After about thirty minutes of this, we reached the station’s transit lines. We waited in silence for one of the automated trolleys to glide up on its magnetic field. He hopped into the front passenger seat and jerked a thumb toward the back. “Get in.”

  I slid onto the hard plastic of the back seat. It felt strangely liberating not to be lugging the sixty-pound iron rod. The weight had been a constant, aching presence for days. I sat carefully, my hands on my knees. “May I ask a question?”

  He didn’t even look back. “No. You are unfit for your unit and are getting transferred to the one-two-eight. I only talk to real marines, so shut the fuck up.”

  So much for no black mark, I thought, a cold knot forming in my stomach. His disdain was palpable. I was also pretty sure he was full of it. He had the build of a one-gee baseline, maybe a low-gravity worlder. He probably doubled my weight, but it was soft, untested mass. No real marine bearing. He had that particular blend of arrogance and insecurity I associated with A-school trainees—guys who were barely smart enough to handle a nav computer and thought it made them superior to the “dumb grunts.” Real Marines, my ass. I bet you cry when your simulator crashes.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  He stopped the trolley by our barracks and stood impatiently while I packed my kit from my locker. He tapped his foot and sighed loudly as I meticulously folded and stowed each item to regulation specifications. Making your bed, stowing your kit, and repacking it perfectly was something drilled into us with psychotic intensity. I had no desire to start my new command with a week of extra duty for a failed inspection.

  As he typed our new destination into the trolley’s simple SI, I idly wondered if I could break him in half. His twitchy movements and high center of gravity suggested it wouldn’t be that hard. Probably wasn’t wearing an armored cup, either. The thought was a small, warm comfort.

  The trolley ride was an hour of oppressive silence, gliding through massive, subterranean tunnels. The Unified Planets Fleet’s training camps were sprawling, planet-spanning complexes for a reason: they needed a lot of cannon fodder, and they needed it processed on an industrial scale.

  Finally, the trolley hummed to a stop outside a large hangar bay. The number ‘128’ was stenciled next to the door in stark, white numerals, accompanied by a stylized painting of a globe-shaped dropship. He hopped out. “Follow me.”

  We walked into the building. The doors hissed open automatically—a small luxury compared to the manual, blast-proof hatches of the 132nd’s area. Wasn’t the 128th Supply a mech unit? I thought, confused. They were supposed to be a front-line tech battalion. This felt… different.

  “Wait here,” the corporal said, and then, to my utter astonishment, he turned on his heel and walked right back out the door, leaving me standing alone like a misplaced piece of luggage.