“Hot? Don’t worry, you won’t spend too much time in here during the day, anyway,” Foster said. She pointed at one bare mattress on a cot frame. “That one is yours. Dump your stuff and follow me.”
Owen dropped off his duffel and hastened after her. The heat of the sun felt almost cool after the sweltering barracks. She led him through a round of fairly standard in processing. He was seen by a doctor, who basically went over his Academy physical and pronounced it good enough. There was some paperwork to sign; Owen paid it less attention than he might otherwise have, since the whole pace felt very rushed. Then it was off to a supply building where he was issued uniforms, a rucksack, and other essential equipment. The load filled two more duffel bags in all.
He eyed the gear warily. Rucksacks meant they intended to do long marches, most likely with full gear. He’d done a few. It wasn’t fun, but he could handle it, provided they didn’t ask him to carry every single item they’d issued. All told, it weighed about as much as he did.
“All right. Drop your gear back at the barracks, change into a uniform, and meet me back here,” Foster said. She stood near the door to the administration building and glanced at her watch.
Owen got the message. This was another test. Everything was a test, in the military. One long series of tests, one after another. He jogged back to the still stifling barracks and opened the locker next to his bed. There wasn’t time to stow all the stuff away correctly. He’d have to worry about that later. But he could at least put it away. He snatched a uniform out of a bag and tossed it on the bed. Then he put the other containers into the locker. His old duffel with his personal items he crammed in atop the other two. It was a tight fit, but he got it in and closed the doors again.
Two minutes later he was changed. The uniform they’d given him wasn’t the jet black Space Force outfit the colonel was wearing. Instead, he had a standard Air Force field uniform, in drab tan and olive digital camouflage. The only change was that the Air Force tab on the breast pocket had been replaced by one which read Space Force.
The uniform already had his last name sewn on the other pocket. They’d been expecting him. Owen shook his head again. Did they want him here or not? It felt like there was a difference in opinion on the subject.
He raced back out to Colonel Foster. She wasn’t in front of the building anymore, though. She sat in a Humvee, pointedly looking at her watch again. “You’re back. Get in.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Owen replied. He jogged to the vehicle and got aboard. Without another word, she revved the engine, and they roared off into the dusty plain.
Seven
Colonel Foster drove the vehicle only a few miles. Their destination was another drab concrete building, this one much larger than the others. There was a helipad next to the building, and what looked like a firing range behind it. This was closer to what Owen had pictured. It still looked run down and repurposed, but the whole idea of wearing robotic armor into combat was just a couple of months old. It stood to reason that the training grounds might be a little rough.
This was the ground floor of something new. Owen felt his heartbeat increase at the thought. Armor might be more interesting and exciting than he’d thought.
“This is where we train recruits during the day,” Foster said as she shut the Jeep off. “We have actual Armor units for breakdown and familiarization inside, as well as some simulation units.”
That explained the vast building. Owen’s interest went up another notch. He was about to see one of those things? That was beyond cool!
“There isn’t a lot of time to train, so everything is in crash course mode right now,” Foster went on. She ran a hand through her hair. “Eventually we’ll have a more regimented system for training, but right now we have more Armor units than people able to use them effectively. We need pilots, fast. You still think you’re up for this?”
She was offering him an out? No way. He wanted this, more than ever. “Yes, ma’am. I won’t let you down.”
“It’s not me you have to worry about. You screw up, Hereford will getcha,” Foster said, smiling a little. “Just don’t screw up. People die when we do, and we’ve lost too many good men and women already.”
“I understand, ma’am,” Owen said.
“You think you do, but you don’t. Not yet,” Foster replied. “But you will if you make it through. Come on. I’ll introduce you.”
She led him inside the building. Near the entrance were a small waiting lounge and an attached office. A single man sat inside the office, working at a computer terminal.
“Captain Pahwel. Got another one for you,” Foster said.
“Ma’am? We’re two days into the class already. With so little time, every day counts. Might be better he wait for the next rotation,” the man replied. He swung his chair around to face her.
“Hereford’s orders,” Foster said, shrugging.
“Ah, it’s that one,” Pahwel replied. He looked like he’d bitten into a lemon and found out it was rotten. “I’ve heard.”
“Give him a fair shot. That’s what Hereford wants, so that’s what we’re doing. If he screws up, send him packing,” Foster said.
“Ma’am, I’ll give him the same chance of every other recruit. But I won’t let even General Hereford compromise the quality of our graduates,” Pahwel said.
Colonel Foster flashed him a smile. “That’s precisely why you have this job. Keep up the outstanding work. This one’s all yours; his inprocessing is finished.”
“I’ll see to him, Colonel,” Pahwel said.
Owen observed the exchange. Pahwel was properly respectful of the colonel. She, in turn, seemed to trust him and his judgment. But Pahwel didn’t seem to like Owen at all. That was bad news. Having a commanding officer who had it in for you was trouble at best, suicide at worst. He’d just have to show Pahwel that he could be trusted to do the job.
Foster left. Owen stood at attention, waiting for Pahwel to give him orders to do otherwise, while outside he heard the engine start and the Jeep drive off. He continued to stand another minute while Pahwel regarded him intently.
“At ease, Recruit McInness,” Pahwel said. His tone was brusque but not unkind. “You have a lot of catching up to do. Your platoon-mates are already two days ahead of you.”
Pahwel hauled three large books out of a shelf and dropped them onto his desk with a loud thunk. “These are the starter guides. They contain everything you need to know about the Armor Mark 3. How to repair it, maintain it, manage the controls, and so forth.”
He seemed about ready to hand the books over to Owen but then thought better of it. Pahwel stood, paced back and forth, then turned back to his newest recruit.
“McInness, I think the general is making a terrible mistake with you. This is madness. People are clamoring to get into this program, lining up to compete for positions. And then he sends us you? A disgraced cadet who couldn’t hold his temper and then almost killed a fellow cadet?” Pahwel said. “Oh yes, I’ve heard all about you. Well, you won’t find me as sympathetic as General Hereford. You step one foot out of line, and I’ll make sure you’re gone. You get me?”
“I understand, sir,” Owen said. It was clear as crystal. Pahwel didn’t want him there, didn’t think he belonged. But would he give Owen a fair shake, like he’d told Colonel Foster? Or would Captain Pahwel manufacture the first problem he could find into something worth dumping Owen to the curb? He couldn’t know which until he’d been around the captain a little longer, but it felt like the safest bet was to keep his head down and avoid Pahwel as much as possible.
“Good. Get on in there. Drill Instructor Graham is expecting you.” With that, Pahwel went back to whatever he’d been doing on the computer before.
Owen took it as a dismissal and left the office, moving through a set of double doors into an enormous room that took up most of the remainder of the building. It was at least twenty feet tall, and the size of a few basketball courts placed side by side.
&nb
sp; The place was bustling with activity, too. On one end were a dozen boxy devices. Those had to be the simulators Colonel Foster mentioned. On the other…?
They were pretty awesome, he had to admit it. Not as big as he’d thought at first. The Armor units had to be maybe eight feet tall. If they ducked, they could probably make it through a regular human dwelling. That was part of the point, though. They were the right size to go hunting for humanity’s adversaries. Not too big, not too small.
The six standing there were impressive enough, each bristling with weapons. Well, the intact ones were, anyone. Three of them were in various stages of being stripped down and disassembled. A half dozen young men and women toiled around those, pulling parts off and laying them carefully on the deck around the Armor. Owen didn’t realize he’d stopped in place and was staring until someone called his name.
“McInness! Quit gawking and get over here!” The call came from a grizzled middle-aged man wearing staff sergeant stripes.
That had to be the drill instructor he’d been told to report to. Owen hurried over and came to the position of attention. Now, should he call the DI ‘sir,’ as a new recruit, or by his proper rank, because he’d been a cadet? He hesitated a moment too long before speaking.
“Damn, not only a dropout but dumb, too? Speak, boy!” the DI roared.
Owen found his voice. “Sir, Recruit Owen McInness reporting as ordered!”
“There, was that so hard? I’m DI Graham. I’ll be supervising you lot for as long as you last with us, which may not be long for some of you,” Graham said, the last bit while glaring at a few of the nearby recruits who’d stopped working to watch the exchange. “I’ll put you under Recruit Roberts here. His squad is tearing down Armor 2.”
“Yes, sir,” Owen said.
“Go! You’re already two days behind and more minutes are ticking by! You’d better be sharper than you’re showing me right now, or you’re gonna be gone by lights out!” Graham said.
Owen got. He hurried over to the recruit Graham had pointed at and reached out his hand. “Owen McInness.”
“Roberts,” the other man said, declining to shake his hand. He turned away. “We know who you are. Overheard Pahwel ranting about you this morning.”
Owen felt anger rising and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he was calmer, but still pissed at the frigid response. First the colonel, then Captain Pahwel, and now even the other recruits were dissing him? Fine. He’d prove to them all what he could do.
“Come on. Help me with this gun mount,” Roberts said.
Owen looked over at where he stood expectantly waiting for assistance. “Me?”
“You’re in my squad, so you’re my responsibility,” Roberts said. “I don’t have to like you to put you to use, right?”
Owen went to his side and helped lift the housing free from the Armor’s arm mount. It was a damned big gun, and it took both of them to lower it safely to the ground. Even then, they were panting when they got it down. Roberts flashed him a grin, and Owen smiled in return.
“At least you’re willing to work hard,” Roberts said. “Come on, let’s get the other one.”
Eight
Owen knocked on the door as softly as he was able. Maybe there would be no answer, and he could just go back to the merely unpleasant training. Just about anything would be better than this.
But no, the door opened. He’d been expecting some younger girl, probably a social worker, most likely a bleeding heart who wanted him to cry on her shoulder. He was surprised by the man waiting on the other side of the door. He wore an Air Force uniform and had major rank on his collar. Short cropped salt-and-pepper hair was a stark contrast to Owen’s expectations.
“Sir?” Owen asked, unsure if he was in the right place.
“Ah, Recruit McInness. You’re right on time,” the man answered.
Well, so much for this being the wrong place, or getting lucky enough to have his therapist be a no-show. Owen sighed. “Reporting as ordered, sir.”
“This isn’t the end of the world, recruit. It might just be the beginning. Come in,” the Major said. He opened the door wide and ushered Owen inside.
The room was small, perhaps ten by ten feet. A single window let light in, shaded a soft yellow by curtains. The space was furnished in a way that made the room feel full but spartan at the same time. A bookcase and desk sat on opposite walls from one another, and two comfortable chairs rested in the center of the room.
“Please, take a chair,” the Major told him.
Owen picked the chair furthest from the door. Sure, it meant there was a man between him and the exit, but it also put his back against a corner. That made him feel more comfortable. The officer nodded and took a seat in the other chair facing him.
“My name is Major Bristol. Outside this room, that’s the name and title you should use, as I’ll call you Recruit McInness. But here, you can call me James. And I’d like to call you Owen, if that’s all right with you?” Bristol asked.
Owen shrugged. Not like it mattered to him one way or the other. He was only in the room at all because he’d been ordered to show up. “Whatever, James.”
Bristol frowned, but let it go. “Why do you think you’re here, Owen?”
“Because I have to be?” Owen quipped.
“Well, honesty is a good start. I get that you don’t want to see me. But if you’ll work with me, I might be able to help you,” James said.
Owen seethed inside, struggling not to let it show on his face. From Bristol’s expression, he was only partly successful. He wanted to punch that sympathetic face in the nose, but striking an officer wasn’t going to win him any favors. Lashing out felt right. But it wasn’t. Owen restrained himself, digging his fingernails into his palms.
“I don’t need your help,” Owen grated out. “I’m fine.”
“Clearly,” James replied, his tone saying it was anything but clear. “Why do you think you’re so angry at just the thought of someone helping you?”
Owen didn’t have an answer to the question. If anything, that made him more frustrated and raised his fury another notch. He took a deep breath and yanked his emotions back under control. He wouldn’t be led around by the nose like this. He was smarter than that. Owen glanced around the room.
“No diplomas?” Owen asked. “Don’t head-shrinkers usually like to hang their certificates of bullshit?”
“Seen some therapists before, have you?” James asked.
Answering a question with a question? Owen knew this game. “What makes you think I have?”
“Well, your medical records, for starters,” James replied, patting a stack of paperwork on his desk. “But what did you think of those therapists?”
“They were busybodies who had no business trying to mess with my head,” Owen replied. “Just like you.”
“Oh, I’m not here to mess with your head,” James said. “If you don’t want to talk, I’ve got a lot of work I can do over there?”
Owen stared at him, confused. “Wait, really?”
It couldn’t be that easy, could it? All he had to do was sit in the room, and the guy would mark him as ‘present,’ which would tick the box Hereford insisted on? That sounded too good to be true.
“Absolutely,” James said. He slid the chair over to his desk and opened a laptop. He glanced over at Owen. “If you decide you want to talk, I’m right here for you.”
“Fat chance of that,” Owen replied.
James made a little noise and went back to his work. Well, that had gone far better than he’d had any reason to expect! Owen fished in his pocket for his smartphone before remembering he didn’t have it anymore. It was with the rest of his personal effects, locked up. Crap. He was used to always having something to do. Sitting still and just thinking was a crappy way to spend an hour.
He counted all the stones on the wall across from him, then started on a second wall. Once that one was done too, Owen glanced at the clock. Shit, was he really on
ly twenty minutes into the session? What was he supposed to do for another forty minutes? His eyes went to the bookcase.
The titles there were boring. ‘Anger Management’ was an obvious no. Owen mentally added the titles ‘Teen Fury’, ‘Feeling Better,’ and ‘Things That Suck’ to the same pile as too hokey. One book caught his eye, though. It was titled ‘Emotional Intelligence.’ Intelligence sounded like it might be something worth looking into. Owen knew he was smart, but getting smarter wasn’t a bad idea. Even if it was about emotions. Besides, it would pass the time while he was stuck there.
“Mind if I read one of your books?” Owen asked.
“Please do,” James replied. He glanced over to see which one Owen picked up, nodded, and went back to being busy on his computer.
It seemed like he really meant it. James was going to just let Owen be for the whole session. That wasn’t what he’d expected at all. He figured the meetings would be more like the first few minutes had been: a struggle, a battle. Owen was used to fighting. That was familiar territory. This James Bristol was playing new games on new ground, and it left Owen feeling unsteady.
The book was enough to keep him occupied for a bit, anyway. It wasn’t about intelligence at all, not really. It seemed to be about rational thought and irrational emotional flare-ups. The fact that it was talking about something he experienced himself wasn’t lost on Owen. He had a feeling none of the books on the shelf were there by accident, and gave Bristol a look. He had to admit to a little respect for the therapist. He’d played this one well.
But the book was interesting enough to hold his attention. It gave stories of people in crisis situations and how they had overcome them by merging rational and emotional thinking. That resonated for Owen. His mind drifted back to touch the memory of that day in Miami and then recoiled at once. The pain was all still right there. Every raw nerve and impossible emotion he’d felt that day was still wrapped up in the memory, waiting to come out any time he allowed it to. That was why he bundled the stuff up so well. It hadn’t gotten any better. Owen figured it probably never would.
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