Hero of the Republic: (The Parasite Initiative, Book 1)

by Britt Ringel

  Bell groaned audibly as he struggled to keep his arms at ninety degrees.

  “You worthless piece of slime!” bellowed the upperclassman triumphantly, shifting to stand just centimeters from his weaker target. “You can’t even hold a datapad and you want people to put their lives in your hands? You don’t deserve to be here! Just do the service a favor and drop out now!”

  Bell’s entire body viciously spasmed. His face was a deep crimson. Next to him, Twist’s own arms and legs quivered uncontrollably. From the corner of his eye, all Twist could do was watch Bell take the brunt of the storm.

  “Everyone knows you don’t belong here, OT! We’ve had meetings about your failings and don’t think for an instant that your training officer doesn’t know how we feel!” The upperclassman’s beratement was as unrelenting as the gravity pulling on Bell’s body. Bell gasped for breath, fighting to find a reserve that might outlast the onslaught.

  “I will make it my mission this last week to weed you out, you useless slug!” The venomous threat echoed through the entire floor.

  Just stop it already, thought Twist with a cold rage. We’re well past the ten minute mark, you ass. He considered dropping his datapad to pull the focus away from Bell. The release from the agonizing position would be exquisite. Sweat poured down his face.

  Before Twist could act, a different sound rang throughout the dorm. He saw confusion register in the upperclassman’s face before he recognized the alarm.

  “Fire drill!” cried the upperclassman. He pointed toward the nearest stairwell. “Go, go, go!”

  Twist’s body refused to comply. Instead, he felt himself collapse to the floor. The agony of releasing the biker position hurt almost as much as holding it. When he could finally look up, the upperclassman was gone. To his right, Bell was in a heap. Farther down the hall, Twist saw more orange-clad OTs moving with a sense of urgency toward the stairwell.

  “Wow,” OT Marie Conrad exclaimed as she came to a stop next to the pair, “that jerk really laid into you.” Soft, brown eyes were full of sympathy as she assessed the situation. After mumbling a cursory, “Permission to touch,” she snaked an arm underneath Bell’s arm and around his back.

  Twist’s own extremities were beginning to follow rudimentary instruction again and he reached out to collect Bell’s datapad.

  “What the hell did you two do to deserve that?” Conrad asked as she brought Bell to his feet.

  Twist reflexively shrugged in response and immediately regretted it. A raging inferno still burned in his shoulders. “Exist, I guess,” he answered.

  Conrad looked knowingly in the direction of the stairwell. “I get it. The upperclassmen are supposed to stress test us but they don’t have to be jackasses while doing it. I mean, in a couple months we’re all going to be ensigns, right?” She took some tentative steps toward the stairs. “You okay to move, Roy?”

  “Yeah,” came the flaccid response.

  * * *

  Instead of using the night to study for the next day’s lesson, Class 95-05 was treated to two and a half hours of interruptions by fire alarm. The drills could save their lives, stated the supervising OT commander. Twist suspected little could be gained by practicing a procedure they had already accomplished exhaustively but he was certain the precious time spent shuffling up and down the stairs and standing in formation outside the dormitory would ensure another sleepless night memorizing the upcoming SOB.

  He now found himself sitting in Bell’s room with less than thirty minutes until official lights out. They were alone; Bell’s roommate had been eliminated from training three weeks ago.

  “Don’t let him get to you, Roy,” Twist comforted.

  Bell shook his head feebly. “I’m sick of all this. I put up with it for what? So I can be washed out in the second half of training? You heard him, Caden. They’ve had meetings about me.”

  Twist put a hand on Bell’s shoulder. “That idiot was just trying to get inside your head—”

  “No,” Bell insisted and slapped the hand away. “I’ve been on a downward spiral ever since the last exam. I barely passed it and the curriculum only gets harder in the second half. We both know I’ll never make it.”

  Twist opened his mouth but Bell cut him off.

  “I’m finished,” Bell declared. “I’m not going to take this abuse when I’ll just be kicked out near the end anyway.” He dejectedly rose to his feet.

  Twist shot up from his seat. His thighs still ached even after hours of recovery. “Roy, wait!” He reached for Bell’s arm but his hand was swatted away again.

  “I’m quitting and there’s nothing you can say to change that, Caden.”

  Twist stepped quickly around Bell to reach the door first. He stretched an arm across the portal, blocking it. “That’s fine but since you’ve made your decision there isn’t any harm in listening to me, right?”

  Bell looked stubbornly away.

  “Roy, you’re my friend and I’ll never see you again. Please hear me out.”

  The truth of the words struck at Bell. Admittance into Officer Training School was a herculean achievement. Quitting was as simple as making a statement to an on-duty training officer. Once made, the OT was immediately removed from the dorm and placed into a much more refined, temporary hotel room as the trainee’s status changed from OT to Casual. The processing time to remove the student from active duty took forty-eight hours but the dropout’s disappearance from the eyes of active officer trainees was instantaneous.

  “Okay,” Bell simply said while crossing his arms defiantly.

  “I want to quit too.”

  “What? Why?” Bell exclaimed as he cocked his head to one side. “You’re nowhere near failing, Caden. In fact, you’ve scored some of the highest academic marks in the entire class.”

  Twist stared at his friend and clarified. “I want to quit but I’m not going to. Roy, everyone here wants to quit. Everyone feels exactly like you do right now.”

  Bell shook his head. “My situation is different. You might want to quit but you’re going to make it through the program. I’m struggling.”

  “Hey,” Twist responded, “my test scores might be okay but I suck at the practical stuff. You saw how much trouble I had when I led the flight during the last reaction course.” The Leaders Reaction Course was a physical training exercise containing complex problem-solving tasks. It gauged an OT’s ability to direct his entire flight across intricate obstacles under a time constraint. After failing the first test badly, Twist easily devised three viable solutions during his debriefing with Lieutenant Boslet. Boslet admitted that any of those options would have worked but could only grade Twist on his actual performance.

  “Well… maybe, but—” Bell hedged.

  Twist seized on the equivocation. “No buts. Every one of us is struggling.” Well, maybe not Troy Pagnosky. “You told me how much you’ve dreamed of becoming an officer, what it would mean to your parents. I can understand that. Think about your folks,” Twist implored as a slight shudder ran through him. “Think about how disappointed they’ll be.” He let the imperative sink in before stepping away from the door, offering free access. “Every OT runs up against their own wall, Roy.” A rakish smile spread across his handsome face. “Are you really going to let some jerk, whose only distinction is that he’s been here eight weeks longer than you, deny you your dream?”

  Bell sighed forlornly but soon his own smile gradually appeared. “Dammit. You always know exactly what to say.”

  Twist’s grin grew wider. “Well, how’s this? One day we’ll find that asshat and let him know what we think of him, ensign to ensign!”

  “Now that’s a deal,” Bell agreed.

  Chapter 5

  Aoife Covington, a native of the Seshafi corporate system, had known entering her secondary school’s lunch line next to the Barrington twins would only lead to trouble but she had been unable to resist. “He’s only one of the most legendary admirals of any corporate navy,” Paul Barrington ret
orted with a nasty sneer on his pimple-dotted face. The seventeen-year-old towered over his classmate, using every centimeter to his advantage.

  “Aye,” Covington conceded but immediately countered, “but Wallace is only the Lord of the Admiralty for IaCom.” The teen’s stubborn brogue dismissed any notion that she might back down. “IaCom might be an important corporation in the Lesser Magellanic Arm but it’s small potatoes if you compare it to Humex or a corporation inside the central systems.”

  “Our corporate systems might not have the military strength of the Commonwealth or the other two major powers but IaCom has more net value than AmyraCorp,” Barrington insisted loudly, his pride in his home corporate system evident in his tone. He menaced over Covington and declared, “Viscount Wallace is the greatest fleet commander in the history of the LMA.” He punctuated the declaration with a nod and then shot a glance to his sister for support.

  “Forget the carrot-top, Paul,” Melissa Barrington offered. She reached out to flick at a lock of Covington’s curly, red hair. “The frizz has gone straight to ‘Ofie’s’ head—”

  Covington pushed at the offending hand and took a step closer to her bully. “My name is pronounced ‘Ee-fa.’ Go ahead, mispronounce my name again, Mel. See what happens.”

  Melissa raised her hands and shook them dramatically. “Oooh, or what, carrot-top? You’ll run to your father?” She looked back to her brother and added, “It must be nice to be the daughter of AmyraCorp’s CEO.” Her expression contorted wickedly as she returned her gaze to her prey. “Poor little Ofie has to run to daddy.”

  Covington’s hands shot out for the teenager’s shorter, dark hair and yanked down hard. Melissa’s expression transformed from malice to surprise before settling on shock and pain. With a banshee’s shriek, the brunette groped for her own handhold as both teens tumbled to the ground. Other students of Port Crown Secondary School flocked to the spectacle likes moths to a flame. Behind the spectators, the commotion drew the attention of the lunchroom supervisors. Dozens of seconds after the tussle had begun, two attendants peeled the teens away from each other. It took several more moments for an attendant to pry Covington’s hand from her tormentor’s hair.

  Once completely separated, Melissa Barrington spat at Covington, “I won’t forget this, you bitch! I don’t care who your father is… I’m a Barrington! Nobody touches me!”

  Covington felt firm hands pull her from the scene. The man’s stern expression helped her resist the urge to reply. She walked docilely with her captor and once around a corner and out of eyesight of the crowd, the man eased his grip. “Lady Covington, why did you enter the queue by Miss Barrington? You could have waited instead of choosing to stand next to her.”

  “Please don’t call me that. We’re not royalty; my father’s title is honorific because of his position inside AmyraCorp.”

  “It wouldn’t be proper, my Lady, for me to call you anything else,” the supervisor maintained. “Perhaps Headmaster Cooper will refer to you by another term this afternoon. He’s certainly getting tired of seeing you.”

  “The feeling is mutual,” Covington replied glumly. “I’m sorry. I knew it was stupid the moment I got into line. I just couldn’t help myself.” She swallowed gravely. “My father’s going to skin me.”

  “The Archduke certainly has better things to do right now than take another conference call from us to discuss your latest rash decision.”

  * * *

  Caden Twist sat in Flight 3-12’s classroom, eyeing the epaulettes on his shoulders that marked him an OT lieutenant, junior grade. The rank was modest even for an officer trainee but he did not care. His duties were even more modest: assist the OT lieutenant responsible for their own flight. The job was cursory as upper class flights needed very little monitoring. However, where others might see an indictment on the wearer’s limited abilities, Twist only saw the promise of a future with grander things to come.

  Flight 3-12 was now part of the senior class. Two weeks ago, Twist bid a not so fond farewell to the graduating upperclassmen and greeted the new crop of potentials, Class 95-06. Each fresh, timid civilian was invited to step across the blue line painted on the pavement, symbolically accepting the Brevic Navy’s way of life.

  It had been a whirlwind since the switch. Twist had watched with an almost perverse fascination as the new lower class reacted frantically to every stimulus. He even felt a touch of superiority; it was hard not to when men and women slammed themselves against the walls at your approach or sprang to attention as you entered a room. However, more than anything else, Twist felt empathy for the overwhelmed newcomers. It was all too easy to remember how he had felt marching in their boots.

  “OT Twist,” Lieutenant Boslet called out, breaking Twist from his daydream.

  Twist rose from his desk. “Yes, sir?”

  “Captain—” Boslet, whose eyes had never left his datapad, cut himself off and remained silent for several seconds. Finally, after careful consideration, he ordered, “Come with me to the hall, please.”

  Twist’s stomach wrenched into knots. In all his time at OTS, he had never seen Boslet take an OT out of the classroom. This is bad, he thought while following his training officer. I know it is.

  The note of concern in the lieutenant’s voice did nothing to quell the rising panic inside Twist. “Caden, your presence is requested by Captain Altman.”

  Twist felt his eyes widen. “The commandant of OTS wants to see me? What did I do?”

  Boslet shrugged. “The message doesn’t say why. Just try to stay relaxed.” He uncharacteristically placed a reassuring hand on top of Twist’s shoulder.

  The gesture startled Twist further. Lieutenant Boslet was generally regarded as one of the more relaxed training officers but he had never witnessed the man act so personably to a mere OT before.

  “Caden, you remember the reporting-in procedure, right? Extend the captain every courtesy afforded to a superior officer. Report in, stay at attention, even if he tells you to relax. If he asks you to sit, be sure to sit at attention. Make sure you call him ‘sir’ or ‘captain.’ Make sure he dismisses you before you leave. Square your corners as you go in and out.”

  Twist nodded even as began to break into a sweat. “Yes, sir. I’ll remember. Thank you, sir.”

  Boslet offered the trainee a smile. “It’ll be okay, Caden. After you’ve had your meeting, if you need a little time to calm down, you may go to your dorm room until you’re ready to return to class.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Twist acknowledged. He would have been more grateful if not for the calamity surely hurtling toward him.

  “Off you go then.”

  * * *

  Twist’s march to the commandant’s office took less than fifteen minutes. By regulation, every OT was required to travel in at least pairs, yet he marched alone. The fact that Boslet had not sent a flight mate with him made his stomach churn more.

  He tried to anticipate the meeting’s subject. Was I admitted into the program by accident? Did they make a mistake scoring one of my tests and I’ve washed out? A sobering thought occurred to him. Has my mom or dad been hurt? The notion made his blood run cold and he quickened an already urgent pace.

  Twist entered the administration building with wide eyes. OTs were typically not allowed here. “Real” officers of the Brevic Navy surrounded him. What if I screw up with protocol? How bad will they yell at me? His hands shook uncontrollably at the thought.

  Two full lieutenants engaged in conversation were walking toward him. Twist immediately threw himself against the wall and came to attention. “Good afternoon, sirs!” The duo looked at him curiously before breaking into grins as they passed without a word.

  Twist remained at attention until they turned a corner and then resumed his trip deeper into danger. After consulting a directory, he arrived at double doors near the end of a hall. The impressive labeling on the door made it clear that his journey was over. After steeling himself with several, quick breaths, he knock
ed once firmly on the door and waited for a signal to enter.

  None came and indecision washed over him. What do I do now? Do I just wait or knock a second time? What if I’m stuck standing out here for hours?

  After nearly five minutes, he knocked a second time. Again, he received no answer. Twist was deliberating what to do next when one of the doors opened and a confounded secretary met his eyes.

  The elder woman looked over Twist before asking, “Was that you making that noise?”

  “Uh, um,” Twist stuttered. You idiot! This isn’t the door to his actual office! Twist shook his head involuntarily. “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry. I thought this was Captain Altman’s office.”

  The woman’s eyes darted over his OT epaulettes and an understanding immediately took hold of her. “Oh! You must be what all the commotion’s about.” She gestured inside quickly. “They’re waiting for you.”

  Twist took reticent steps inside the large outer office and immediately saw the imported oak door leading to Captain Altman’s sanctuary. The outer office showcased meticulous artisanship of polished, wooden surfaces and ornate, brass fixtures. No detail had been spared to remind guests that this was the sanctum of a navy captain. The door itself was intricately carved and emblazoned with the commandant’s name and rank insignia. Detracting from the impressive visage was an earsplitting rant coming from inside that office.

  Twist took a moment to listen. The shouting was not from a man and he surmised that there must be at least three individuals inside the office. Surely that woman isn’t yelling at the captain, he told himself. The unintelligible barrage began to clear as Twist approached the door. The incensed voice held a trace of familiarity.

  “You will sort this out, Captain!” the voice raged. “I won’t have my son banished to the rear echelon with the rest of the rejects!”