by Kal Spriggs
“Exactly right!” Commander Bonnadonna nodded. “And spoken exactly as I would have expected. As most of you no doubt realize, this situation was drawn from an experience that Miss Armstrong went through. She brought up a very good point.” He put emphasis on that with his resonant voice, “We can simplify the situation, we can make it abstract, and we can look at a situation knowing far more information than the person on the ground. We can discuss what she should and should not have done all day long... it's the person at the time who makes the call. Just as Miss Armstrong made this decision, all of you, as future officers, will be put in situations where others will second-guess your judgment, where they will question your decisions, your reasons.”
“There will come a day where you will have to justify your choices, not just to others, but to yourself. That, ladies and gentlemen, is why we are here today. Not to talk about the decisions that will cost the lives of men and women under your command, but to talk about why we make those decisions.”
His dark eyes settled on me and I felt cold at his next words, “Because we are the ones who will have to live... or die... by those decisions.”
***
“Take seats,” Commander Pannja said. The Intro to Piloting and Navigation instructor was as friendly-looking in person as he'd appeared to be before. He was tall, handsome, and his light brown skin stood out against his khaki uniform. He was definitely a Second, that was, a descendant of the second wave of Century’s original colonist, but he had a swagger that suggested he had more than enough confidence.
“We're going to be deep diving into piloting theory, today. I'm impressed with the scores from your coursework during the prep course and I want you all to know that I'll be pushing you hard throughout this course.”
He pointed at one of the students, “Plebe Beacham, what's our course objective here?”
“Uh,” Beacham stood up. He read off his datapad, “To prepare and certify plebes for warp drive and atmospheric craft?”
“Exactly, so what does that really mean?” Commander Pannja asked with a friendly smile. When no one volunteered an answer, his smile grew, “Not a lot, actually. What we'll be doing in this class is basic familiarity. Enough to get you in trouble if you try to use any of it in real life.”
He brought up the classroom display. “This is the Mark Five Firebolt Attack Fighter, it's a light fighter, initially designed and built for Guard Fleet over three hundred years ago. We use it, with judicial upgrades, as our standard warp fighter. We also use a stripped-down version as our training craft.”
He looked around at us. “Anyone know how many hours of simulator time you're required to have before we can legally put you in the seat of one of these?”
“Sir,” I recognized Duchan's voice, “I think the manual suggested a thousand hours.”
“Correct, that's what the manual suggests,” Commander Pannja smiled. “But the Charter Councils has laid some additional safeguards on us. Every one of you, before we put you in the seat of one of these, has to undergo fifteen hundred hours of simulator time and be signed off on by no less than three qualified officers.” He nodded at Sashi, “Plebe Drien, at the maximum recommended simulator time of four hours per day, how many days of training would you require to be trained?”
“Sir, that's three hundred and seventy five days, sir,” Sashi Drien replied. She probably expected that question, I thought to myself. Granted, I could do the math myself, but it would take me a bit longer than that.
“Correct. Very good. Now, to the rest of you, why do you think we have such heavy restrictions?”
I hesitantly raised my hand, “I assume it is due to the effects of warp drives on atmospheres, sir?” If I remembered right, warp drives generated massive currents in atmosphere, causing tremendous storms.
“That's close enough that I'll give you credit, Armstrong,” Pannja nodded. “Atmospheric effects from warp-drives are bad, but there's another issue. Warp drives warp normal space-time around themselves to achieve relativistic velocity. There's not normally much kinetic force, in fact, there shouldn't be any, really, from the ship itself striking a planet.”
“The problems are twofold: you have the warping effect from the warp field. Generally that causes massive gravitational shearing forces. In a little fighter like a Firebolt, you'd just blast apart a kilometer or so of dirt before your drive burned out. On a bigger ship, like say a Nelson-class battleship... well, you could obliterate a planet and keep moving.”
“The second problem is that our warp-drive fields require antimatter power plants. If you plow yourself into a moon, you'll blow out your warp drive. In the process, you've got a good chance of creating a feedback loop into the antimatter core, or maybe just shattering it yourself from the collision. If that goes...” his screen shifted to show a massive explosion. “This is the result, people. This happened just last year, when a Drakkus Imperial Space Korps fighter, a Havoc Heavy Assault Fighter, collided with a small planetoid during a training exercise. Over three thousand workers on the planetoid were killed. So was the pilot, but I think that goes without saying.”
I felt a chill as I stared at that fireball. At the relative velocities that warp-drive craft traveled at, the pilot might not have even had time to realize what had happened before he died.
“So, we have three hundred and seventy five days of training before you're certified to go up. That's a massive investment of time and resources...and don't think for even a second that we're going to start you on that in this class or even this year. We lose five months of time during the summer semesters, but between drill days where you'll receive more simulator time, and some very intensive training events in your second class year, all of you will be certified by the time you are First Classmen.”
I was more than a bit daunted by that. Two complete years of training? I wasn't even certain I wanted that level of responsibility.
As if he read my thoughts, Commander Pannja went on, “Warp craft training isn't for everyone. We'll see where your interests and abilities lie. By the time you complete this class, you'll have a good grasp for the basics of both. After summer semester, I'll have you all back in here and ready to start the flight course, where we'll go hands-on with the air-breathers and reaction-powered thrusters. By the end of that, we will get you your unlimited aircraft and non-warp capable aerospace craft licenses. All of you will achieve basic proficiency in both areas in order to stay here at the Academy.”
“Now, some of you may be thinking you already have civilian licenses for these things,” His grin grew broad, “that's great. It's wonderful. And I'll tell you right now, thinking that you already know this material will get you killed. That's if you're lucky. Because if you're really unlucky, thinking you already know everything will result in you being a picture like this,” he waved a hand at the fireball image. “And in that case, you probably killed a lot of people in the process.”
“So,” he said. “Let's start off with some basic aircraft theory...”
***
“Welcome class, to your medical and implantation class,” Doctor Aisling said. She either didn't notice that we'd all come to our feet or she didn't care. In ones and twos, we all settled back into our desks as she continued to talk, “Normally this class would be an abridged familiarization, but some elements of the Century Planetary Militia feel that more of a preparation for the process will limit the number of implant rejections.”
“Implant rejections?” another plebe asked.
“Yes, they are unfortunate, but they're also rare. I see that I got ahead of myself, though.” Doctor Aisling gave us all a sunny, friendly smile, her red hair bright against her white lab coat. “We'll follow the course curriculum that I've just uploaded to your datapads. Our initial focus over the next few weeks will be over the current level of technology. What you can expect, what the medical process entails, and how to best integrate your biological systems with the cybernetic augmentations that you all will receive.”
“Ma'am,” Plebe Beacham raised his hand, “Plebe Beacham, Dust Company, I thought that cybernetic implants were purely on a voluntary basis.”
“That was correct, until recently. The Charter Councils has just signed into law a requirement that all officers receive cybernetic implantation as a requirement for commissioning. All cadets, including this year’s seniors... that is, first classmen, will be required to receive implants.”
Mutters filled the room. Cybernetics weren't popular. Being required to get them was even less popular. I'd sort of resigned myself to the idea of it, but knowing there was a choice about it had sort of given me a bit of relief, just in case I couldn't go through with it.
“Now,” Doctor Aisling went on, her light, friendly voice somehow cutting through the discussions, “I can imagine that's not an entirely popular decision. So we'll put off some of the technical discussions and go into a bit of history. Most of the predisposed distrust of cybernetics comes from the Chun-La Massacre, I assume?”
No one really said anything. Most people had heard stories of cybernetic augmentees going nuts and killing people. The Chun-La Massacre was simply the most famous incident.
“You, there,” Doctor Aisling pointed at Dawson, “Give the class a bit of a history lesson. Tell us about the Chun-La Massacre.”
Dawson stood, “Ma'am, Plebe Dawson, Sand Dragon Company. The Chun-La Massacre happened before the Star Portal. I'm not a hundred percent certain on all the details, but as I understand it, a unit of cybernetic-augmented mercenaries attacked a Chinese colony, Chun-La, in the Alpha Centauri system. They massacred the entire population.”
“A succinct explanation,” Doctor Aisling nodded. “It misses some crucial details. The mercenary company was made up Russian survivors from a Russian colony that the Chinese military had wiped out. They were hired by the Russians to make an example of the Chinese colonists. While they were paid to do it, it wasn't an attack motivated by money, it was done based on revenge.”
Her voice stayed light, but there was anger in it, as if Dawson's explanation had irritated her. “Now, the vast majority of the so-called berserk incidents that have been reported since then have also come back to similar motivations. Rare incidents of lone cybernetic augmentees going insane have often been tracked back to a variety of causes ranging from mental instability to poor installation of equipment or malfunctioning implants. Believe me when I say that a properly installed implant that receives proper maintenance is of no risk to anyone.”
No one had a reply to that. Her words, however she delivered them, still didn't make me any more comfortable about the idea of her cutting open my head and putting hardware inside. It didn't matter how safe she assured me that it would be.
“Now, then,” Doctor Aisling said, “the vast majority of hesitation that you all feel about the idea comes back to fear of the unknown. This is to be expected. It is basic human psychology to fear change. That's part of what this class will be about, allowing you to learn that you have nothing to fear from the process. You will not be harmed, this will not disable you in any way. You will in fact, be enabled. I'll go over the many abilities that you'll gain throughout the course, but the sum up the highlights: instant access to all manner of communications, data management, the ability to record events as they unfold, and the ability to download information and examine it at your leisure.”
What she'd pitched made it sound like having a datapad. Except the datapad is in your head and may or may not drive you insane, I reminded myself.
“Additionally, many of our ship and weapon upgrades require a direct neural link to operate with full functionality,” Doctor Aisling said off-handedly. I couldn't help but perk up at that and wonder how it related to the testing she'd put me through. “A neural computer implant will allow you to control such equipment with far greater speed than a non-augmented human.”
Despite myself, my hand went in the air. “Ma'am, Plebe Armstrong, Sand Dragon Company. What about interfaces with artificial intelligences?”
Doctor Aisling's expression went hard. “Yes, well, anything like that would not only be purely theoretical, it would be highly illegal. Production of artificial intelligences violates the Non-Human Intelligence section of the Alien and Telepathic Act of the UN Star Guard Security Council.” She stared at me, as if daring me to mention the testing she'd put me through. “Any potential results would be immaterial. Any nation that conducted such experiments would be declared rogue. The Star Guard would dispatch a task force to seize and destroy any such research.”
I nodded in reply to her warning. This wasn't something she was going to discuss in class and doing so clearly had the potential for drastic repercussions. Yet some part of me wondered why the Admiral allowed such experimentation to take place, given the consequences. There had to be some threat equally dire to risk the intervention of the Guard.
The thought was not a comforting one.
***
Chapter Five: Walking on Eggshells
“Ma'am, Plebe Armstrong, reporting as ordered, ma'am,” I snapped as soon as I'd set my tray down. I braced at attention and just hoped that I'd managed to pick the right things to read in preparation.
Cadet Commander Givens glared at me, “Well?”
“Ma'am, you are the Regimental Tactical Officer. You are responsible for evaluating and coordinating defensive plans in case of attack,” I reported. She waited, as if expecting more, so I went on. “Six years ago, you were aboard Long Station, where a pirate gang boarded the station and killed several civilians.” I'd managed to find that much from comparing her public profile to news files.
“Good enough. For details, I was one of the hostages they took, and I was forced to kill one of them to save my own life.” I simply nodded in response to that. “So, Plebe Armstrong, you carry an Alpha Eleven assault rifle, what's its maximum effective range?”
That was easy, “Eight hundred meters without optics, ma'am.”
“What's the maximum effective range of a Trascom eleven millimeter hunting rifle, with scope?” Cadet Commander Givens asked.
I froze as I flashed back to the wreckage of the crashed skimmer, the hunting rifle held in one arm and braced with my other hand, three of the fingers broken. It was the weapon I'd used to kill two goons who'd tried to kill me. I had no idea how she knew that. “Ma'am,” I said after a long moment, “depending on the circumstances, up to two thousand meters with optics.”
“Tammy, what's up with that question?” One of the cadet officers asked.
“Plebe Armstrong's seen combat, of a sort,” Cadet Commander Givens said. “She killed two men with a bolt action hunting rifle and a broken hand.”
“Holy...” the Cadet First Class looked back at me and I could see a weird mix of respect and worry on his face. “I guess the apple didn't fall far from the tree.”
Cadet Commander Givens just gave me a little nod. It seemed I'd passed her test. She went back to talking to the other cadet officers. Yet in the moment she'd met my eyes when she told me she'd killed a pirate, I wondered if she ever had times when she closed her eyes, and like me, she was back in that moment when she took the life of another human.
***
The grav-shell team seemed to meet in an isolated steel shed just inside the Academy grounds. Past the open bay doors on the shed, I could see miles of open desert. We'd run out there during some of Indoctrination, but seeing it in the late afternoon sun left me feeling tiny and insignificant.
“Armstrong!” Cadet Commander Mackenzie greeted me. “Glad you could make it!”
I could only nod at him. I felt more than a little awkward. He and most of the other team wore sleek, almost skin-tight, bodysuits. They didn't leave much to the imagination. I felt oddly self-conscious in my academy shorts and t-shirt, yet I couldn't imagine wearing anything like what they wore.
“You know anything at all about grav-shells?” Mackenzie asked, waving at one that hung from a rack on the ceiling.
“Not really,” I rep
lied.
“No problem,” he grinned. “I'll show you the basics and then we can launch.”
“Wait, you want me to drive one of these things, already?” I asked in shock.
Mackenzie chuckled, “Don't worry, you'll pick it up quick. Besides, we won't go very fast.”
It wasn't the speed that I worried about. The sleek-looking craft looked decidedly fragile. The outriggers, with their sliding chairs, were mounted on thin struts. The main body, where the pilot –coxswain, I reminded myself-- sat was slender and tapered. The entire contraption wouldn't have looked out of place floating on the water, yet it was designed to fly.
“So,” Mackenzie ran a crank and the entire rack lowered down, “every grav-shell runs off gravity-inductor coils. Most of them are custom designed, some are salvage jobs from wrecks.”
“Wait, gravity inductor coils?” I asked. “Aren't those part of a warp drive?”
“Yes, same tech, but re-purposed,” Mackenzie waved a hand. “With a large enough power source, you could generate a warp field. Of course, if they're not arranged properly, it would be a really messed up field that would probably kill you.” He grinned, “I wouldn't recommend it. Luckily, those exotic particles we generate at much lower power levels have a sort of ground effect. If their frame is light enough, you can float them with human-powered muscle.” He pointed at the big torsion machine at the center of the craft. It lay square in-between the outriggers, with pull cords run down each outrigger, and a broad grip at the end of each cord. “The rowers crank the generator. The coxswain adjusts the angle of the inductor coils, and the whole thing floats.”
“How does it move?” I asked as I ducked underneath it to look at the underside.
“The ground effect from the coils can be adjusted to allow it to slide 'down' in one direction or another. You trade height for speed... then readjust with a bit more power to compensate.”