8
“Here’s your cell,” Ting-a-ling said, pointing to the octagonal door. Two rows of the small compartments surrounded the common area, the upper row’s bottom halves nestled between the spaces between the lower’s upper halves. They really did look like the cells of a beehive.
The space between the bottom halves of the lower cells was taken up by ventilation and heating tubes, while storage lockers were above the upper rows.
Ting-a-ling was pointing to one of the upper row cells. Two folding steps could be lowered so that Rev could easily step up and into his home for the next three years. He ignored the ladder, set the door to his retina, then opened it. If he’d expected an upgrade from the temporary quarters he’d been in for the last week, given that the cubicle was the company’s SNCO quarters, he was duly disappointed.
He threw in his seabags and closed the door. He’d unpack later.
After Ting-a-ling had suggested they meet for dinner, Rev hadn’t expected to see him before then. But that was before he’d been assigned to take Rev under his wing and get him situated. The first order of business had been to go back to the temporary quarters and retrieve his seabags, then get him in his new quarters.
“So, how many SNCOs are here?” he asked his friend, looking around the space. He counted twenty-four cells.
“Here? Or in the company?”
“They’re not the same?”
“The first shirt is in with the other first sergeants and master sergeants. We’re just staff sergeants and sergeants first class. But to answer your question, we’re full here. You just got the last cell. As you can guess, we’re rather top-heavy in the Guard. No privates at all, and I think there are only a couple of PFCs.”
Being a Marine Raider, Rev was used to a rank-heavy organization, but not that heavy. At least the Raiders had Marine PFCs—which the Guard called privates—and lance corporals—which were PFCs in the Guard. It was going to take some getting used to the new ranks.
Wonder what my billet is going to be if we’re that heavy. As boot as I am as a staff sergeant, I’m sure as shit not getting a squad, not with only twelve of them in the company.
“If your personal stuff is stowed, let me take you to supply for your gear issue.”
Rev hadn’t expected a guide to get to the company area, but he’d been happy to see the Frisian yellow-master . . . staff sergeant. And it was time he met the company staff.
“How’s the company commander? She wasn’t in this morning. All I saw was the XO and the first sergeant . . . uh, first shirt, I guess they say here.”
“The Major? Don’t really know. I only met her once, and that was when I checked in.” He lowered his voice and said, “I’d be more concerned with Veang—that’s First Lieutenant Chhay Veang, our platoon commander. He’s from the AIW, from Angkor, and he’s kind of an asshole if you ask me. Got that need to prove he’s the boss and all, especially with the XO and the other platoon commanders being captains.”
The Alliance of Independent Worlds was a loosely aligned group of planets and systems spread out over half of human space. There was a wide range of political leanings within the Alliance, but the organization had come out against the Union in the Frisian-Union confrontation over Centaur tech.
Rev let Ting-a-ling’s warning flow over his head. He and the Frisian had fought together, so their relationship was different, but if the Perseus Union and Frisian Mantle had patched up their differences, he doubted that an Alliance officer would hold any previous animosity against him personally.
Rev was following Ting-a-ling out when Over-Sergeant/Staff Sergeant Kvat, a huge pack on his back, and an MDS sergeant first class came into the space.
“Is that him?” the SFC asked loud enough to be heard, even not taking into account Rev’s augmented hearing.
“Yeah. That’s the oner.”
I guess I know what they’re calling us now.
The SFC stuck out a hand, but his left one, a glint in his eye.
There were some cultures that shook left hands instead of right, but BCs to donuts, the MDS wasn’t one of them. The guy wanted to test Rev’s arm. Which was stupid as this wasn’t Pashu but rather his social arm.
“Sergeant Uli Myrt, Manifest Destiny Sphere,” the soldier said as Rev took the hand.
Rev had heard that in the Guard, staff sergeants and sergeants first class were simply called sergeants in common usage. In the Marines, calling a gunny “sarge” or “sergeant” would have drastic consequences.
The SFC gave his hand a firm squeeze. He probably was hoping to get a reaction from Rev, too, but if he did, he was just as much an idiot as Kvat was. Rev’s arm was a prosthesis, not organic.
Rev was tempted to squeeze back, but he refrained. No reason to get into a pissing contest his first hour with the company.
“We need to get to the company office,” Ting-a-ling said.
“We’ll be following you soon enough,” the SFC said.
Rev and Ting-a-ling turned to leave, and as the two stepped into the corridor, just as the door was closing behind them, the two MDS soldiers started barking.
“What the hell was that?” Rev asked.
“Mad Dogs,” Ting-a-ling said with a huff. “They always have to test everyone.”
“I mean the barking.”
“That? It’s a tradition with them when they join the Guard. I guess they found out that everyone in the galaxy calls them Mad Dogs and they’re taking it to heart. You know, embrace it, so it isn’t an insult.”
“And oners? I take it that isn’t for all Union Marines.”
“They call you persies or yooties. Yooties, especially for you jarheads. It’s you IBHUs that they call oners.”
“Yooties? Persies, I know a lot of you call us that. But Yooties? Shouldn’t that be Yoons, or Unis or something? There’s no “T” in Union. And oners? Like in one arm? Pretty weak, if you ask me.”
Ting-a-ling just shrugged. “You never know with the Mad Dogs why they do anything. I think it’s to get a rise out of everyone, as if they just like seeing what pushes people’s buttons. Still, they’re not bad folks. Good drinkers, and they like to pick up the tab.”
Well, I’ll have to see about that, I guess. Anyone who picks up a bar tab can’t be all bad.
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