by Chris Bunch
He waved them through sliding doors into a large wood-paneled room twenty-five meters on a side. At one end was a large stone fireplace. Along the walls were drink and food dispensers and, between them, computer terminals and game machines. Above them hung abstract paintings.
In the room were games tables and luxurious easy chairs and sofas.
Sten's alertness went to condition red! He saw one candidate gape an expression accentuated by the double rings of white fur around his eyes. The candidate scrubbed a small black hand over his gray-furred chest in excitement.
"Beer! They have a beer machine!” He started forward.
"Maybe you don't want to be doing that."
Sten, also about to say something, saw that the caution came from that scarred infantry sergeant.
"Why not?"
"Oh, maybe because they told us they were gonna be testing us for physical dexterity and like that, and a hangover doesn't speed up your reaction time.
"Or maybe they're watching that machine, and anybody who uses it gets down-carded for lack of moral fiber."That doesn't make sense.” That came from a very small, very exquisite woman. “Every pilot I've ever known swills alk like it was mother's milk."
"No drakh,” the sergeant agreed. “But that's after they get their wings. And maybe Selection is what makes ‘em drink that way."Maybe the sergeant was right, or maybe he was just paranoiac. But regardless, the beer machine sat unused throughout Selection.
* * * *
Sten's quarters were also quite interesting. They consisted of two rooms—a combined bedroom/study decorated in soothing colors, and a ‘fresher that included not only the usual facilities, but an elaborate Jacuzzi.
Sten had the idea that Ferrari's muscle toning would continue throughout Selection.
Unpacking took only moments—Sten, as a professional, had learned to travel light. The only extraneous gear he had in his duffel was the fiches he'd collected over the years, now micro/microfiched, and his miniholoprocessor that, in off-duty hours, he used to recreate working miniatures of industrial plants.
Sten had gotten the idea that he would have little time to play with the holoprocessor, but decided to hook it up regardless.
The manufacturers were lying, he decided after a few moments. Their universal power connection wasn't that universal, at least not universal enough to include the powerplate hookups that his room had.
Sten went out into the corridor, intending to see if his cross-hall neighbor had a diploid plug that would work, and also to check the terrain.
He tapped at the door, a tentative tap meant to tell whoever was inside that this was not an IP, so he/she didn't have to conceal whatever he/she might have been doing. A sultry voice came through the annunciator, a voice as soothing as any emergency surgery nurse could have.
Sten told the box what he wanted.
"Orbit a beat, brother, and I'll be with you."
Then the door opened, and Sten dropped into horror.
Sten was not a lot of things:
He certainly wasn't ethnocentric. The factory hellworld he'd been raised in had given him no sense of innate culture.
He was not xenophobic. Mantis training and combat missions on a thousand worlds with a thousand different life forms had kept that from happening. He also was not what his contemporaries called a bigoted shapist. He did not care what a fellow being looked or smelled like.
He thought.
However, when a door is opened and someone is confronted by a two-meter-tall hairy spider, all bets are off.
Sten was—later—a little proud that his only reaction was his jaw elevatoring down past his belt line.
"Oh dear,” the spider observed. “I'm most sorry to have surprised you."
Sten really felt like drakh.
The situation called for some sort of apology. But even his century had not yet developed a satisfactory social grace for a terminal embarrassment. Sten was very pleased that the spider understood.
"Can I help you with something?"
"Uh ... yeah,” Sten improvised. “Wanted to see if you knew what time we mess."
"About one hour,” the spider said after curling up one leg that, incongruously, had an expensive wrist-timer on it.
"Oh, hell. I'm sorry. My name's Sten."
And he stuck out a hand.
The spider eyed Sten's hand, then his face, then extended a second leg, a pedipalp, laying its slightly clawed tip in Sten's palm.
The leg was warm, and the hair was like silk. Sten felt the horror seep away.
"I am Sh'aarl't. Would you care to come in?"
Sten entered—not only for politeness but because he was curious as to what sort of quarters the Empire provided for arachnids.
There was no bed, but instead, near the high ceiling, a barred rack. The desk took up that unoccupied space, since the desk chair was actually a large round settee.
"What do you think—so far?"
"I think,” the lovely voice said, “that I should have my carapace examined for cracks for ever wanting to be a pilot."
"If you figure out why, let me know."
The social lubricant was starting to flow, although Sten still had to repress a shudder as Sh'aarl't waved a leg toward the settee. He sat.
"I involved myself in this madness because my family has a history of spinning the highest webs our world has. If you don't mind a personal question, why are you here?"
Sten knew that if he told Sh'aarl't that the Eternal Emperor himself had punted him into this mess, he'd be ascribed either a total liar or someone with too much clout to be friendly with.
"It seemed like a good idea at the time."
"Perhaps I might ask—what is your real rank?"
"Commander."
Sh'aarl't exuded air from her lungs. Of course she was female—even huge Araneida seem to follow the biological traditions. “Should I stand at attention? I am but a lowly spacebeing second."
Sten found himself able to laugh. “Actually, I'd like to see it. How does somebody with eight legs stand at attention?"
Sh'aarl't side-jumped to the center of the room, and Sten tried not to jump vertically. Attention, for a spider, was with the lower leg segments vertical, the upper ones at a perfect forty-five-degree angle toward the body.
"At full attention,” Sh'aarl't went on, “I also extend my fangs in a most martial attitude. Would you like to see them?"
"Uh ... not right now."
Sh'aarl't relaxed and clapped a pedipalp against her carapace. Sten surmised, correctly, that this signified amusement."I guess you had no trouble with the push-ups today."Again the clap."How serious do you think these beings are?” Sh'aarl't asked, changing the subject."I dunno about Ferrari,” Sten said. “But that Mason scares the clot out of me."I also. But perhaps if some of us hang on and survive until others are washed out ... Certainly they can't throw everyone away—given what the Tahn are preparing. Am I right?"
Sten realized that she was desperately looking for reassurance, and so modified his answer from “I think these people can do anything they want” to, “Nope. There's got to be a couple of survivors. Speaking of which—why don't we go downstairs. See if this—” Sten almost said spider-web “—tender trap they've put us in also feeds the fatted lamb."
"Excellent idea, Commander."
"Wrong. Candidate. Or Sten. Or you clot."
Again the clap.
"Then shall we descend for dining, Sten? Arm in arm in arm in arm..."
Laughing, the two went out of the room, looking for food.
* * * *
Later that night, there was a finger tap at Sten's door.
Outside was one of the barracks staffers. If the staff members all looked, to Sten, like palace retainers, this man would be the perfect butler.
After apologies for disturbing Sten, the man introduced himself as Pelham. He would be Sten's valet until Sten completed Phase One.
"Complete or get flunked, you mean."
"Oh, no, sir.
” Pelham appeared shocked. “I took the liberty, sir, of looking at your file. And I must say ... perhaps this is speaking out of school ... my fellow staff members and myself have a pool on which of the candidates is most likely to graduate. I assure you, sir, that I am not being sycophantic when I say that I put my credits down on you with complete confidence."
Sten stepped back from the doorway and allowed the man to enter.
"Sycophantic, huh?” Sten vaguely knew what the word meant. He went back to his desk, sat, and put his feet up, watching Pelham sort through the hanging uniforms.
"Mr. Sten, I notice your decorations aren't on your uniform."
"Yeah. They're in the pocket."
"Oh. I assume you'll want—"
"I will want them put in the bottom of the drawer and ignored, Pelham."
Pelham looked at him most curiously. “As you desire. But these uniforms are desperately in need of a spot of refurbishment."
"Yeah. They've been at the bottom of a duffel bag for a couple of months."
Pelham collected an armload of uniforms and started for the door. “Will there be anything else required?
You know that I'm on call twenty-four hours."
"Not right now, Pelham. Wait a moment. I have a question."
"If I may help?"
"If I asked you who Rykor was, what'd be your reaction?"
Pelham was very damned good—the only response to Sten's mention of the walruslike being who happened to be the Empire's most talented psychologist was a rapidly hidden eye flicker.
"None, sir. Would you explain?"
"I'll try it another way. What would you say if I suggested that you, and all the other people in this barracks, all of you who're so helpful and such great servants, were actually part of Selection?"
"Of course we are, sir. We realize that the candidates desperately need study time and relaxation time, and we try to help by taking care of the minor—"
"Not what I meant, Pelham. One more time. What would be your reaction if I said I thought that all of you are trained psychs, and this whole barracks, relaxed and gentle, is a good way to get us off guard and find out what we're really like?"
"You are joking, sir."
"Am I?"If you are not, I must say I am very honored. To think that I have the talents to be a doctor.” Pelham chuckled. “No, sir. I am just what I appear."
"You did answer my question. Thank you, Pelham. Good night."
"Good night, sir."
* * * *
Dr. W. Grenville Pelham, holder of seven degrees in various areas of psychology, applied psychology, human stress analysis, and military psychology, closed the door and padded down the hall. Some meters away from Sten's room, he allowed himself the luxury of low laughter.
[Back to Table of Contents]
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE FIRST WEEKS of Selection were quite simple—the IPs bashed the trainees’ brains out in the morning, at noon, and in the evening. There were also unexpected alerts in the middle of the night, although the callouts were always handled by the staff. The IPs never entered the barracks.
In between the physical and mental harassment, the tests went on. To a large extent, they duplicated the basic exams—reflex testing, intelligence quotient testing, and so forth. The testing standards, however, were far higher than when a being entered the military. Also, the tests were readministered severally and at unexpected times.
Sten was not impressed.
He had the idea that this duplication wouldn't have happened before the Emergency began. There must have been better, if slower, ways to test for the same abilities.
Sten was starting to develop an active hatred for the Tahn.
Sten's belief that the testing was catch-as-catch-can turned from theory into certainty the day he was shuttled into a tiny room that had nothing more in it than a large chair and a livie helmet. His instructions were to seat himself, put the helmet on, and wait for further developments.
Sten had been through this, way back before basic training.
The idea was that, through the livie helmet, he would experience certain events. His reactions would be monitored by psychologists, and from this reexperiencing and reacting, his personality could be profiled.
When Sten had gone through the experience before, the livie tape had been that of some not very bright but very heroic guardsman who got himself slaughtered trying to kill a tank. It had made Sten nearly throw up and had, by his reaction, disqualified him for normal infantry, but made him an ideal candidate for the essentially lone-wolf Mantis Section.
Before he sat down, he went behind the chair and checked the tape in the feed. Various codes appeared, then the title: shavala, guardsman jaime, combat/death, assault ON DEMETER.
Possibly there could be some kind of validity for that choice—for prospective infantry types. But for pilots?
Sten examined the helmet and found the input line. A little subversion was called for.
He curled his right fingers, and the surgically sheathed knife in his arm dropped into his hand. The double-edged dagger was one of Sten's best-kept secrets. He had constructed it himself from an impossibly rare crystal. It had a skeleton grip, and its blade was only 2.5 mm thick, tapering to less than fifteen molecules wide. In other words, it could cut through practically anything. But in this case cutting wasn't what Sten was interested in.
He used the knife's needle point to rearrange a few tiny wires inside the sheath of the helmet input line. Then he replaced the knife and, as ordered, sat down and put the helmet on.
Let's see. The tape has just begun. I should express bewilderment. Fear. Excitement. Doubt as to my ability. Shock on landing. Determination to accomplish the mission.
Sten's Mantis schooling had included indoctrination on the various ways to fool any sort of mental testing machine, from the completely unreliable polygraph through the most sophisticated brainchecks of Imperial Intelligence. The key, of course, was to truly believe that what you were thinking or saying was the truth.
This training worked. Coupled with a conditioned, near-eidetic memory, it made Sten mental test-proof.
Let's see now ... Shavala should have seen that clotting tank show up ... Horror ... seen his combat teammates slaughtered ... Anger ... seen the tank rumble on ... More determination ... doodle around the tank getting various pieces shot off ... Pain and still more determination ... hell, the clot should be dead by now. Shock and such.
Sten pulled a corner of the helmet away from his ear and heard the tape behind him click to a halt.
More shock. Pride at being part of this Imperial stupidity.
Sten decided that was enough input, took the helmet off, and stood. He set an expression of sickness and firmness on his face and went out of the room, artistically stumbling just beyond the door.
* * * *
Sten gasped to the hilltop, then checked his compass and timer. He decided he could take four minutes to recover.
The exercise was a modified version of that military favorite, the Long Run or March. But, typical of Selection, it had a twist.
Candidates were given a map, a compass, and a rendezvous point that they were supposed to reach at a certain time. Once that point was reached, however, there was no guarantee that the exercise was over. Generally the candidate was merely given, by an IP, another RP and sent on his or her way.
The exercise didn't have much to do with pilot training, but it had a lot to do with tenacity and determination. Plus, Sten grudged, it probably showed which beings had learned that their brains were fools, telling the body to quit when the body's resources had barely begun to work.
Again, it was simple for Sten—Mantis teams ran these exercises as recreation.
But it did trim the candidates. Already ten of the thirty-plus candidates in Sten's group had withered and vanished.
Sten, flat on the ground, feet elevated, and in no-mind, heard footsteps.
He returned to reality to see the small woman who on their first
day had made the cogent observation about pilots trot smoothly toward him.
Instead of going flat and shutting the systems down, she dropped her pack, went flat, and began doing exercises.
Sten was curious—this was an interesting way to con the mind into going one step farther. He waited until she finished, which added an extra minute to his time.
The downhill side of this part of the course was rocky. Sten and the female candidate—Victoria—were able to talk as they went.
Data exchange: She was a lieutenant in the navy. She was trained as a dancer and gymnast. Successful, Sten guessed, since she'd performed on Prime World. Sten even thought he'd heard of a couple of the companies she'd been with.
So why the service?
A military family. But also, dancing was work. She said being a professional dancer was like being a fish in sand.
Sten found the breath to laugh at the line.
Plus, Victoria went on, she had always been interested in mathematics.
Sten shuddered. While he was competent at mathematics—any officer had to be—equations were hardly something he joyously spent off-duty time splashing around in.
Sten's internal timer went off—it was a break for him. Victoria kept on moving at her inexorable pace.
Sten watched her disappear in the distance and felt very good.
If there was anyone who was guaranteed to get through this guano called Selection and become a pilot, it had to be Victoria.
* * * *
Sten ducked as the wall of water came green over the boat's bows and smashed against the bridge windows.
The boat swayed, and Sten's stomach did handstands. Shut up, body. This is an illusion. Shut up, head, the answer came back. I am going to be sick. The hell with you.
Sten, puking to the side, had to fight to follow the instructions whispered at him.
"This is a twenty-meter boat. It is used to procure fish commercially. You are the captain.
"This boat has been returning to harbor, running just ahead of a storm.
"The storm has caught your boat.
"Somewhere ahead of you is the harbor. You must enter that harbor safely to complete the exercise.
"Your radar will show you the harbor mouth. But it is a failure-prone installation.
