Barr barked. Even his salute was perfect. Marines were not sloppy - sloppiness could not be tolerated among the Marines – but perfection was rare.
“At ease,” Edward said. He had a good feeling about Barr, right from the start, but he wanted to talk to the man. It wouldn't be easy. “I don’t have time to beat around the bush, Sergeant. Why do you want to transfer to my unit?”
Barr didn't relax, much. “I understand that you will be training local Civil Guardsmen and raw recruits,” he barked. “If that is the case, I would like to take part.”
Edward smiled inwardly. A competent Drill Sergeant – and Barr’s record showed that he was very competent indeed – was worth his weight in gold. It took a special kind of man to act like a sadist without actually being a sadist, for a real sadist in a Drill Sergeant’s uniform could inflict immeasurable harm on raw recruits. If he'd served a term as a Drill Sergeant on the Slaughterhouse, he would be very well prepared to train new recruits on Avalon.
“I see,” he said, and waited.
Barr took the bait. “I was detailed to New Charleston to assist in training their Civil Guard to cope with an insurgency on their planet,” he said. “I believe that my experience will be useful to you. My record speaks for itself.”
“So it does,” Edward said, straightening up. “You are aware, of course, that you will be Junior Sergeant within the Company?”
“Yes, sir,” Barr said. Sergeants were always Sergeants, but they often held different titles and responsibilities. Barr might have been entitled to call himself a Drill Sergeant, yet he would not always be serving as a Drill Sergeant. The Slaughterhouse rotated its instructors in and out of frontline units to keep them up to date on the latest developments...and to keep them thinking of themselves as Marines. “I have been Junior Sergeant before.”
“Of course,” Edward agreed. “Welcome to the Stalkers, Sergeant. Report to Command Sergeant Patterson for induction, and then we’ll drop you in at the deep end. We have a great deal of training to catch up on and very little time.”
“Thank you, sir,” Barr said. He saluted again. “It will be my honour.”
Edward smiled as he marched out of the small compartment. “Gwen,” he said, keying his communicator, “I have accepted Sergeant Barr into the Stalkers. Give him the standard welcoming tour and then put him on the duty roster.”
“Yes, sir,” Gwen said. “Sink or swim.”
An hour passed slowly as Edward completed his paperwork. There would be little else to do until he reached Avalon, where at least delay was acceptable. With six months between Avalon and Earth, no one would care if the reports were a week or so late, not when starships could be lost so easily, along with their reports. He filed it in a datachip, pulled it out of the datapad and marked it for transfer by courier to the Marine Headquarters on Earth. The Commandant would take care of it personally. Whatever he’d had in mind – and Edward had a private suspicion that there was more to his operations than just preserving a few people from the mob – he’d deal with the reports. He was about to head down to the training compartment when his communicator buzzed.
“Sir, Rifleman Aaron McDonald is here,” Gwen said. It took Edward a moment to place the name. A Rifleman who had requested a transfer to the Stalkers, something unusual for a mere Rifleman. A Drill Sergeant might request a transfer to a combat unit and no one would think much of it. A Rifleman should stay with his parent unit. “He is requesting permission to speak with you.”
“Have him escorted up here,” Edward said, realising that he probably wasn't going to have a chance to get some exercise before heading back
“Drill Sergeant Jared Barr reporting, sir,” Barr barked. Even his salute was perfect. Marines were not sloppy - sloppiness could not be tolerated among the Marines – but perfection was rare.
“At ease,” Edward said. He had a good feeling about Barr, right from the start, but he wanted to talk to the man. It wouldn't be easy. “I don’t have time to beat around the bush, Sergeant. Why do you want to transfer to my unit?”
Barr didn't relax, much. “I understand that you will be training local Civil Guardsmen and raw recruits,” he barked. “If that is the case, I would like to take part.”
Edward smiled inwardly. A competent Drill Sergeant – and Barr’s record showed that he was very competent indeed – was worth his weight in gold. It took a special kind of man to act like a sadist without actually being a sadist, for a real sadist in a Drill Sergeant’s uniform could inflict immeasurable harm on raw recruits. If he'd served a term as a Drill Sergeant on the Slaughterhouse, he would be very well prepared to train new recruits on Avalon.
“I see,” he said, and waited.
Barr took the bait. “I was detailed to New Charleston to assist in training their Civil Guard to cope with an insurgency on their planet,” he said. “I believe that my experience will be useful to you. My record speaks for itself.”
“So it does,” Edward said, straightening up. “You are aware, of course, that you will be Junior Sergeant within the Company?”
“Yes, sir,” Barr said. Sergeants were always Sergeants, but they often held different titles and responsibilities. Barr might have been entitled to call himself a Drill Sergeant, yet he would not always be serving as a Drill Sergeant. The Slaughterhouse rotated its instructors in and out of frontline units to keep them up to date on the latest developments...and to keep them thinking of themselves as Marines. “I have been Junior Sergeant before.”
“Of course,” Edward agreed. “Welcome to the Stalkers, Sergeant. Report to Command Sergeant Patterson for induction, and then we’ll drop you in at the deep end. We have a great deal of training to catch up on and very little time.”
“Thank you, sir,” Barr said. He saluted again. “It will be my honour.”
Edward smiled as he marched out of the small compartment. “Gwen,” he said, keying his communicator, “I have accepted Sergeant Barr into the Stalkers. Give him the standard welcoming tour and then put him on the duty roster.”
“Yes, sir,” Gwen said. “Sink or swim.”
An hour passed slowly as Edward completed his paperwork. There would be little else to do until he reached Avalon, where at least delay was acceptable. With six months between Avalon and Earth, no one would care if the reports were a week or so late, not when starships could be lost so easily, along with their reports. He filed it in a datachip, pulled it out of the datapad and marked it for transfer by courier to the Marine Headquarters on Earth. The Commandant would take care of it personally. Whatever he’d had in mind – and Edward had a private suspicion that there was more to his operations than just preserving a few people from the mob – he’d deal with the reports. He was about to head down to the training compartment when his communicator buzzed.
“Sir, Rifleman Aaron McDonald is here,” Gwen said. It took Edward a moment to place the name. A Rifleman who had requested a transfer to the Stalkers, something unusual for a mere Rifleman. A Drill Sergeant might request a transfer to a combat unit and no one would think much of it. A Rifleman should stay with his parent unit. “He is requesting permission to speak with you.”
“Have him escorted up here,” Edward said, realising that he probably wasn't going to have a chance to get some exercise before heading back
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