Free First to Fight by Dan Cragg, David Sherman

two equally bright sweatshirts. Another handhold and receive three sets of underwear. Again, and get four pair of socks. Once more for cloth shoes, two pair. At the last position, robot hands fitted a Marine chameleon utility hat onto his head.
    Back in line with the others who’d received their clothing issue, waiting for the rest of the platoon to go through the line, Dean examined his cache. The sweatshirts bore a large gold emblem on their fronts: an eagle rampant on a river of stars, the emblem of the Confederation Marine Corps—the same insignia worn on the collars of the dress uniform. The word MARINES ran down the outside of each sleeve. A gold stripe ran down the outside of each pant leg, with the word MARINES in red running its length. The underwear was utilitarian, the socks were thick, with cushioned soles. The white shoes were soft and flexible, and had rubber soles. Only the hat was different.
    It was drab, almost colorless. Dean snaked an arm through the basket’s handle and used that hand to grip the handhold. With his free hand he took the hat off his head and examined it. It seemed to be sort of green, sort of gray, sort of—Dean blinked, sort of red. He moved his hand and held the hat against the side of his basket. It turned almost the same tan as the basket.
    “Hey, look at this,” Anderhalt exclaimed.
    Dean looked at the other recruit, who held his hat against the bulkhead. The hat was distinctly gray. Anderhalt started looking around for a different color to hold his hat against.
    “Belay that, people!” Neeley roared. The drill instructor was suddenly in front of Anderhalt, glowering at him, then glared down the row of recruits who had already received their clothing issues. “Just hang where you are and wait. When everyone has their issue, I’ll explain everything you’ve been issued—including the chameleon effect.” He started to return to the line of recruits who hadn’t yet received their clothing, then briefly turned back. “Don’t just stand there in your skivvies, get dressed.”
    Soon enough they all had their clothing issue and were standing in formation, each recruit a brilliant splash of red against the battleship gray of the compartment’s bulkhead. Staff Sergeant Neeley stood front and center to address them.
    “You will not be issued proper uniforms until we reach Arsenault,” he told them. “There are two reasons for that. The first is you will undergo a strenuous physical fitness program aboard this ship, and you will be eating a diet carefully calculated to help bring you to peak physical condition. That means you will change shape—for most of you, that means lose fat and replace it with muscle. Some of you will gain weight. Either way, the clothes that fit you today won’t fit a month from now. Before you disembark this ship, you will step into the coffin again to be remeasured. These two measurements, today’s and on your last day, will be one gauge of how your fitness has progressed.
    “The second reason is a very practical one. Shortly after you came aboard the Purdom , you were told that you would be restricted to this deck for the duration of the voyage.” He paused to sweep his gaze across the faces of everyone in the platoon. “Let me assure you, no one else on board this ship is wearing scarlet sweat suits. Should you attempt to go to any other part of the ship, you will be seen and reported. Let’s not find out what will happen to anyone who leaves Deck Twenty-three.” He paused to consider for a moment, then continued.
    “A number of you have examined your headgear and wondered why they don’t seem to have any particular color—or that they don’t seem to stick to one color. Maybe you’ve heard of Marine chameleons. That’s what we call our field uniform, chameleons. Chameleons are only worn on combat operations, except that the headgear is worn with the standard green garrison utility uniform. Within limits, chameleons pick up the color