The drizzling rain was so damnably cold that the young man thought he could feel his bones freezing as he and his fellows stood at attention in the muddy field under heavy grey skies. Clouds of steam rose from their combined breath, curlicues of vapor ascending from their sweat soaked heads following the ten kilometer run that had signified the first of many challenges to face them during their time in basic training.
The sergeant major who strode onto the mockery of a parade ground glared at the collective rabble, a mish-mash of conscripts, recruits, and a few unfortunate souls who’d been Shanghaied out of Murial’s seedier drinking establishments. “What a sad assortment,” he assessed gravely. “To think that the empire’s future rests in the hands of you shit-heels makes me queasy.”
The grizzled giant walked down the line, making the occasional pointed observation about a recruit’s size or physical characteristics. Eventually he came to a stop in front of the young man. “Poet, you’re still with us? I didn’t think you’d survive the run.”
The young man barked reflexively, “Sir, yes sir!”
“Did you compose a moving sonnet for the brigade during your leisurely jog?” the sergeant major asked, leaning in so close to the young man that he could smell the rank scent of eidleberry tobacco on the non-com’s breath.
“Sir, no sir!”
The sergeant raised an eyebrow, staring deep into the young man’s eyes. “You don’t like me, do you Poet?”
“Sir… uh… yes, sir!” The man blinked, realizing his error. “I mean no… uh… no, sir!”
Laughing heartily, the sergeant major stepped back, addressing the rest of the formation. “Poor Poet! He’s come to us because he has nowhere else to go. Someone ate his planet, isn’t that terrible?”
There was a smattering of laughter from down the line as the sergeant continued, “His people were so busy painting and singing and studying the wonders of the universe that they couldn’t be bothered to arm themselves. When the hordes finally arrived on their doorstep, his people tried to talk their way out of being annihilated. And what do you think that got them?”
“That got them dead, Sergeant Major!” was the unanimous reply, save for the young man who held his tongue.
“Let that be your first lesson,” the sergeant major roared. “What you do not control and cannot defend against will kill you!”
Leaning in toward the young man again, the sergeant major growled, “Your people died because they were weak, Poet. Just like you.”
Forgetting himself, the young man replied hotly, “That’s not true!”
“No?” the sergeant major replied with mock dismay, “it’s not?”
“Sir, no sir!” the young man managed to blurt, working mightily to reign in his churning emotions.
“Tell me, Poet, do you think your whore of a mother and that pathetic coward who called himself your father died clinging to each other in the wreckage of their house? Or do you wonder if perhaps the cyborgs didn’t take them?” The non-com raised his hands dramatically towards the horizon, as if painting a picture with words, “Can you see them now, soulless zombies with wires and tubes sticking out of them, shuffling around their mighty ships, forever trapped in their own heads as they lay waste to countless worlds?”
The young man snapped, letting loose a guttural cry of rage as he charged the instructor. He’d barely moved a foot before he found himself sailing through the air to land heavily in freezing mud, unable to breath from the lightening-quick strike the sergeant major had delivered to his midsection just before flipping him up and over his shoulder.
The young man lay in the cloying mud, gasping for breath and clutching at his stomach. As his vision cleared, he could see the sergeant major looking down at him. “You’re angry, Poet. That’s good. Anger I can work with.” He gestured for two other men in formation to come forward and pull the young man to his feet. “Welcome to the Hekosian Royal Army, Mister… “
“Lar’ragos,” the young man croaked, still fighting for air.
The sergeant major shook his head, “I prefer Poet, don’t you?” Taking the young man’s silence as approval, the instructor turned his back and began moving down the line. “Remember, Poet, always cheat, always win. The only unfair fight is the one you lose. The advice comes too late for the rest of your people, but you just might be salvageable.”
“Sir...” the young man coughed, “Yes sir!”
The sergeant major who strode onto the mockery of a parade ground glared at the collective rabble, a mish-mash of conscripts, recruits, and a few unfortunate souls who’d been Shanghaied out of Murial’s seedier drinking establishments. “What a sad assortment,” he assessed gravely. “To think that the empire’s future rests in the hands of you shit-heels makes me queasy.”
The grizzled giant walked down the line, making the occasional pointed observation about a recruit’s size or physical characteristics. Eventually he came to a stop in front of the young man. “Poet, you’re still with us? I didn’t think you’d survive the run.”
The young man barked reflexively, “Sir, yes sir!”
“Did you compose a moving sonnet for the brigade during your leisurely jog?” the sergeant major asked, leaning in so close to the young man that he could smell the rank scent of eidleberry tobacco on the non-com’s breath.
“Sir, no sir!”
The sergeant raised an eyebrow, staring deep into the young man’s eyes. “You don’t like me, do you Poet?”
“Sir… uh… yes, sir!” The man blinked, realizing his error. “I mean no… uh… no, sir!”
Laughing heartily, the sergeant major stepped back, addressing the rest of the formation. “Poor Poet! He’s come to us because he has nowhere else to go. Someone ate his planet, isn’t that terrible?”
There was a smattering of laughter from down the line as the sergeant continued, “His people were so busy painting and singing and studying the wonders of the universe that they couldn’t be bothered to arm themselves. When the hordes finally arrived on their doorstep, his people tried to talk their way out of being annihilated. And what do you think that got them?”
“That got them dead, Sergeant Major!” was the unanimous reply, save for the young man who held his tongue.
“Let that be your first lesson,” the sergeant major roared. “What you do not control and cannot defend against will kill you!”
Leaning in toward the young man again, the sergeant major growled, “Your people died because they were weak, Poet. Just like you.”
Forgetting himself, the young man replied hotly, “That’s not true!”
“No?” the sergeant major replied with mock dismay, “it’s not?”
“Sir, no sir!” the young man managed to blurt, working mightily to reign in his churning emotions.
“Tell me, Poet, do you think your whore of a mother and that pathetic coward who called himself your father died clinging to each other in the wreckage of their house? Or do you wonder if perhaps the cyborgs didn’t take them?” The non-com raised his hands dramatically towards the horizon, as if painting a picture with words, “Can you see them now, soulless zombies with wires and tubes sticking out of them, shuffling around their mighty ships, forever trapped in their own heads as they lay waste to countless worlds?”
The young man snapped, letting loose a guttural cry of rage as he charged the instructor. He’d barely moved a foot before he found himself sailing through the air to land heavily in freezing mud, unable to breath from the lightening-quick strike the sergeant major had delivered to his midsection just before flipping him up and over his shoulder.
The young man lay in the cloying mud, gasping for breath and clutching at his stomach. As his vision cleared, he could see the sergeant major looking down at him. “You’re angry, Poet. That’s good. Anger I can work with.” He gestured for two other men in formation to come forward and pull the young man to his feet. “Welcome to the Hekosian Royal Army, Mister… “
“Lar’ragos,” the young man croaked, still fighting for air.
The sergeant major shook his head, “I prefer Poet, don’t you?” Taking the young man’s silence as approval, the instructor turned his back and began moving down the line. “Remember, Poet, always cheat, always win. The only unfair fight is the one you lose. The advice comes too late for the rest of your people, but you just might be salvageable.”
“Sir...” the young man coughed, “Yes sir!”
They do work for a living, don't they? Also, having a sergeant major review boots is a big honor. Did they do something special? 
