Chapter 2: Arron

"Stand up straight!" the drill sergeant yelled into Arron Johnston's face and the sergeant's spittle landed on his cheeks. He stood impassively, as to flinch, or heaven forbid, wipe his face, would probably result in fifty press-ups. Arron hated the sergeant with a passion reserved for raw recruits against their drill sergeant, probably since the time of the Romans. For an eighteen-year-old, such treatment seemed pointless. He had joined up to fight the Grojan, not put up with crap like this. The sergeant moved down the line and Arron sighed quietly to himself. Only two more days, you bastard!

All the recruits would get their posting orders that afternoon, and although they tried to appear nonchalant it was the most important part of their time in basic training, as it would determine the future path of their army career. They had all sat a personality profile test, and while they were permitted to express a preference, for the most part they were allocated their particular position or role based on the profile.

Arron had hoped for and requested the Space Corps infantry; he rather fancied jumping out of transports in full battle armor and taking out a whole bunch of Grojan. The fact that the mortality rate was high and the Grojan battle suit was far more advanced did not enter his head.

The sergeant dismissed the parade and they filed towards the canteen. A group had already gathered by the notice board and some looked delighted whilst others appeared less so. Some had even been backtracked for a few weeks to go over the failed training modules again. Arron made use of his above average height, pushed forward a little and read his posting. He was, with immediate effect, to report to transport, not to join in the passing out parade as he had been allocated the Intelligence Corps. Arron's gut twisted. I don't want to be a fucking spy! I want to fight and kill fucking Grojan. But he knew there was nothing he could do, he was now a small cog in a vast machine not particularly noted for its competence.

As he turned from the notice board, his section corporal stepped in front of him. "Private Johnston, pack your kit and report to the transport section in one hour."

"Yes Corp."

Arron hurried to do as he was ordered. As he packed, members of his section drifted in and out and he found he was constantly answering the same question. "Where are you going, Arron?" When he answered, he usually got a "Tough luck, mate," or a "Glad I'm not in your shoes mate," which did nothing to improve his mood.

When he arrived at the transport section a mini bus was waiting. A sergeant with a clipboard stood by the side door. "Johnston?"

"Yes Sergeant."

"Put your kit in the back and get aboard, you're the last."

Arron dumped his kit in the back of the bus, slammed the doors, then walked round to the side door and boarded. Three faces looked at him and nodded. He didn't know any of them, which was not surprising as several hundred recruits were being trained at any one time. They nodded at him but remained silent. Arron was happy to remain silent himself. All he knew about the Intelligence Corps was that it was a shadowy organization that reported directly to the planetary government, bypassing the normal military hierarchy. Some things it did were rumored to be on the fringe of human military activity and well outside of what once would have been considered ethical conduct.

They were bussed to a military spaceport then split up. Arron found himself on a military shuttle to Ganymede.

Thirty-six hours, and his first interplanetary jump later, and he was being escorted by a sergeant to his new dormitory. There were several bases on Ganymede and he had found out this one was the smallest and most secret. Other than that information, his enquiries had been met with stony silence.

The sergeant knocked at a door half way along a short brightly lit corridor. Arron noted that each corridor had an airtight door separating it from the central main hub. A muffled. "Come in" and the sergeant pushed open the door. "A new bunkmate for you, sir."

"Thank you, sergeant. That'll be all."

The sergeant saluted, turned on his heels and left. A tall, dark skinned young man around Arron's age stood and offered Arron his hand. "James Martin, welcome to Ganymede. That was Sergeant Smithson," he indicated the door the sergeant had just closed. "A good sort, but make sure you stay on the right side of him though."

James raised an eyebrow and Arron remembered he had not introduced himself. "Sorry sir, Arron Johnston."

"Hey, you don't have to sir me, we are the same rank."

"But I'm just a private."

"Not now you're not, Arron, you are a junior officer now, and once the training is finished you will be given the rank of Captain in Special Ops. I suppose they have not told you anything?"

"No er ... James they haven't."

"Bloody typical. Well, first off make yourself at home, that is your bunk, desk and chair. He indicated a bunk on the opposite wall reached by a small ladder built over a desk and cupboard. A small chair was pushed under the desk. "That, Arron, is your sole private world for the next two and a half years."

Arron quickly found that James did not know much more than he did. He had arrived the day before from Mars and had been kicking his heels in the common room since then. All he had found out was they had been automatically given the rank of Second Lieutenant.

The next two and a half years were filled with specialist weapon training, including knives, swords, sabotage, explosives and even details of captured Grojan ships, although the actual ships were badly damaged and the computer cores destroyed, so they had worked on reconstructed mock-ups. They were told that a Grojan had never been found dead or alive, they always fought to the death and their battle suit had some unknown bio-monitoring system that disintegrated the body once the heart had stopped.

Their primary role was to be dropped onto populated alien planets then to melt into the population with the false identity that would be set up by an advanced initial contact team. They were then to watch for Grojan activity. When one student asked the obvious question, how would they know when no one knew what a Grojan looked like, they were told that any invading or alien visitors were to be assumed Grojan and any unusual activity at all was to be reported. If command believed an advantage could be gained, their role was to change and they were to take every opportunity to sabotage the Grojan. Otherwise, the agent was to remain hidden in the population and continue reporting the alien activity.

At the end of the two and a half years, students were allowed leave to visit their family for the last time and to make their final goodbyes as once plastic and cosmetic surgery was started, contact with anyone other than specialist Intelligence Corps personnel was forbidden.

Arron stood trying not to look nervous and uncomfortable in his dark grey Intelligence Corps uniform with his new captain's pips shining on his shoulder. He stood at the bus depot waiting for his father to pick him up. People tried not to stare at him and he had found, even on the crowded bus from the airport, no one sat next to him. It was blatantly obvious people mistrusted the almost black uniform.

A car hummed round the corner and stopped in front of him. The passenger door opened and a familiar voice shouted, "come on then, get in, my son."

Arron ducked down. "Hi Dad." Then he opened the back door and threw his luggage onto the back seat and closed the door. He grabbed the front passenger door, swung himself round and sat down in the passenger seat of the car, shutting the door after him. His father held out his hand, a big smile on his face. "Hello, my son." Arron took his father's hand in a firm grip. The older man then held his free hand over Arron's.