Terran Armor Corps Anthology

by Richard Fox

  Masako, her hair a disorganized mess, waggled a green envelope at Roland from her room across the hall. Roland flashed his own and felt his heart beat faster with a touch of hope.

  Shutting his door, he heard the screaming coming through his windows. He looked out and saw formations of young men and women engaged in calisthenics, hounded by drill sergeants wearing olive-drab campaign hats, who seemed to grow angrier by the second. He imagined that Jerry was out there in the predawn light and wondered if his friend was more confident than he in his choice of service.

  Roland slapped the paper against his palm.

  “Maybe what’s in this room is worse than the drill instructors.”

  ****

  Room 12A held a pair of cubicles. Stepping inside, Roland found a man on one knee, his head bent in prayer; he gulped when he noticed the plugs at the base of the man’s skull. The kneeling man held a sword by the hilt, the tip pressed into the carpet by his foot. The pommel was round, with a red Templar cross, and the man spoke in a language Roland didn’t understand.

  As he glanced at a clock, he found he was a minute early. He raised a hand to knock, but the man stood up exactly at the moment the clock hit 0530.

  Tongea reached into a cubicle, brought out a scabbard, slammed the sword home and turned to Roland, who still had his hand ready to knock. Tongea’s uniform bore only his nametag, the silver Armor Corps badge and a white circle with a cross identical to the one on the sword just below the armor badge.

  “Chin up.” Tongea raised his own chin and Roland followed suit. The soldier swiped two fingers across the monitor on Roland’s neck and he heard a chirp from a slate in a cubicle. “You’re clear to continue. Follow me.”

  Tongea went down the hallway, Roland a step behind him.

  “Sir…can I ask you a question?”

  “You just did.”

  “Yes. No. I mean can I ask you another question? Not including that one. More questions.”

  “You can ask, but I will not answer unless it’s to clarify my instructions to you,” Tongea said. Roland bit his lip, realizing that silence was probably the better option.

  Tongea turned down a dimly lit hallway and Roland felt the humidity rise. The smell of saltwater rose as the soldier opened a white door. Inside was a white pod the size of a large coffin. A hatch lifted and light glinted off the water within. A screen separated a bench and shower from the rest of the room.

  “Candidate Shaw, you will begin a sensory-deprivation exercise of undetermined length. Should you choose not to participate or to end the exercise early, you will be dropped from selection. Do you have any questions?” Tongea asked.

  Roland looked at the pod and got a good smell of the briny water within.

  “What do I…do in there?”

  “I will explain more once you’ve begun the exercise.” He opened a basket next to the door and handed Roland a pair of shorts, then pointed to the screen and turned his back to the room.

  Roland shrugged and changed behind the screen, then he stuck a foot into the pod and found the water lukewarm. He slid inside and his body floated with ease. A bit of salty water splashed onto his lips, and he spat to drive it away.

  “When you said ‘undetermined length,’ exactly—”

  Tongea pressed a hypo injector against Roland’s bare chest and Roland felt a chill spread across his sternum and into his stomach.

  “Hey, what was that?”

  The soldier shut the pod hatch, and lights flickered on. Roland reached up and pushed against the roof. It didn’t budge.

  “A digestion inhibitor.” Tongea’s voice came through a speaker behind Roland’s head. “The reason for that should be self-evident. The exercise will begin shortly.”

  “Wait…what am I supposed to do in here?”

  “The armor interface nodes are similar to the pods. Candidates must be able to endure such conditions and this exercise will test your mental and physical resilience. You are not required to do anything, but any attempt to open the pod hatch will terminate the exercise and you will be dropped from selection.”

  Roland sloshed around and felt like a very large fish in a very small tank.

  “So just…lay here?”

  “Correct.”

  The lights switched off and Roland found himself in pitch-blackness. His heartbeat thumped in his ears. When he moved a leg to the side and gently pushed against the pod, his head and shoulder bumped against the wall.

  Did this thing get smaller? He raised a hand and it touched the roof…mere inches above the waterline.

  It definitely got smaller. He let out a slow breath and reminded himself that he wasn’t claustrophobic. At all. And this wasn’t the time to pick up the phobia.

  Of course the armor pilots don’t control their suits like they’re driving a car or flying a plane. They wouldn’t use the plugs if that was the case…so how do they even see in these things? He reached across his chest and pinched a bicep, appreciating the brief moment of discomfort against the otherwise null chamber.

  How long will this last? A day? They don’t expect me to starve in here…well, I’d probably die of thirst first. Can’t drink this water, too salt—wait…who else has used this? Did they pee in here?

  He braced his hands against the pod, his heart beating faster until he remembered the digestion inhibitor Tongea had given him.

  The absolute isolation of the pod was a different experience. He’d been in the orphanage since he was a child, surrounded by other children constantly. The last time he’d been this alone…was in Utah, during the second Xaros invasion.

  He, and dozens of other military children, had been in a bunker hidden within Signal Peak in the mountains outside St. George, one of the few cities partially intact after the alien occupation. He remembered a young woman who had tried to keep him and the other children calm during the attack. He didn’t remember her name, but he remembered the fear in her eyes.

  An iceberg tip of fear touched his chest as he remembered the lights cutting out after a direct hit to a neighboring bunker…clutching the woman’s hand and pretending she was his mother as other children wailed and sobbed around him.

  He banished the memory with a shake of his head.

  I’m not some terrified child anymore. The war is over. I am here. In Phoenix. This is all just a test.

  He forced his mind to replay the last battle of the Smoking Snakes, armor that had held back Xaros forces on Takeni, buying time for a ship full of Dotok refugees to escape from the doomed planet. He knew much of the movie had been “embellished” for morale reasons, but the part where the Smoking Snakes had volunteered without question or coercion to stay behind and give their lives so that the Dotok could escape…no one ever questioned that part.

  What makes them that way? How can someone just look certain death in the eye and charge? I don’t know if I’ve got that in me.

  He touched the roof, his arm tense, ready to push the hatch up and end what felt more and more like a poor choice.

  No. Mom didn’t give up. Neither did Dad. He lowered his arm and let it float.

  His mind wandered…to memories of armor videos, to Jerry in the Marines, to Masako.

  After a while—he had no way of knowing exactly how many hours—shapes appeared in the darkness, roiling black and white fractals swimming across his vision.

  “Whoa…” He splashed his legs in the water and the images receded. “That’s not normal. Right?” His heart beat faster and a sense of dread came over him…almost like there was something in the tank watching him.

  They’re messing with me.

  He relaxed and concentrated on the feeling of the saltwater climbing up and down the

  side of his face.

  How long do they stay in these tanks anyway? Warship crews, Marines and fighter pilots had fought for several straight days against the Xaros…did the armor ever get out?

  A white line appeared across his vision. Roland didn’t react, assuming it was another halluci
nation…until the hatch opened and lights turned on. Tongea reached into the pod and grabbed Roland by the upper arm and helped him sit up.

  “How long was that?” Roland asked.

  “This training evolution is complete. Get out. Now.”

  Roland tried to muster the strength, but his muscles were like jelly. He managed to flip over after considerable—and embarrassing—effort. As he swung a leg out, he noticed he wasn’t in the same room. The pod sat next to a sparring mat; on the other side was another pod. Gideon stood next to the open hatch, speaking to another candidate who was having as much trouble as Roland.

  “You were in the Scout Auxiliary, correct?” Tongea asked.

  “Yes, sir.” Roland got out of the pod and took a wobbly step.

  “Then you’re familiar with unarmed combatives rules. None of those apply here. Your next exercise is to retrieve the armor badge in the center of the sparring mat and bring it to me. The other candidate has the same instructions.” Tongea pointed to a small bit of silver in the center of the mat. “Go.”

  The other candidate was half a head taller than Roland, wider at the shoulders and a good deal more muscled. The larger candidate wiped water from his eyes and nodded as Gideon spoke to him.

  Roland took an unbalanced step onto the mat, feeling like he’d just woken up from a long night’s sleep. The idea of fighting the other man—who was having as much trouble walking as Roland—did not strike him as a winning proposition. He leaned forward and broke into a run, his eyes fixed on the silver badge.

  He heard the other candidate’s wet feet stomp against the mat as the two closed on the prize.

  Roland dove forward…and landed a foot shy of the badge. Lurching forward, he snatched the silver badge just as the other candidate ran past, his hand scraping against the mat to scoop it up. Roland gripped the badge in his fist, feeling two metal spikes pressing against his palm. He got to his feet and squared off against the other candidate, who stood between Roland and Tongea.

  “Give it up now and I won’t have to hurt you,” said the other man.

  “Get out of the way and I won’t have to—” Roland ducked under a haymaker and swung a punch into the other man’s ribs that landed with a wet smack. He took a counterpunch on the shoulder, a blow that landed with enough force to send a jolt down his arm.

  Roland snapped a kick toward his opponent’s inner thigh and went almost horizontal as his base foot slipped on the wet mat. Landing with a thud, Roland’s skull bounced off the mat. He brought his guard up just as the other fell on top of him. Roland snapped a short punch into his opponent’s jaw and knocked the man’s face to the side.

  The larger man lifted his head back, then slammed his forehead into Roland’s face. The blow smacked the back of his head against the mat again, and Roland felt the world start spinning. The man jammed his fingertips into Roland’s clenched fist holding the badge and tried to pry the hand open.

  Roland released his grip and the badge fell onto his chest. He snatched it up with his other hand.

  The other slammed a hand against Roland’s neck and tried to rip his monitor away. Roland panicked and let go of the badge. He gripped his opponent by the wrist, twisting his neck side to side to save the monitor. The big man, assisted by Roland’s hold, lifted him a foot off the ground, then slammed his head into the mat.

  Roland kept his hold, but his arms felt like they belonged to someone else. The big man lifted Roland again and slammed his other hand into Roland’s nose, breaking it with a wet crack. He slammed Roland’s head down again, and Roland went limp, his eyes lolling in their sockets as he coughed on blood.

  The victor picked up the pin and carried it to Gideon, keeping an eye on the semiconscious Roland.

  Watching the ceiling lights swirling overhead, Roland tried to remember where he was and exactly what he was supposed to be doing. Tongea leaned over him, speaking into a wrist mic.

  “Bring that guy back here!” Roland struggled to sit up, but Tongea gently pushed him back down.

  “He’s got my…thing.” Roland gagged on blood and rolled onto his side, letting the flow of blood pool on the mat instead of running down his throat.

  “Guess he didn’t win.” Roland recognized Dr. Eeks’ voice. He felt a press of a hypo spray against the side of his neck and the world snapped back into focus. Someone pulled him up to a sitting position and guided his head to hang forward. Tongea pressed gauze into his hand and Roland mashed it against his broken nose, feeling cartilage wiggling beneath the skin.

  He felt something touch his wrist, then realized his monitor was broken, hanging loosely against his neck.

  “No! I didn’t take it off,” Roland said, his eyes wide with panic. “I still want to be here. I still want to do this. Don’t cut me. I didn’t—”

  “I saw everything, candidate,” Tongea said. “You didn’t take it off. You’re still in selection.”

  Eeks clenched a fist twice, then her fingertips lit up. She waved her hand across Roland’s face and glanced down at her forearm screen.

  “Minor concussion…but the CSF injection’s mitigated the effects.” She snapped her fingers, and her fingertips went dim. “Don’t need fifteen years of medical school to know his nose is broken. I’ll take him to medical for a new monitor.”

  “What about my nose?” Roland swallowed hard, sending a very unfortunate amount of blood to his stomach.

  “It’s on almost sideways now. I think it’s an improvement,” Eeks said.

  Roland blinked hard, wondering just how hard he’d hit his head.

  “And I’ll fix your nose too. Demands, demands, demands.” She and Tongea lifted him onto his feet.

  “We have a schedule,” Tongea said.

  “Not my first rodeo, Tongea, I’ll be back in time for the next victim,” Eeks snapped. She led Roland out a door and into a brightly lit hallway. He kept the gauze pressed to his nose, trying to keep the blood from dripping onto the floor.

  “I’m a washout,” he said. “I didn’t get the badge to him.”

  “Did you quit?” Eeks asked.

  “No. I got my ass kicked.”

  “Then I think you’ll be all right. Armor Corps needs a certain kind of person, and if we insisted on candidates that were undefeated champions in everything ever…we wouldn’t have anyone. You’d be surprised how many candidates quit the moment they realize they’re going to have to struggle. We can teach you to win a fight, but we need to know you have the resolve to learn.”

  “Are the lessons always this painful?” Roland asked as they passed by a group of female recruits. That he was in a bathing suit, wet and bloody, got him a few comments and giggles as he went by.

  “Son, you’re just getting started,” Eeks said.

  Chapter 5

  Roland sat at a round table in the mess hall, staring at his tray. His nose, reset and repaired by an auto-surgeon, throbbed with pain. His new monitor felt tighter than the last one, but he put that to swelling from the other candidate’s grip. He touched his nose and winced. The robot that fixed him said the pain would go away in a day or so…pain that couldn’t be dampened with anything stronger than aspirin, as medication interfered with the monitors.

  A chair scraped against the floor next to him and Masako sat down. She looked tired, the black ring of bruised flesh and a split lip accentuating the fatigue on her face.

  “This was not in the recruiting commercial,” she said.

  “Do you know how long we were in the tank?” he asked.

  “Must have been…twelve hours. We got in before breakfast, got out and then beatings commenced and now its dinnertime. Did you win?”

  “No. You?”

  “I got the badge to the cadre with the face tats.” She stuck her fork into a plate of shrimp scampi and frowned. “I haven’t seen the girl I fought.”

  Someone large came up to Roland’s other side, casting a shadow over them both.

  “Hey, Roland,” said the man who had beat him so soundly,
holding a tray with a steaming bowl on it. “It’s Roland, right? I…I’m sorry about that. Didn’t mean to hurt you so bad. Adrenaline. If it makes you feel better, you broke two of my ribs. Name’s Burke.”

  “You broke my face.” Roland put his foot on the open seat next to him and pushed it aside for Burke.

  “Thanks. I get the weirdest looks because of the monitor.” Burke set his tray down and gave Roland a thump on his shoulder.

  “Wait a minute…you two are friends all the sudden?” Masako asked.

  “It wasn’t like we were fighting ’cause we’re sore with each other,” Burke said, biting into a slice of corn bread, “just fighting for fighting. He got some good hits in.”

  “He showed me that the mat is not my friend.” Roland cut off a piece of breaded chicken and forced himself to take a small bite.

  “Men…” Masako said, shaking her head. “When women fight each other, we become enemies for life.”

  “You see the fruit salad of ribbons on that one cadre?” Burke asked. “He’s got the Cygnus campaign ribbon. That fight just ended. Bet he’s got some stories to tell.”

  “The other’s got a new vat-grown arm,” Roland said. “Looks older than the other, but no ribbons. Seem odd to you?”

  “Either of you have the guts to ask him about it?” Masako slipped a spoonful of chopped vegetables into the undamaged side of her mouth.

  The two men shook their heads.

  “Me neither,” Masako admitted.

  ****

  Gideon swiped his hand across a holo screen and the image flipped over to a Ranger standing in line for the food combiner.

  “This one?” he asked Tongea.

  “He had a borderline panic attack three hours into the pod test.” The Maori tapped a screen on their control station and the Ranger’s service record came up. “He received a Bronze Star on Victoria after digging out his sister squad from a building collapse. His psych profile had a marked shift after that.”