The Cadet (LitRPG. Squadcom-13. Book:1)

by D. Rus

  The cyborg gently tapped his purple armored temple with his steel finger right next to the peripheral radar incision. “Shoot, improve you sniper skill; you will never forget any skill that you master. It’ll always be available to you, amplified by your parameters of high-level characteristics and abilities. Accuracy, mastery of a certain type of weapon, perceptivity, modifiers of your personal achievement-faith combos – all this will affect whether you hit the target or miss. Fly and sleep in a CAS, pump kilotons of iron in the gym. The implant won’t let your hard work go to waste. It will stimulate the proper areas of your muscles, soften them, then reinforce the effects of tactical exercise.”

  Some of the young men anxiously rubbed their hands together, finding the game-like system of leveling up much to their taste. I raised a brow. I had played games on several occasions, and way more than I should have after I had been confined to the wheelchair. So, the years I’ve wasted gaming will now become my strategical advantage? I thought.

  “Some time ago, to fully level up a warrior would have taken at least ten years of intense training that pushed you to the limit. Millions of credits, several cubic feet of ammo, thousands of hours of motor operating time, and the priceless years of life, the most productive and fearless years! The years when you still believe in your own immortality, when you have no wife and kids binding you to Earth, and need money only for legal drugs and girls in the Lupanar.”

  More cheering from our ranks. A thousand years into the future, the base values of idiot playboys were still the same. Several of us started their day with a triple dose of drugs – a coffee with cognac and a cigarette. As for girls, how could we pass that up?

  Lina snorted indignantly, and I hurriedly looked away from the chiseled body of the she-warrior standing next to the cyborg and tapping herself on the hip with a swagger-stick. Hmm, I thought, is she even allowed to wear such a translucent silk military jacket?

  “The virtual world has solved most of these problems,” continued the cyborg. “In year of real world time, most of you will become veterans of online battles. The virtual world is practically identical to the real one, and forgives many mistakes, even ones made midflight.”

  One particularly brave – or perhaps stupid – youth raised his hand to ask a question. I glanced at the wacko. He was an ordinary, frail young man who still habitually squinted as if he could not see well.

  Lucius chuckled, then nodded favorably, “Go ahead.”

  The youth tried to readjust his now non-existent glasses, wrinkled his nose as someone behind him called him a “geek,” then voiced an abstruse inquiry with a soft burr: “Is it possible that after 15 years of in-game immortality, we will have acquired a detrimental self-confidence as well as completely lost our self-preservation instincts? Of course, if you need kamikazes to blindly ram their fighters into Death Stars, then that doesn’t hurt.”

  I found this question quite sensible and gave my full attention to the cyborg, awaiting an answer.

  The cyborg abruptly waved his hand, interrupting the philosophical fellow. “I understand your concern. And no, it isn’t possible for two reasons. First, death in the virtual world does not happen often, and when it does, it is extremely painful. I mean EXTREMELY painful! Second, you can die in the real world. Not always; in fact, it happens quite rarely, but it does happen. I’ll demonstrate.”

  A laser gun turret sprang from Lucius’s back over his right shoulder. A green crosshair appeared on the Geek’s forehead. That same instant, the gun gave a whistling sound.

  Boom! Instantly, the Geek’s blood reached boiling temperature, and his skull exploded like a ripe watermelon struck by an explosive bullet.

  “Halt!” bawled the psionic girl as her telekinesis paralyzed our limbs, riveting us to the spot.

  We stood under the hot sun, stunned and stained with a grayish-brown mush. Those nearest to the Geek were throwing up even as they stood at attention.

  The laser emitter on the cyborg’s shoulder shifted its lens, seeking out rioters. It turned to me for an instant, and in its mirrorlike pupil, I saw my own frightened face.

  Lina turned out to have a more robust nervous system than me. Almost immediately, I felt her support; a soothing whisper in my mental channel helped me overcome my Charley horses and breathe deeply. I relaxed and looked at the curator with more confidence. He made a wry face in disgust. Clearly, he despised our vomiting army.

  Finally, the laser emitter folded away, and we heard a quiet click as it retracted into its slot behind the captain.

  Lucius greedily inhaled the smell of blood and scorched flesh, and a huge smile appeared on his face, a genuine one this time. “Don’t piss yourselves, rookies! It’s quite difficult to die in Fifth Rome. I’m willing to bet the Japanese battleship Yamato against the one-seat Mosquito that the soul of that smartass has already been caught by the Reincarnation Service effectors. They have a genome sample, and they grow a single clone of every officer beforehand, which swims around in the storage-womb, awaiting its time. They’ll extract it, wash it off, upload the individual's memory dump, which has been copied from you the moment you arrived, then transplant the soul from the crystal, and voila! This luxury costs 40 kilotons of money, but it brings you back. The government pays for stuffing your bodies with implants, for you are its property and its avenging sword. New Rome is always zealous about keeping its sword sharp. Especially now, when the Hive’s spores are slowly ripening.”

  We regained our composure. It didn’t matter to us that the immortality we were promised was flawed and expensive. We wanted it.

  “…and speaking of funds. You didn’t start off so well, burdened with personal debts. But on the other hand, you should rejoice that you have no family debts. Most of us have to pay off loans taken out by our great-grandfathers, may the gods deny them a nice afterlife! Student salary is 300 credits per month. Just enough for ten restaurant dinners. However, the girls from upper classes will buy you dinner. Once you’re immersed into the virtual world, your salary triples. That way, you’ll get about a grand per month. That’s not so bad, close to the salary of common laborers from the slums after a mandatory two-year public school. The only difference is that you’ll have no expenses, as room and board are all paid for.”

  I couldn’t help it and shook my head accusingly. Apparently, Lucius had just added a hefty amount to the Geek’s debt. This demonstration of immortality would cost him four years of immaculate service.

  “…when you graduate, your salary soars. The space force’s accounting AI calculates the new coefficient. It considers everything: your rank, service and battle hours, efficiency, trophies, and space knows what else. Two infantrymen in the same squad can have vastly different incomes. One receives many times more than the other. Always remember; service is duty! The fleet is family! Death is honor! Follow these rules, and your resume will shine with trophies and rewards.”

  The cyborg made a pause to stress the importance of these words, then continued, “And now, you will have 24 hours for meet and greet and settling in. Then, you’ll be fully immersed into the virtual world and will be kept there for the entire first semester. The duration is two weeks in real world time, or 200 days in simulated world time; count as you please. Kick back, satisfy your sexual desires, if you have any energy left, that is. They collect your sperm even when you’re in your capsules, but that’s irrelevant.”

  Lucius pulled out a pointing device and aimed it at the buildings in the distance, “Group, about face! To your permanent stations, forward sprint!”

  Chapter Five

  The futuristic-looking barracks matched the era. They closely resembled the capsule hotels of modern airports, having elongated interiors with elastic floors of a sterile white color and a lined, runway-style central aisle where we could get in formations.

  The shorter sides of the barracks contained racks for personal weapons, protected by soapy-looking force fields. The firearms were mostly pulse guns plus a few light railguns serving as pl
atoon machine-guns. Next to the racks stood a few awkwardly-positioned, middle class CAS, reminding me of ceremonial armor in the depths of an ancient castle. They looked frivolous with their backs to us and bent over, presenting us with the folded-back inner access plate. It enabled the operator to put on the suit in mere seconds if ever the need arose.

  I barely had any idea regarding the available power of this armor, but I had no doubt that a single storm trooper wearing one of these could smash a 21st century tank battalion. The technological chasm between these two was akin to the chasm between a tank and thirty royal musketeers.

  To each side of this armory pyramid were three-level stacks of transparent capsules. The capsules were numbered, each associated with a specific owner. Inside each capsule was a narrow bed with a ductile gravity mattress and configurable furniture for daytime breaks and self-preparation. Even in comparison to my one-bedroom apartment in Moscow, these living quarters were quite austere: a tiny table, a low, semi- recumbent armchair, screen holoprojectors, and an openwork panel for media center access.

  The young woman on duty with mischievous eyes and a promising smile never explained to us how to use the panel; she assured us that we would not have time for entertainment. And even if we did have a minute free, we were expected to go to the upper story where the valiant college girls of the psi-sniper group were lodged. These girls had been in service for a while; three virtual world years, or five real world months.

  She also told us that we shouldn’t bother filing complaints, that we were “debtor slaves with no citizenship” and not some pompous aristos. That we should be happy and respond to the advances of the future elite space infantrywomen by welcomingly wagging our, ahem… let’s pretend she said “tails.” And the girl on duty herself – the “valiant sergeant Livia Cruise,” as she referred to herself – had two dozen virtual access points to “the field” and 1,500 confirmed targets on her RC, eight of which were light infantry backup bots seized with nothing but an ancient ballistic rifle.

  I stood to the side, beyond the range of the passive sensors of this veteran of online battles, and smiled as I realized that she was just a girl. Seventeen years old at most.

  Livia kept talking, heatedly persuading us that we simply had to give ourselves precisely to her squad. According to an off-the-record lottery and the internal tables of student ranks, her heroic seventh company was the one who had “gotten” us. Apparently, the upperclassmen had subjugated all the previous “government serfs,” which was a grave injustice because “battlefield psionics are the worthiest of all.”

  Our guys looked completely dispirited; their personal first-aid kits injected them with lots of sedatives, saving them from hysterics and mental issues. The fact that we had been transported to the future was not even the worst of it. Fuck the adaptation process! Improved health and the promised superhero abilities smoothed over our transition, warming our souls raised by Hollywood. Plus, we could potentially achieve a high status and become important. There was also the future salary increase along with vague promises to return us home if we so desired, as soon as our debts were paid off and our contracts were up.

  All this helped us overcome the shock of the transition. But the reversal of the traditional gender roles was something we could not wrap our brains around. We would get pressed into corners, grabbed by the ass, and receive insistent invitations into capsule number 7-114 in order to “take a look at the mineral collection from Novea 4,” or “listen to a contraband white gun purring away.” Judging by the meaningful smiles accompanying such invitations, these activities were in some way sacral.

  The ISS girl – the scantily clad young psi-mod – quickly grew tired of the thick fog of fluid spread through two of the barracks and the continuous gasps of admiration coming from the dimmed capsules. Soon, the doctors issued an order to our personal autodocs, and wrist injections decreased our libido, rendering us shamefully impotent. A cry of rage from both sexes rang out in the northern wing of the university.

  This medical blockage, however, did not hold off the resourceful girls from the seventh company. Now, during the “accidental” meetings in the maintenance hallways and common shower cubicles, the girls would show us two pills in their palms, a red and a blue one, allowing us a cursory glance.

  Those of us who fell for it and tried a pill took a while to come back. When asked about their experience, the guys would shake their heads in exhaustion and share their knowledge in a brotherly manner, “If you decide to do it, take the blue one. The red one is rough.” However, those who took the advice of their amigos returned later that evening with the same exhausted faces, recommending the opposite.

  As I watched this mess, I would sigh heavily and cast glances at Lina, who would curl her lips in disgust. I am no hypocrite, and I had not held a woman in my arms for the last two years. My blood was boiling with testosterone, clouding my mind. Plus, those upper-class girls were experts at provoking males.

  Any man in their position would walk around shirtless, square his shoulders, and subtly flex his biceps. Well, the psi-sniper girls were even more straightforward; the amount of bare flesh around us was beyond all reasonable limits.

  Plus, they had already learned a few professional tricks; we felt significant pressure in the psi range. Each of us burned with the desire to wag his tail and follow yet another girl who had suddenly decided to take a short cut to the solarium through our barracks.

  Lina grew furious, often snapped at me, and demanded that I stop drooling over those girls. One day, she said that my dirty thoughts made her want to throw up, and if I continued gaping at the firm behinds of the snipers, she would definitely vomit all over my back.

  To avoid trouble, I retreated to my plastic capsule and spent the rest of the evening wrestling with the smart-home interface of the capsule. I felt like a caveman who had been given a remote control for a home theater system and told that he could watch “live pictures” with it.

  There were three control channels: mental, psi, and voice with imaging for the mentally disabled. I had to accept my flaws and talk to the interface. It was much like the anecdotal series: “Phone, phone, Chukchi want food!”

  I was able to accomplish something. The interior dry cleaning function resisted my commands at first, refusing to activate as long as I was inside the capsule. But I managed to push my wish through by dragging the blinking red “parasitic infection” cursor to the green outline of a human body, then confirming the availability of personal defense means not registered by the system.

  Now, I would have known better, but back then, when I heard the magnetic latch of the capsule click shut and saw the disinfector protrude from the ceiling, I nearly crapped my pants. Beating the capsule walls like a fly against glass, I witnessed a practically fair fight between the capsule and my first aid kit: the former would poison me – quite successfully – and the latter would resuscitate me.

  I cannot say who would have won; probably whichever one ran out of reagents last. The girl on duty, however, became alarmed when her advanced mind sensed the emanations of death on her territory, and interrupted the process. I was saved from suicide and an extra debt of forty tons of energy credits. It looked like I owed the gorgeous Livia big-time. Judging by her hungry gaze, she was going to accept the payment here and now, and it had to be payment in kind. Wow…

  Soon, a mechanic arrived. He was a wrinkled old man, his cheap cyber-implants creaking as he walked, and kept coughing and complaining about the high prices of pulmonary filters for an old Mitsumi Air respiratory apparatus. He shook his head in surprise, giving me respectful looks as he installed a program patch for the fool-proof protection which I had so easily bypassed.

  At 10 p.m., invisible speakers bellowed a loud bravura lights-out march. The seventh company girls quickly dispersed despite the lust and sadness in their eyes. It turned out that discipline was more important than sexual drive, and this frightened me. Do they get savagely thrashed here? I wondered.

 
; There was no need for a roll call; the system knew exactly where each soldier was. They had inserted so much tech in us that it was foolish to hope that we did not have the simplest tracking devices in our bodies.

  They also did not want to pressure the new recruits. Perhaps they were afraid to go too far and damage the frail psyches of those who had become students involuntarily. Even though we had medical support and had spent all last week napping in gel bathtubs, our stress hormone levels were at an all-time high. No one wanted to put unnecessary stress on our blood filters. The implants were not eternal, and we belonged to the government.

  Or could it be that they tried to relax our anxious minds with their fake smiles while hiding a fist with knuckledusters behind their backs? If you so much as timidly open your mouth to answer – whack, and your frail teeth will go flying.

  We reluctantly went back to our capsules to the brusque Fifth Rome system march. The omnipresent sergeants used their shockers to speed up the daydreamers. Orders had to be obeyed on reflex.

  The capsule greeted me with a countdown timer that read: Time remaining until forced sleep mode: 9…8…7….

  I barely managed to plop down on the bunk when all the lights except the safety lights went out, and the smart house whispered in my ear in a sugary baritone, “To the glory of Rome! Pleasant dreams. Wake-up call in 7:99:99… 7:99:98…”

  Alas, I woke before the alarm went off. My implant activated and its alert signal interrupted my sleep. Colorful interface markers rippled before my eyes. My hearing heightened and the extra layer around my adrenal glands quickly pumped my blood full of adrenaline and cortisol.