The following report comes to us from one of our bravest DataNet war correspondents. Conscience_1 is willingly subjecting himself to the trials of Iron Coalition's boot camp in order to bring us the following, in-depth account.

Boot camp begins with the blaring of trumpets over the loudspeakers. I'm told that refrigeration units are used underneath the floors, and at 6:00 in the morning I'm inclined to believe these stories.

Once assembled, I have my first chance to take a look over the entire barracks. I'm old for a new IC recruit, but not the oldest man here. Most are youngsters, coming straight out of prep school, but a few old timers are former merc pilots or even hydroponics farmers. Since I checked in last night, I've been telling the other soldiers I used to fly my own commercial rig, but just got tired of getting shot at by GigaCorp and the Belters without knowing how to shoot back.

The surgical procedures I underwent seem to have disguised my face effectively. After past run-ins with the IC, I'd still be recognizable to some of the top brass, but at this low of a level, I should be able to blend right in.

After a few minutes of shuffling our feet and moaning about the lack of sleep, our drill sergeant storms in. Sergeant Mackenzie.

Sergeant Mackenzie only has one lame joke, but he loves to tell it. He wants to be promoted to corporal, the man says, so then we grunts can address him as Corporal Punishment. I would have to agree this title would better fit the man.

By the time we break for lunch, most of us grunts, even the younger ones, look pretty much out of it. Right from the start, IC boot camp teaches new recruits the dynamics of hand-to-hand combat and firearm handling in a zero-G space environment. To give us a practical example, the sergeant took us up over Luna in a low-orbit craft. Later in the day, the sergeant tells us, we'll really have a chance to practice when our platoon will be thrown against another.

To end the lesson, the sergeant, disappearing into the cockpit, announces that we'll drill emergency evacuation procedures. At which point, he drains the passenger hold of oxygen to simulate a pirate-style “tapping” of a ship, and announces it's up to us to find our way to the emergency lifepods before we asphyxiate.

End of the first day. And my first chance to send off this account.

The remainder of the day was no less difficult. We spent an hour or so with the quartermaster, getting outfitted with combat flight suits and side arms. After that, the sergeant launched us back into space, two men to a ship - one, a more experienced pilot; and the second, one of us new recruits as gunner.

Despite the fact that it was still the first day, they sent us out against a rival IC platoon. Over the transmission channels, Sergeant Mackenzie gave the expected speech, of how Sergeant Adams' platoon always beat his, and if we didn't win this fight, there'd be hell to pay. More motivating, however, was the fact that the other platoon fired live rounds at us, and it was our responsibility to safely eject when and if the time came.

After the battle, I spent the rest of the evening running laps Sergeant Mackenzie assigned those of us who did eject. Granted, running is done much easier on Luna than other planets I've visited, namely Mars, but the Sergeant compensated by simply assigning more laps.

I don't know if my body can take this abuse the whole week. I've smuggled suicide pills with my gear, in the event I am discovered by IC officials -- and I'm tempted to take them now! Whatever anyone has to say about this faction, they aren't called the “Iron” Coalition for nothing.

However uncomfortable it was to sleep in the barracks Sunday night, nervous about the upcoming first day of training, last night no one had any problem getting to sleep. They say that the most theft of any time in the barracks occurs that second night, when soldiers are too tired to wake up to any noise whatsoever.

Nevertheless, Sergeant Mackenzie found a way to wake us up at 06:00. Assembling us outside, barefoot and in the cold, he announced that a member of DataNet had managed to infiltrate the Iron Coalition's ranks. Someone must have read my story yesterday and tipped off the IC brass. Fortunately, the names in these accounts have all been aliases. Still, I must remember to be careful. The sergeant is aware of a possible insurgent now, and if he's half as clever as he'd have us believe, he'll know to keep an eye on us older recruits.

For some inexplicable reason, every recruit, young or old, bore the wrath of this news. We ran laps all morning. And I'm already out of moleskin.

After lunch (an adventure unto itself), the sergeant announced the next lesson of boot camp. Armed combat, against “the enemy.” After yesterday's training, we were apparently ready to take on another faction. It was sink or swim time. Sergeant Mackenzie didn't say who the enemy we'd face would be. Only that not all of us were expected to come back. I was beginning to wonder about the state of overcrowding in the barracks.

Back in the barracks after having finished my punishment -- burying forks outside in the dark. Apparently tomorrow, while the other recruits are eating breakfast, I'll be digging the forks back up.

This is in response to my actions in battle today. The sergeant launched us, one man to a ship this time, outside of lunar orbit. We were expected to fly patrol in an area known to be the site of enemy activity. Most of us flew, one hand on the throttle, one hand on the trigger. If IC ships weren't outfitted to prevent friendly fire, I suspect half the platoon would've shot each other to pieces through sheer nervousness.

As it turned out, the enemy we faced were Gen-7 BIOS. I needn't explain the mismatch. They came at us faster than I've ever seen other pilots fly, and with weapons firing without so much as a warning hailing.

In the end, several of the IC pilots did well enough to merit special recognition. Back at camp, the sergeant singled out DrakeReform, Gamer_X_2, KevK1ller, and Slampo8, all for actions above and beyond the call of duty. Apparently, through their actions in battle, the IC recruits were able to beat the Gen-7 BIOS back. Having heard that, I begin to suspect the whole thing was all a set-up. It's well known that the IC has its own stock of BIOS spawns. Most likely, they used these against us today, to test our mettle. . . and to weed the ranks. Fourteen recruits died in the encounter, freeing up some much needed space in the barracks.

Myself -- not wishing to be the fifteenth, I ejected at the first sign of the BIOS. Floating home in my lifepod, the sergeant was already waiting for me.

Hence, my punishment.

I can't tell if we are supposed to be getting stronger from this abuse, or weaker. Awoke this morning, only to dig up those forks I buried in the ground last night as punishment. Oddly enough, however little sleep he must also get, Sergeant Mackenzie was also right there with me. Gloating. Only, as I waste quickly away, he seems to thrive on my pain and suffering, like some sort of sadistic vampire.

I've never felt the phrase more false: “That which does not kill us only makes us stronger.” In the Iron Coalition's boot camp, the phrase seems to really be: “That which does not kill us will just try again tomorrow.” The sergeant says we'll be flying more training missions this afternoon, against Sergeant Adams' platoon again.

Spent two hours after morning drills and lunch listening to instruction on combating enemy ships. For the most part, this involved examining holo-models in a darkened instruction room. As could only be expected, half the recruits fell sound asleep, and missed the lesson on how to stay alive during this afternoon's fight.

Apparently, the lesson in how to face enemy ships in combat will involve us flying enemy ships. Our platoon will be flying BIOS fighters; Sergeant Adam's platoon, Rixian craft. I don't envy them. The Rixians, three to four feet tall, can't exactly have roomy cockpits.

Those caught napping were given half-full missile racks. The rest of us, our full complement. Then, we were launched.

Had an interesting look at the boot camp infirmary. The prescription for everything, from fatigue to plasma burns, seems to be aspirin and field dressing. Needless to say, I did not get much else besides derision for the crippling blisters on my feet. The medic (I use the term lightly) took one cursory glance, told me to wear two pairs of socks when running, and sent me on my way.

This afternoon's lesson did not fare well for us. Sergeant Adams' platoon, even in cramped Rixian craft, wiped the stars with us. The BIOS may be the system's fiercest fighters, but that doesn't make us, flying their craft, the same. Adams' platoon, on the other hand, must have managed to stay awake during their lesson, and knew how to use the Rixian gun-pods to their best advantage. The joke after the battle went “Rixian gun-pods = BIOS lifepods.” It was pretty much a direct correlation.

Myself, I manage to stay in long enough to score my first casualty. However much I am opposed to the faction wars in theory, there was a certain primal rage released when I flew in battle formation today and caught that Rixian devil in my sights.

Didn't last much longer after my own casualty ejected. Concentrating so hard on him, I didn't notice his wing-mate on my tail. Sergeant Mackenzie said I should pay more attention to Arcturus_Havoc_'s maneuvers. The guy took down 19 Rix out there, and managed to escape this evening's drilling.

Much luckier than another recruit in the platoon, currently being court-martialled. Flying point for his wing, the recruit apparently lost his nerve at the first sight of the BIOS and dumped his mines -- which released directly behind him. The rest of his wing flew right into them, and two more recruits lost their lives.

Friendly fire disabled craft still can't protect against that.

This morning's reveille sounded all too much like a funeral dirge. As I painfully arose, Sergeant Mackenzie marched into the barracks to shout his goodbyes. Apparently boot camp was over, and training would continue along the front lines of space.

I must confess -- I wondered if I should finish my writing assignment early and head back for the protective confines of the DataNet. After all, I had just agreed to report on Luna's boot camp, not on the front lines of the fighting. Was I insane to continue? Possible.

I must also confess -- however much I loathed the man, now that he bid us farewell, I felt a pang of some emotion for Sergeant Mackenzie. I wouldn't say fondness; yet not the usual desire to snap his twisted neck, either. Somewhere in between.

My sense of compassion, for Sergeant Mackenzie, or anyone else for that matter, was short-lived. Having made the decision to continue this assignment through the full five days, I boarded the transport along with the rest of the recruits, and headed for the bleak void of space.

From then on out, everything was sheer terror and adrenaline. Our new platoon leader, Sergeant Greggs, began shouting instructions through the open door of the transport cockpit. I heard only brief snatches of his words, and have no idea what the mission actually was, or who we would be facing. In short order, we were ordered into our craft and launched into battle.

For the first few moments, our crafts were held together in formation by an auto-pilot system, controlled by Sergeant Greggs back in the transport. I used the time to compose a hasty will and last testament, to be transmitted with this report in the likely event of my death.

Battle's end! And I survived!

If only the same could be said for much of the new recruits. Fifty-seven pilots were killed in action today in a chaotic assault against GigaCorp, the BIOS, and the Rixian Unity.

I still have no idea what the mission objective was. I believe at the heart of the battle lay a sector of He³ that all four factions involved in the fighting were trying to control. Sergeant Greggs positioned us the best he could; I was kept back to help defend a tac lab.

I cannot begin to describe the insanities of stellar battle. With streaking ships, constant dogfights, frantic calls for lifepod pick-ups. . . Whatever the sergeant ordered, I felt entirely helpless except to do my best to evade all other craft and fire when an easy shot presented itself. I have no idea if I ever hit anybody, but I hear the ships keep an automatic tally of this sort of information, posted on the next day's boards. I'd be curious to see.

Myself, by the time I returned to the transport, a line of plasma burns pockmarked the entire left side of my ship. I have no recollection of receiving those hits, but am thankful to have remained alive. Many of the men and women I trained with, whom I barely had a chance to get to know, did not return at all. IC recruits are little better than laser fodder. Technology has just advanced too far. All things considered, it's no wonder the BIOS, genetically manipulating humans into mindless fighting machines, always do so well.

I question my ability to ever sleep a sound night through again.

We did not awake this morning in the IC barracks, but rather to the disorienting confines of the transport ship. Looking back, the barracks, with its cots and refrigerated floors, seemed palatial in comparison.

I have come to understand that many pilots grow insane, waking each morning in a transport's personal sleep-pod. Coupled with the constant threat of death, the confines of the pod remind pilots all too often of a coffin. Or a lifepod. The interviews with several former pilots, under psychiatric evaluation for acute battle psychosis, occasionally turn up in bootlegged transmissions. According to the pilots, one of the first symptoms of battle psychosis includes an utter refusal to enter their sleep-pods; instead, they prefer to remain at all times in the cockpits of their fighters.

I know of several pilots already who slept in their fighters last night. According to rumor, Sergeant Greggs was among them.

After breakfast and some PT in zero-G, the platoon was briefed on the day's upcoming events. Sergeant Greggs assembled the troops, and dropped the bombshell on us. Brigadier General Derek Fisk, high commander of the Iron Coalition, was personally flying in to review the frontlines of battle!

After that, the level of activity reached an all-time frenzy. Sergeant Greggs shouted orders nonstop, as we rushed from corner to corner of the transport ship, giving everything the full spit and polish.

The current plan is to stay until Fisk arrives, and record his speech to us troops. After that, I'm not sure. Security has been tighter than ever around the transport, and with Fisk arriving, the odds of me being able to sneak off look pretty slim. With Fisk, so too will come some of the top IC brass, many of which will undoubtedly recognize me as the DataNet reporter in their midst.

Escaped into space, though it was close.

General Derek Fisk arrived on board the transport late in the afternoon. A more imposing man, I can scarcely imagine. The deep scars on his face attest to those battles on Luna against early GigaCorp forces; and I've heard several pilots claim that Fisk puts himself through Special Forces boot camp every year, to make sure training is still tough enough for the new recruits.

The General's speech mainly concerned the current need of us recruits to fill in the frontlines while veteran pilots, having manned these lines for several months now, we're given some time off this holiday to return to their families. A hard speech to make, considering donating our time so that others could go home was a hard sell to make. Still, it was a good move on Fisk's part. The pilots would go off to battle, but at least Fisk asked us personally. Or so the platoon felt.

By the time evening came, several platoons, including my own, were combined into Company Alpha, and launched into space. As luck would have it, before we even reached the frontlines, Belter terrorists attacked our company. It didn't take too much acting on my part to collect a few hits and drop out of formation.

The plan now is to fly my fighter as close as possible toward a predetermined pick-up site, then eject in my lifepod. Kronkite_NOW had best be there to pick me up. Thanks to this week's training, I've developed plenty of muscles to thrash him with if he dares show up late.

My stint in the IC boot camp has formally (and thankfully) ended.