by David Ryker
I stayed quiet.
“Your score, as I was saying, is the reason I’m here. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I, uh,” I started tentatively, “Had a really bad… Night? I haven’t slept, and… There was a dropship that took me in its wake… I was doing some overtime and… The thrusters, they… My Blower was… I mean…” My head was spinning. I couldn’t form sentences. “I nearly died, and… I’m having a bit of an off day.” I rubbed my temples. The headache was coming back.
She huffed. “An off day?”
I nodded.
She raised her eyebrows and shook her head lightly. “Then I’d be curious to see what a good day looks like. You scored in the top twelve percent of all recruits. You were in the top five percent across most of our scoring metrics. You did exceedingly well, by all accounts.”
I was speechless. “I did… well?”
“Yes, quite.” She put the communicator away. “The simulation is designed to weed out the worst recruits, and gets progressively more intense and difficult the longer it goes on. Those who last the longest score the best. The initial landing and scramble for cover — seventy-eight percent survival rate. The first move from cover, over the foxhole — forty-three percent survival rate. Reaching further cover — twenty-nine percent. Surviving until the Mechanized Corps arrived — sixteen percent survival rate. Moving to cover position behind the F-Series — eleven percent survival rate. Reaching the integrity test — eight percent. Passing it — two percent.”
“Integrity test?”
“The two simulated soldiers telling you that they’re moving to find better cover. More than eighty-five percent of all soldiers left the covering position and moved to cover.”
“Oh.” The words weren’t really sinking in. They felt vague and distant. All I could think about was drinking something. Eating something. Curling up in a little ball and sleeping.
“Less than one percent of all simulations following your path lasted until the F-Series pilot ejected. After that, there are no rates. Very few survive more than a minute or two of simulated-time. It’s not designed to be continued after that. We have all the information we require by that point.”
I swallowed but said nothing.
“We use these simulations to determine the suitability of ground troops for deployment. You are very capable, and very ready, by all accounts — off day or not.”
I stayed quiet, sensing there was more coming.
“However — it was not the time that you lasted, or the fact that you passed the integrity test, that’s the reason for my being here.” She put her hands behind her back again and stood at attention. “It’s that you went for the F-Series following the pilot’s ejection.”
“Was I not supposed to?” I asked quietly, my stomach churning.
She stuck out her bottom lip. “There’s nothing built into the simulation to prevent it — it’s just not something we’ve ever witnessed a new recruit attempt.” She arched an eyebrow. “Tell me, why did you assume the controls?”
I felt like she was looking for a specific answer, and I didn’t think the actual reason would be it. “Instinct?”
Her eyebrow went higher. “Is that a question?”
“Instinct,” I said more firmly, convincing myself it was the answer, and that it wasn’t because I thought that was where I’d be safest from whatever the fuck those aliens were.
She nodded slowly. “Very good. We would have let you carry on, but we wanted to stop you before you developed any… bad habits.”
“Stop me?” I cocked my head. “Wait — you did that? You opened the hatch?”
“Not me personally, but —”
“You killed me!”
“You look very much alive to me, Mr. Maddox,” she said coldly.
I cut myself off and reined myself in, remembering that I was in a cell for assaulting a Federation soldier. She hadn’t mentioned it yet, but I had a feeling it was coming. I waited for her to speak again.
“Most Federation pilots are hand selected out of our elite academies. Potential pilots are trained from a young age in combat and reflex training, spacial awareness, advanced tactics and strategy. They’re in peak physical condition, and mentally much sharper than the average soldier. The best of the best.” She took a breath. “Recruits are never transitioned into the Mechanized Corps, Mr. Maddox. But then, it would be idiotic to ignore what we saw today. To have the instinct to try to assume control of an F-Series in the heat of battle, a machine that pilots spend years trying to gain control of — let alone using it to kill two Vangosokons, and all without training, a neural interface chip, or even a seat? Well, what’s that old Earth saying — actions speak louder than words?”
I tried not to smile. It was a goddamn fluke, and a blur too, but I wasn’t about to say that. While exo troops had less than a one in ten chance of surviving their first deployment, pilots had a much better statistical likelihood of not kicking the bucket.
She sighed again. “It’s the reason we sent those two soldiers to apprehend you — to bring you directly to me immediately following the simulation.”
“Ah,” I said, feeling like I should acknowledge it. They could have said that instead of just running at me with rifles.
“And, had you waited to be addressed, you might have found that out. Instead, you fled, disobeying a direct order from a superior — also an actionable offense. You then proceeded to evade two Federation soldiers — one of whom was a private first class — the second was a corporal.”
I thought I caught her smirk for a second, but I dared not look at her for more than a moment. She cleared her throat.
“And the third, who you assaulted, was one of our on-duty master sergeants. He tells me that you feinted a punch, staggered him with a kick, and then struck him in the face. Is that correct?”
I clenched my jaw. “Yes,” I squeezed out. Tubers were treated like shit growing up. Like animals — bullied and kicked around. I used to fight a lot as a kid. Older kids. Bigger kids. Groups of kids. I was used to it, to throwing punches and receiving them, too. Though I felt like those skills I’d developed to save my ass were about to bite me on it.
“Are you aware of the punishment for a recruit striking a senior officer?”
“No.” I guessed it wasn’t good.
“Expulsion.”
“From the Federation?”
“Into space.”
I gulped.
She waited for a few seconds before she went on, letting me shit myself a little more. “Have you ever had any hand-to-hand combat training?”
“Training? No. Not exactly.” Unless she counted getting beaten to a pulp by bigger kids than me.
“And you’ve never partaken in any pilot training of Mechanized Units in the past, simulated or otherwise?”
“No.”
“And yet you managed to hit a Federation master sergeant — twice, and pilot an F-Series to reasonable effect — considering the circumstances, at least.” She did smirk this time. “I’d say you have the makings of a pilot. So let me be very clear here, Mr. Maddox. In very rare cases, the neural link established in combat simulation can leave echoes in the mind of recruits — images and feelings that persist even after the simulation has ended, that can sometimes cause erratic, even violent behavior. Do you see what I’m saying?”
I was afraid to answer, that my hope to survive just a little longer was clouding my judgment.
She looked down and stepped further in. “Let me be candid here, Mr. Maddox. It’s my job to find the best pilots and transition them from the academy into active duty. I didn’t expect to find a potential pilot today — especially not fresh off a dropship from a colony planet in the middle of dead space. But that seems to be what’s happened. So I’ll say this once, and believe me, once I leave this room, the offer will have expired, and you’ll be left to the hands of the Exo Corps’ Disciplinary Committee.” She drew breath and held up the communicator again. “I have in my hand a
signed medical assessment from a Mechanized Corps medical officer stating that, after his assessment, it is clear that you were experiencing simulation echoes, and that was the reason for your behavior following the simulation. As such, your actions are inadmissible and no further disciplinary action will be taken. However, Mechanized Corps medical officers are only permitted to provide medical reports for those in the Mechanized Corps. James Alfred Maddox, if you accept this proposal, you’ll be immediately transitioned into the Mechanized Corps Combat Training Program, along with a crop of recruits from the Regent Falmouth’s Mechanized Corps Pilots Academy.”
“And, just hypothetically,” I began tentatively, “what would happen if I declined? Hypothetically…”
“The likely answer? You’d be sedated and then fired into the cold depths of space on course for the nearest star,” she said flatly.
“Then I accept,” I answered quickly.
“Good.” She turned on her heel and moved for the door, pausing only when she was across the threshold. “James Alfred Maddox — welcome to the Mechanized Corps. A transport will be waiting for you outside. Please don’t take long.”
I stood up.
“But before you go” — she sighed, turning her head away and screwing up her face — “take a shower. You smell like vomit.”
6
I was shown into the detainment facility’s shower block, and instructed to wash — thoroughly. I did so, along with hanging my head back and drinking as much shower-water as I could stomach without a thought about whether it was safe to or not. When I got out, my clothes had been disposed of. The guard took pride in using the word incinerated. He smirked as he tossed me my new ones — a gray recruit’s uniform. It was tight in all the wrong places and folded up across the chest, velcroing in at the shoulder like some ancient doctor’s smock. They also tossed me a pair of boots and a pair of clean socks, both of which were about as comfortable as I’d ever put on, and I doubted they were designed to be. Colony planets didn’t get top-class supplies. That was apparent.
I was ushered out and down a set of hallways until I was in what looked to be a miniature train terminal. The ceiling was vaulted and curved, and along the platform were different painted sections, denoting who could stand and enter the train at which points. The train itself was three cars long, silver and bullet-shaped, clad in glass. It was empty, save for the officer that had addressed me in the cell.
I stepped onto the polished floor and stopped. She turned half on and squeezed her lips into a tight ring. “Well, it’s not much better.” She turned back to the train. “But it’ll do.”
I stepped up next to her and she shook her hair.
“No. Privates stand behind officers. Your position is denoted by rank.” She motioned me backward and rolled her eyes. “Down here they may be lax with their rules, but when we get up top, it won’t fly. The officers will look for any reason they can to hook your ass —” She paused and cleared her throat. “To demote you back to Ground Corps.”
I measured her carefully, the way she stood, held herself — the slip. I smirked. “Can I ask your name, Officer…?”
“Everett. Second Lieutenant.” She returned the curious gaze. Her face was angular, her expression flattened by practice. She held herself stiffly, shoulders back, chin up. Her skin was like poured porcelain, her eyes a dark shade of teal. I tried not to stare too long.
“Have you been an officer long, Second Lieutenant Everett?”
Her face hardened. I could tell she hadn’t, but she wasn’t about to admit it outright. Still — the look was enough. “It’s time to go.”
She stepped toward the train and the door opened. She turned to face me once inside and watched me enter. “Look, Airman Maddox, this is highly unorthodox. Usually, you’d be transferred back to the Academy, but… You’ve already aged out of the education sector. You’re just too skilled to be put into Basic in the Ground Corps. However, this puts you in a very difficult position. Basic training is much more rigorous in the Mechanized Corps. The airmen you’ll be training alongside will be much further ahead than you. They’ll be faster, stronger, and more experienced. They’ll be the best that the Federation has, groomed and educated from youth with a single purpose — to pilot Federation Mechanized Units. The academies do not accept walk-ups, and they don’t give free rides. Every person where we’re going,” she said, jabbing the button and closing the doors, “will have earned their place.” The train took off, deeper into the Carrier. “They’re strict, and they won’t go easy on you, do you understand? Each and every one of them will have a chip on their shoulder. It’s a highly competitive environment.”
“A pissing contest, you mean,” I snorted.
She cleared her throat, and tried not to laugh. There was no way she was one of these jumped-up Mech Corps pilots. There was no way you’d talk about your own like that. She must have come up through Ground Corps. She ignored the remark. “I’d advise that you don’t let them know that you’re not transitioning from a pilot’s academy. Work hard. Keep your head down. Study, and get yourself up to speed. There’s not going to be any special treatment for you, and you’ll face the same tests that they will, and should you fail even a single one —”
“I’ll be hooked back down to Ground Corps with the other animals?” I grinned.
“Ahem.” She stood straight as the train decelerated, paused, and then began rising vertically up another rail. “Quite.”
We stood in silence for a few seconds until the train pulled up to a platform and the doors opened. “This is it.” She proffered the door and I stepped off.
I paused on the platform and turned. “Aren’t you coming?”
She smiled briefly. “No. They don’t like GCs up here.”
“I —”
She held her hand up. “Save it. If you manage to screw it up, you’ll be tossed back down with us animals, don’t worry about that.” I saw a flicker of something in her eyes and I struggled to put my finger on it. “Good luck, Airman. You’re going to need it.” The flicker came back, and I saw what it was. Sadness. Regret.
I opened my mouth to say something else, but she closed the door and the train peeled away and disappeared, her steely eyes glittering through the glass.
I had no way to check, but if I could have, I would have put money on her having been enrolled in one of those fancy pilot academies. Maybe she’d even graduated to Basic. Who knows. But, at some point, along the way, she’d stumbled. Maybe failed a test. Maybe looked at one of the tightly wound officers with a bit too much zeal. She’d gotten the hook, and been tossed down to Ground Corps.
I hung my head and sighed. She was working her way up, but still, my stomach twisted up a little and I felt a flash of guilt. This wasn’t my choice, but I felt bad that it’d been her mandate to deliver me here. I made a mental note to apologize for my derisiveness if I ever saw her again. Everett. I committed the name to memory and let myself smile at the fact that she’d managed to beat that seven percent rate.
I turned back to the platform and stared up at the words over the doorway ahead. Level 16 — Mechanized Corps. I clenched my teeth, held a breath, and went toward it.
I passed through a set of sliding doors and into a corridor. It was all white, with appropriately patriotic slogans painted on the walls and ceilings. A desk sat in the corner, with a bored looking airman attending it. I cleared my throat as I approached.
He looked up at me and raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“I’m, uh, here for Basic?” I said, not quite sure where I was going, or what I was supposed to be doing.
His eyebrow arched higher. “Where’ve you been?”
I jerked a thumb over my shoulder and almost let slip about the Sim. “Er, I just got transferred.”
“From where?”
“The Academy.”
“I never saw you there. I got transitioned three weeks ago. What wing were you in?”
“No — it wasn’t this academy.”
�
��Which academy?” he asked accusatively.
I sighed and put my hands on the desk. “Look, buddy,” I said, trying to take on an authoritative tone, trying to remember what Everett had said. Competitive. Chips on their shoulder. I’d grown up with kids looking down on me for being less than them. I knew what they were like, how if you gave them an inch they’d take a mile. I had to sell it, or just like when I was a kid, I’d be shit on their shoe forever. “I’m under orders. Just like you. I was told to drag my ass out here, and get myself into Basic.” I met his eye. “I haven’t just hauled myself across six damn systems and a billion miles of space to have some jumped-up rookie airmen get in my face, alright?” I tried to keep my voice even, but I was bullshitting. “I was told not to tell anyone my business, and if they asked, I was told to tell them to go fuck themselves. So, come on — ask me.”
He stared at me, not really knowing what I meant.
“Come on, ask me. Ask me again where I just came from and what I’m doing here. Come on.”
“I, uh,” he stammered. “Where di —”
“Go fuck yourself.”
He clenched his jaw. If he was stuck on desk duty out here, I made a guess that he wasn’t a model pilot. I didn’t say anything else before I turned and walked off. If it was going to be like Everett said, then I needed to walk in there with my dick swinging. They didn’t know me, but if they were all as tightly wound as the guy on the front desk, it’d only be a matter of time before they got on my back and gave me the third degree.
I headed for the double doors at the end of the hallway and didn’t look back. I got through them and came to a fork. There was an arrow pointing left toward ‘Administration.’ I followed that. I needed to figure out where the hell I was going, and what the fuck was going on.
A maze of white, shining corridors led me to another nondescript door with the same word painted above in ubiquitous gray. I approached and it opened. There was a curved desk in the middle of the room, and a row of doors behind it, all adorned with the names of various officers. I approached it, and a droid sat up in the chair. It was standard house-droid, but had been dressed up like a Federation airman for show. Its skin shone brightly in the light, its round, camera lens eyes focusing on me as I approached. Its voice box lit up as it spoke and LEDs danced behind its mesh teeth.