“I know that many of you are thinking that you’re soldiers and these are just details that your science officer will take care of, but remember . . . science is a weapon. And those who wield it well will always have the upper hand.”
Dr. Mitchell seemed self-conscious suddenly, looking at his lecture notes with a cough.
“Now, I’m going to send a few more wrinkles to your pad to see how you deal with them.”
We all looked down.
“New things can be daunting but remember, the solutions lie in material you’ve already covered. Think of the concepts. Think of the theories. Don’t get bogged down in the weeds of the data sets.”
“He seems like an all right teacher to me,” I whispered.
“He’s not,” Daries whispered back. “It makes for good theater, but he’s never actually taught us any of this. Like Simon said, though, it doesn’t count, so don’t sweat it.”
“So what made you want to be a science officer?” I asked Eve, my stomach in ropes as the words left me. After only seeing her that one time I was beginning to think that I’d made her up. But now being this close, and discovering how poised and analytical and thoughtful she was in person, I was scared in a way I’d never been before.
The three square-wave beeps indicating a section ending had just sounded, and we were filing toward the door.
“That’s a pretty heavy question for a stroll down the hallway.”
“I suppose,” I stammered. “Where are you strolling to?”
“Applied study up in the hydroponics bay.”
I looked up at the transparent pipes carrying blue liquefied effluent along the ceiling. “I’m going to take a wild guess and say that’s what they’re using as fertilizer.”
She nodded. “Every last drop—made visible to remind us that everything’s a closed loop out here. There’re tanks on levels twelve and thirteen that hold seven hundred thousand gallons of water, which sounds impressive but’s actually pretty modest considering the station’s population.”
“And how many is that?” I asked.
“Fifteen hundred Blues and Greens. No one’s sure how many Reds.”
“It’s, like, a secret?”
“Yeah, it’s like one,” Eve replied. “They make everything a secret so you don’t know what the actual ones are. Gets hard to keep track of.”
Unlike Simon and Daries, she didn’t seem to find any humor in the things they were putting us through. Honestly, I didn’t think they did, either; they were just desperate to take the edge off.
We passed under the archway into the Great Room, and I could see the two of them setting their stuff down next to Rhys, Sebastian, and a few others. “Do you want to sit with us?” I asked.
“And help plot the downfall of your SO?”
“You say it like he’s a good guy.”
“I’m sure he’s not, but Simon is . . . so don’t rope him into anything too sketchy. See ya around.”
“See ya around,” I repeated. I wanted to say something to keep her there but, not wanting to appear overeager, I held the words back and just let the disappointment sink in and spread through me.
“Hey, hey, it looks like you’ve got something for the scientist,” Daries said immediately upon my sitting down. Even though I liked them all well enough, their company felt lonely in contrast. And Daries’ ribbing me about her only felt crude and off key.
“The scientist?” asked Rhys.
“Yeah, the scientist. Eve. I’m not sure how, but she spends all her time in the lab.”
“She can do it because anything goes on D Block. They’re all on Zs . . .” Daries stopped and turned to Simon. “Except for this responsible young gentleman, that is. But yeah, it’s a 24/7 trip fest down there.”
“That’s where you get all your Zeroes, right, Brando?” asked someone who I thought was named Woodrow.
“Dunno what you’re talking about,” Brandon replied.
Simon, who was sitting next to me, said softly, “She’s trying to cure this disease her brother has, although it’s probably killed him by now.”
Brandon cracked, “Better late than never, right?”
“It’s actually pretty cool, but it makes it hard to reach her,” said Simon. “Believe me, we’ve tried.”
“So, she doesn’t have a boyfriend?” I asked, not even trying to sound casual.
“She’s married to her work, brother, which makes it all the harder since there’s no actual person to beat out. It’s probably for the best, though, because . . .” Daries snapped his fingers a few times in front of my face. “We need you with us.”
And so I tried to focus as the conversation went over Pierre, Caelus, and C4, last night’s DC and tonight’s, which Fences we thought we had the best shots at flipping, and how we’d need C4 built before we had a meaningful shot with any of them. There was uneasiness in people’s voices, but excitement, too—the kind that kids get when they’re building something complicated together.
“So the C4 stuff’s already here?” asked Brandon.
“Yeah, Janny told me most of it was on one of those red freighters yonder,” said Rhys while pointing out the window.
“How does Janny know what’s on them?”
“He was guessing, but he’d the one who would. He used to have a Logistics Access Permit to the cargo bay,” said Rhys.
“Used to?” asked Brandon, taking a deep breath.
“It got revoked, along with everyone else’s. They’re getting more uptight about that shit.”
“Yeah, but it’s in and we’re assembling it in the old drafting room, though probably won’t get the plumbing in place until Thursday.”
“Who’s in charge of that?”
“Merced.”
Brandon laughed. “That sounds about right.”
After a few minutes my mind wandered. It hadn’t been much, yet somehow I couldn’t stop thinking about my conversation with Eve.
Corinth still seemed unusually vicious, but she tempered it a little and made me feel a little less out of place. And realizing that made everything—the bulkheads, the sterile white corridors, the coarse bluish light of the overhead panels, and even the solemn expressions of the Blues sitting around me—seem slightly more hopeful.
When I reluctantly returned to reality, Sebastian was talking about the freighters. His new plan, since they weren’t handing out Student Access Permits to the cargo bay anymore, was to get an Engineering Permit, which would give him access to the Inner Ring main hangar bay to shadow the techs and wrench crews which, he said, was only one level above Cargo Bay 2.
I pushed food around my plate, mixing the orange goop into the blue goop, and then the brown sludge into the blue goop, and then finally the brown sludge into the other brown sludge, as I pretended to pay attention.
Chapter 20
I was still thinking about Eve’s question when I got to the Weapons Room: Why were the scientists here at a training academy? And why were they spending so much time with us when science was only a secondary focus? They resurfaced as I put on my protective Palmae suit and every time I ducked or aimed or fired.
“Red means dead,” Master Sergeant Paters had said. “Orange and yellow are degrees of incapacitation, while green’s a non-vital hit.”
I hadn’t seen any green all day and fortunately hadn’t been shot since the Palmae suits fed back electricity from the incoming charges, and could really bite if the gun’s setting was high enough. Despite the pain, I always turned the hostile’s weapons to the highest level allowable, though, because that was the fastest way to learn.
A new enemy appeared and I lit his helmet up red. I’d removed my scope and was just using the front sight, even at fifty meters off, preferring to practice that way since most of the fighting on the Rim was at close quarters. It seemed impossible at first to hit small marks, but repeat something enough times and your body does it for you.
I shot another enemy in the joints between his body armor. More red. Took out
some defenders’ legs—lit up yellow—and then hit the tops of their heads when they fell to the ground. Red again. Back on Mars I’d spent the better part of most days after the accident on the range shooting at the most relentless, aggressive targets. Sometimes, I’d go to the Box there and do scenarios, but there was something to the simplicity of just loading and firing, loading and firing. Feeling electricity rip through my body when I wasn’t quick enough to adjust.
Sebastian had been right: I wouldn’t let myself go to the Rim unprepared.
I took an ice bath and showered, my ribs still throbbing where the master sergeant had kicked them—a sharp pain that zigzagged across my chest every time I took too deep a breath or moved my torso too quickly. My parents used to get so concerned about even my smallest injuries and I couldn’t imagine them seeing me here, a quiltwork of cuts and shiny eggplant bruises. The pain hardly seemed to matter, though, since I was so focused on the next “nonchalant” questions I’d ask the other Blues about Eve back at C3. But when I’d dressed and closed my locker to leave, I found Caelus Erik standing behind it.
“Hey, I’m Caelus. We met briefly in the cafeteria last week,” he said, extending his hand. “You ready for the Challenge tomorrow?”
I looked down and examined it as if it were a weapon, hesitating a few seconds before grasping it. “Yeah.”
“I don’t know if you’ve seen the postings, but I’m going to have you along as a pilot versus B Block so you can get acquainted with the battle mechanics . . .” His voice trailed off and he winced knowingly. “You’ve heard a lot of things about me, haven’t you?”
“You could say that.”
“I had a feeling.” He shook his head and then bit his lip. “We said we weren’t going to do that this time, but I guess they . . . well, I guess they had other ideas.”
“Do what?”
He sighed. “It used to be a source of pride for everyone to put aside their personal issues in the DCs and just try to get the best SO, but lately some of those unhappy with their performances have created this . . . this dramatic narrative about me and about things that have been happening at the station. Things that anyone who’s been around a while could tell you are completely normal.” He shook his head again. “It’s screwed up, but I get it. I get it. Because the Reds don’t give you any initial prep, you Greens are blank slates and there’s this magnetic temptation for people to say whatever needs to be said to get you on their side.”
I didn’t respond.
“And the fact that the Reds are so hard on you at first makes you all the readier to believe the stories, since we tend to believe the worst about people who are causing us pain. It’s natural. It’s human. But let me ask you a question: What is it exactly that you think I’ve done to you?”
“Are you serious?” I replied, taken aback by the audacity of his challenge. “You had Taryn and his guys try to kill me.”
“You think that was Taryn?”
“Yeah. Brandon and Pierre warned me that he was going to do it.”
“Warned you? They warned you?” Caelus looked amused. “That just means they knew it was coming, and what does that say? If I were you I’d take a close look at Fin the next time she’s around and see if you notice any bruises. Any special marks. And I’d ask Pierre or Brandon about why they’ve been so careful to keep Student Ensign Zoellers hidden away ever since . . . well, ever since the night you got here. I’m sure they’ll have a great story, but they’re not going to let you see him. No matter what, they’re not going to let you see him. And you’re going to have to ask yourself: Why?”
“Are you seriously saying that Pierre and Brandon were the ones that had me beat up?” I asked, starting to feel queasy.
“And Sergeant Rhys.”
“You’re fucking with me.”
“I’m sure it’d be easier to believe that, but many times things are easy to believe precisely because the opposite would be too hard to take, and again you have to ask yourself: Is that a good enough reason?”
“What about what you did to Pierre?”
“What about what I did to Pierre? He’s a tough fighter.” He traced the outline of a scar on his chin. “He gave me this.” And then he pulled up his shirt. “And he gave me this and this. We always fight each other hard. Always. But I didn’t target his throat if that’s what you think. I was going for the point on his chest protector and he rolled. He rolled because he didn’t want to lose. You wouldn’t necessarily know by the way he talks, but he hates losing. Hates it more than anyone I know. Even me. And I admit, I’m pretty competitive. But as far as wanting to hurt him?” He smiled again and changed his tone to sound even more like we were friends talking casually. “Aaron, he’s one of my best guys. He’s an excellent Z and L captain in the Box. Even if I were as sick as I’ve apparently been billed to you, I’d still need him for the Challenge against the Bs this weekend. I get that you wouldn’t understand that yet, but have you talked to anyone outside C3 about this?”
An astonished, incredulous look swept across his face as he glanced at the opposite row of lockers. “You haven’t, have you? You’ve just been assuming everything.”
I don’t know if it was just me or the way he said it, but I blushed, suddenly feeling foolish and naïve and trying to replay in a few seconds everything that had happened over the last three days. Doubts appeared, small at first, and then spreading and dissolving, like pills dropped into water.
“Why are you only telling me all this now?” I asked, my voice rising.
“Because no one is supposed to tell you anything,” he shot back. “That’s by design, so the DCs don’t get unduly influenced, like I mentioned, but also because it teaches resourcefulness. War’s terrible and hectic and confusing. Comms go down or your commanding officers die, and suddenly it’s just you and your men and everyone’s shouting, the Verex are digging up from below, you need medevacs for the venom cases. And it’s all happening at once. That’s the kind of thing you need to be ready for and that’s the reason the Reds are so strict. They’re testing you, teaching you to improvise. There’s no conspiracy in preparing recruits for a war that’s already started. If you were training a bunch of kids to fight terrifying creatures, would you go easy on them? Seriously, would you?”
“I would have them in the Box more, since—”
“The simulations don’t matter if no one has any nerve. There’s a psychological dimension to fighting, to seeing your friends get torn apart. To hearing them scream over the comm and continuing with your duties. It takes a certain kind of conditioning. Call it severe or barbaric, and curse Paters and Marquardt and Kerr till you’re blue in the face, but it works. It fucking works, and you’ll be glad that it works when you’re out there in the shit. Even if they could sanitize war, you shouldn’t want them to, because that just means we’d fight more of them. Things hurt for a reason. And that’s what makes people like Brandon, who try to kill all the pain, so disastrous, making us forget why we had it in the first place.”
The words sped out in a stream, confident and unwavering, and I couldn’t help but think that this was the sanest and most thoughtful someone had sounded since I’d arrived.
He moved forward until he was just a few inches away from me, confidential-like, as if his proximity would make the truth easier to grasp. “I know a million things have to be running through your head right now and you don’t know who to believe but, out of everyone, are you really going to trust Brandon—the guy dripping on Zeroes? Really? ’Cause the kid’s a train wreck. You can’t imagine the kind of shit he’s gotten into, and by some act of God he’s managed to skate around it so far, but there’s nowhere to run on this station. The sum of your actions just builds and builds and builds until you’re left inventing all kinds of excuses and stories to keep it from grinding you into the ground. Have you ever known an addict before—like, really known one?”
“I knew some kids back home. Yeah.”
“Well, my brother was one. Super nice guy
, but that didn’t change anything. His brain wanted something bad enough that it zeroed in on it at the expense of everything else. Zeroes do that 10x—hence the name.”
I felt like I was slowly being pushed off a hill. “You’ve got an answer to everything, don’t you?”
“Aaron, you’re a good guy and I know you want to do the right thing. I also know you want to believe the people you think are your friends, but they’re not your friends. Don’t trust me; trust yourself. Take a look at Fin. Take a look at Zoellers. Think things over. They’ve done this before and it ends the same way every time. I understand that you’re confused, but that’s what they’re counting on.”
He stopped and looked like he was going to go, and I couldn’t decide if I was relieved or not, aware that each word was slicing in, spilling questions I’d rather not have had—opening a void and drawing me toward it.
“But, as problematic as the grenade can be, the person throwing it is the one to really watch out for.
“Sergeant Rhys. That kid has a truly remarkable flair for violence. He has his apologists in Daries and Fingers, who keep it wrapped up and help him come off as somewhat reasonable, but I’m sure you’ve seen signs. Let me put it this way: If you wanted to hurt someone but didn’t want anyone to seem alarmed, what color would you paint the world around you? Rhys always paints in red.”
“What’s your reason for telling me all this?”
“What’s yours for listening? The truth has a certain appeal for its own sake. A pull. This is a tough, sometimes mean, sometimes unforgiving place, but we don’t need to make it any tougher by not knowing the facts. I don’t expect you to believe everything I say. I don’t even want you to. But I do want you to have your eyes open so you can judge for yourself. I expect that from everyone—especially my officers.”
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