Atlas

by Isaac Hooke

  "Yes sir! I want to see what I'm made of! A chance to be a part of something bigger than myself!"

  "Well, that's the best reason I've heard today. But only half right. Drop and push 'em."

  So much for not standing out and drawing extra instructor attention.

  Instructor Reed returned to the front of the class while I was doing my pushups. "Did everyone hear what that trainee said? He wants to be a man. I find that interesting, do you know why? It's because we're not here to make you into men. Sure, at the end of Trial Week we'll know the difference between the men and the boys, but at that point, we haven't really done anything other than selective culling. After Trial Week, however, that's when the real forging begins. If you make it that far, you'll become something far more than any ordinary man. You'll become a MOTH."

  "Wooyah!"

  "Most of you are immigrants. Patriotism is a big part of what we do here. If you can't fight for your nation, die for it, then you don't belong here, do you understand me?"

  "Wooyah sir!"

  "Well, trainee?" Instructor Reed was addressing someone I couldn't see from where I did pushups on the deck. "Can you fight for your nation, die for it?"

  "Yes, sir!" I heard Alejandro answer.

  "Elaborate."

  "The UC is my nation now," Alejandro said. "I'll fight for it. I have to."

  "You don't sound too convinced. Drop and push 'em."

  Alejandro joined me on the deck.

  "You have to really love this country to do what MOTHs do. And you have to really love your teammates. Patriotism to your country is the furnace, and dedication to your team the hammer, that will forge your warrior spirit. Remember that."

  "Wooyah!"

  Instructor Reed paused, then said, "Recover."

  Those of us who were doing pushups resumed a cross-legged seated position. I was relieved: My arms were just on fire.

  Instructor Reed ran his gaze over us. "Some of you know me. Most of you don't. I'm Instructor Reed, and I'll be your Proctor while you're in training. Your go-to man. The interface between the other instructors and yourselves. If there's something you need, anything, come to me, and I'll make sure you don't get it." He grinned widely. I knew he was joking, but I didn't dare laugh. None of us did. "Obviously, if you come to me and ask for something that's in my power to grant, it's yours. A chit for some gear, medicine, or just a kick in the pants, come see me and I'll set you straight. Speaking of gear, you are to never, I repeat never steal from your fellow teammates. Your reputation starts right here, and if you become known as a buddy screwer, you're not going to get very far at all. None of the Teams want someone like that in their ranks. Would you? You learned about honor, courage and commitment in Basic. Well it's time to start applying those traits."

  Instructor Reed slowly paced back and forth at the front of the class. "So. You all have your own reasons for being here. Most of them are wrong, of course. From a quick glance, I can see we have some gym buffs, a handful of former Olympians, and even a few skinny nerds who think becoming a MOTH will get them more girls. Some of you think you are pretty bad-ass at Mixed Martial Arts. That you're invincible, and during spec-op insertions you'll topple authoritarian regimes single-handedly." He chuckled quietly.

  "Then there's the group of you who are here because you think you're pretty good at video games—you want to pilot ATLAS mechs, kill some SKs in Mongolia, and it'll be a grand old time. You bought all the accessories to make your games completely immersive, so you think you're as prepped as can be. But I'll tell you something. Your game designers took out the bad stuff and amped up the fun stuff, leaving you with a poor simulation of what it's like to actually be a spec-ops man. Having to run ten klicks to a rendezvous wearing full kit and carrying a hundred and twenty pounds on your back without a jumpsuit in the mountains of Khentii Province, your beard covered in icicles and your toes so frozen that you can't feel them, is not fun. Having to sit motionless for three days in the steaming jungles of the lowlands, waiting for your target to emerge from his mudbrick hole, while fire ants crawl up your every bodily orifice and you crap your pants and tinkle down your own leg, is not fun.

  Instructor Reed smiled widely. "But it's not all bad. You do get to do some pretty awesome stuff on the government's coin. Camping out in the wilderness with some of the best outdoorsmen in the world, not to mention using the best gear. Spending a month training with the best marksmen and sharpshooters known to man, with the best weapons. Riding in starships. Visiting new worlds and colonies. And now and then you might actually get to pilot an ATLAS.

  "Anyway, right reasons or wrong, you're here. And I have to work with what I'm given. But to succeed you gotta want this more than anything in the world. More than anything. This is not a game. This is not a pleasure cruise. You will get hurt. You will get scarred, emotionally and physically.

  "Most of you know by now that there's nothing free in this life. Anything of any value is worth fighting for. The more valuable that thing is, the harder the fight. To call yourself a MOTH is one of the most valuable things in the world." He pointed at the door. "The only free thing in the world is right there. You want free, you step through that door, you grab the gavel in the grinder and hit the flint stone three times, and you're done. It's called tapping out. No one will think any less of you. No one will judge you. In fact, you'll be rewarded. We always have fresh cronuts, coffee and a warm blanket waiting for any student who taps out. And a paid ticket back to your former division, if you have one.

  "The Navy Brass has ordered us to make more MOTHs. That means they're letting more of you into our training, but it does not mean we're going to pass any more of you. We haven't changed our testing process, not in the least. We're not going to graduate substandard guys. We can't. It defeats the whole purpose of the training. If we did that, you think any of the Teams would want our graduates? They need to know that the man beside them went through the exact same thing they did. That the man beside them is reliable. That he's a brother.

  "BSD/M, Basic Space Demolition / MOTH training, is designed to teach us about you, but it's also designed to teach you about yourself. What are your limitations? What are you truly capable of? When you step out of here, if you step out of here, you'll have unshakable confidence, and an unwavering belief in yourself and the guy who stands beside you. You'll know with absolute certainty that he'll cover your back. You'll know without question that he'll die for you if he has to. He'll be more of a brother than a brother by blood. Family is important, don't get me wrong, but what we form here is tighter than any family. You'll eat, sleep, and drink together. You'll fight together. You'll die together.

  "Still interested? It's a tough school. You can quit at any time. Just come to me or any one of the instructors and say 'I quit,' or grab the gavel and tap out. Three little hits. We don't have a quota. You either make it or you don't. Though if you want the truth, you'll probably wash out. Twenty percent of students make it through to the end of First Phase. You see the guy sitting next to you? And the guy on the other side? Neither of them are going to make it. Statistically, it isn't very likely that you're going to make it either."

  He surveyed our ranks, letting his words sink in. "I see a lot of potential here. Some great warriors in the making. Unfortunately, the guys who look like they'll make it are usually the first to quit. I'm always surprised by who's left standing in the end. Always. Anyway, do your best, never give in, and you will succeed. How's that for a motivational speech?"

  He folded his arms. "All right. Let's get you guys in the tank. It's time to repeat the Physical Screening Test."

  And so the real training began.

  * * *

  The next three weeks of Orientation were a blur of activity.

  Each day started off with swim lessons in the tank. After that we sprinted a mile to the mess hall and had a seven minute breakfast (I usually was able to stuff down a few pancakes and sausages and that's about it). Then we ran across the base to the O-Course. A
real obstacle course, not like the 'confidence' course we had back in Basic. Parallel bars, tires, low wall, high wall, barbed wire low crawl, sixty-foot tall cargo net, balance logs, climbing ropes, the "twiner"—a horizontal set of bars we had to twine our bodies between, a rope bridge, and on and on. Swivel-mounted Visible Spectrum Lasers were placed at strategic points, their beams rotating over the different obstacles. While harmless in and of themselves, if you let one of those rotating beams touch you, then it was back to the start of the O-Course for you.

  After the O-Course we sprinted back to the mess hall for lunch, and then it was off to the beach for PT. Instructor Piker usually led us. Beneath his chin, he had this long spade-like goatee. I remember the first day he had us doing pushups and various types of lying kicks right there beside the ocean.

  "Put out you weaklings!" Instructor Piker said. "I can tell when you're not putting out. And I hate that more than anything in the world. Hayward, get those arms up. Hayward! Push! If you can't survive this, there's no way you'll survive First Phase!"

  Damage Controlman First Class John "Haywire" Hayward was our leading petty officer because he was the senior enlisted in our ranks. He reported directly to our class leader, Jaguar, and was a frequent target of extra instructor attention because of his rank.

  "Push, you bastards! Push!"

  I finally couldn't take it, and collapsed to the sand.

  Instructor Piker came over and surprised me by sitting down right on my back. "What's wrong with you, sir?"

  "Nothing, instructor!" I said.

  "Name and rank?"

  All the instructors had implanted aReals—Instructor Piker could've just accessed my embedded ID. But he wanted me to say my name and rank for everyone to hear.

  "Astronaut Apprentice Rade Galaal, instructor!" I said.

  "Astronaut Apprentice Galaal!" He made his voice sound whiny when he said apprentice. "You're not putting out, Apprentice! Why is that? Give me a pushup, now!"

  "But you're on my back, instructor!"

  "I know I am."

  I couldn't do it. I tried, I really did.

  "Give me a pushup you worm!" Instructor Piker said. "Or the whole class suffers!"

  I pushed. I mean really pushed. I didn't want anyone to suffer because of me.

  Amazingly, my upper body started lifting. I managed to get my hips maybe two centimeters off the sand, though it took every last ounce of strength I had.

  I thought Instructor Piker would commend me. I thought he'd congratulate me for doing a pushup, minuscule as it was, with all his weight on my back.

  Instead Piker got up and said, "See! I knew you weren't putting out, dumbass! You had enough energy left to push me when I was sitting on you! Pathetic! All we ask is that you give it your all, that you don't waste our time! Don't waste our time! Everyone has to do an extra sixty pushups because Astronaut Apprentice Galaal wasn't giving it his all!"

  "Thanks Galaal," trainees muttered nearby. So much for not making anyone suffer because of me...

  I forced myself to start doing pushups again, though my triceps were basically dead.

  "Not you, Galaal," Instructor Piker said. "You're special. You get to run out to the surf, and when you're nice and wet you're going to roll around in the sand. Don't come back here until every square inch of you is covered in sand. I want you to look like a gingerbread man. Actually, belay that. Everyone go down to the surf with Galaal and come back looking like a gingerbread man."

  I ran down the beach with everyone else. "Thanks Gay-laal," someone said along the way. I didn't see who, though I thought it sounded like Ace.

  I didn't make the mistake of not putting out again, and I promised myself I'd do my best not to stand out and draw attention to myself. Thankfully, there were more than enough students to draw Instructor Piker's wrath, and he chewed them out in turn. Unfortunately, he called "Gingerbread Men" each time and we had to run to the beach and come back covered in sand. "If one of you fails to give his all for the team, the whole team pays the price. Remember that when you're in the field."

  Whenever someone collapsed from exhaustion, one of the Weavers would take a look at him. If the guy didn't get up after ten minutes of treatment from a Weaver, he would be medically dropped. By the way, "Weaver" was Navy slang for paramedic robot. We called them Weavers because they looked like gurneys with spiders at the back. From the control center protruded twenty jointed, retractable limbs whose cylindrical segments telescoped into one another. Each limb was topped by four spindly, double-jointed fingers. When a paramedic robot was working on someone, those limbs moved around in rapid succession, looking for all the world like a spider spinning its web. Hence the name "Weavers."

  When PT was done, Instructor Piker made us do a four mile run on the soft sand. I was thoroughly exhausted by then, and the wet sand from all the "Gingerbread Men" sessions was abrading my crotch and armpits. I suspected I was going to have a rash later (and I did).

  Running on soft sand was different than on any other surface. The trick, I found, was to make sure my foot hit the sand at a completely flat angle. I passed the tip on to Alejandro and Tahoe, and it was whispered down the ranks.

  The laggards got beat for a while, forced to do another set of pushups, while those who made a "decent" time got to stretch out and watch. I was one of the lucky ones.

  And so it went for the rest of that week. Soft sand runs, O-Course, swimming and deep dive practice, underwater knot-tying practice, bay swims, PT, all punctuated by the phrase we had grown resigned to, Gingerbread Men. There were about two hours of classroom sessions each day, covering a variety of topics, such as combat swimming, nutrition, naval history, etc. Not even the classrooms were free of PT though. If you were caught nodding off, you had to drop and push 'em. If you didn't answer the question the way the instructor thought you should, you dropped and pushed 'em. Of course, classes opened with sixty pushups and ended with another sixty. All part of our conditioning, right?

  Ace seemed undeterred by it all. I remember one night, when all of us were bitching during supper in the mess hall, he said, "This is what MOTHs do! You have to just brace yourself and plow on through, just like a real MOTH would. If you can't do that, can't dig deep and find the reserves and drive within yourself, well maybe you shouldn't be here you know?"

  Ace quit that first week, before we'd even started First Phase. He didn't even tell me or Alejandro. Too ashamed, I guess. All I remember is waking up at 0400 one morning and he was gone.

  Beside Ace we lost fifty other people the first week of Orientation. Most quit during the night. Five left for medical reasons—two of those because of O-Course injuries. One guy lost his grip on the sixty-foot tall cargo net near the top when he was hurrying away from one of those visible spectrum lasers, and he fell all the way to the ground, fracturing his thigh. I ran to him, but the instructors told me to back off. I still remember his screams, and how merciless the instructors were with him.

  "Suffer in your head!" the instructors said. "If you're hurt in the field are you going to yell your ass off and reveal your position? Endanger the lives of your platoon brothers? Suffer in your head!"

  We lost another thirty members the second and third weeks, so that when we finally classed-up to First Phase, we were down to ninety-eight trainees.

  That Friday we moved from barracks 618 to 602, the barracks reserved for First Phase students. We berthed with our swim buddies, two students per room. My swim buddy was Alejandro of course, while Tahoe roomed with leading petty officer Haywire.

  "Don't become too invested in your new rooms," Instructor Reed said before dismissing us that night. "Nor your roommates. You're only staying here until you complete Trial Week. Or rather, until you quit. And you will quit. There's no ifs or buts about it. As will your swim buddy." Though he addressed the entire class, Reed had the uncanny ability to make it seem like he spoke directly to you. "But I suppose congratulations are in order, Class 1108. You've made it to First Phase. You've done somethin
g ninety-eight percent of the population can't even dream of doing. Enjoy the feeling while it lasts. You have the weekend at liberty. The smarter among you will spend the time getting your new berths ready for inspection at 0500 sharp Monday morning, when the real fun begins. Dismissed."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  While other students (most of them rollbacks, apparently) went to the city on Friday and Saturday nights for one last bender before First Phase, Alejandro and I spent the whole weekend preparing for Monday's room inspection. We polished the metallic racks of our beds, we shined the insides and the outsides of our lockers, we mopped and waxed the deck, we scrubbed the bulkheads (really just walls, but I blamed Basic for making me call them that). We polished our helmets and stenciled 1108 into the sides in big white letters. We stenciled our names on all our gear. We polished every exposed area of our leather boots, even along the welt line between the uppers and soles with spare toothbrushes we still had from Basic. We trimmed away any frayed ends on the boot laces. We ironed every single crease out of our clothes and beds.

  All told, we spent about twenty hours preparing. But it was worth it, because we were going to pass the inspection with flying colors. The room, and our clothes, were literally spic-and-span. I wondered if we'd get to sit out the morning PT for doing such a good job.

  Alejandro and I slept on the floor in our underwear because we didn't want to ruin the work we'd done.

  Monday came. We got up at 0400, shaved, showered, dressed, and did one last check of the room. I found a hair on top of the lockers, and Alejandro found a speck of dust by the windowsill. When we were satisfied that everything was as clean as we could possibly make it, Alejandro and I stood in the hall just outside our doorway, waiting for the inspection.

  Two instructors I'd never seen before came in at 0500 sharp. One had a handlebar mustache. The other had a sharp aquiline nose and wore his hair in a fauxhawk. Our room was at the front of the barracks, so we were the first in line for the inspection.