by Richard Fox
In the early morning hours—that golden time on Knox between morning PT, chow and the base’s collective personnel moving to their duty locations for the day—an unusual sight rolled along a sidewalk across from the uniformly drab buildings of a personnel battalion: a motorized wheelchair, carrying a young woman in a ball cap.
She stopped on a corner as a platoon of soldiers jogged by, a drill sergeant in the rear of the formation giving a struggling runner personal attention at such a volume as to alert nearby blocks that this individual was failing his country, family, ancestors and education structure that led to that very moment.
Kallen waited for the formation to pass, ignoring the soldiers’ double takes and body odor. Basic training was a place for the physically able. Quadriplegics like her were as rare as sparkly unicorns.
On the other side of the street was a two-story-high wall topped with triple strands of concertina wire. Warning signs announcing the variety of laws forbidding video, audio or any form of surveillance of the area were paired with promises of deadly force to be used against any and all trespassers.
This was Fort Knox, but Kallen wasn’t at the gold depository; she was at the Armor Center in a time of war.
A road led to a chain-link fence blocked by a boom arm. Beyond the fence was a serpentine of concrete barriers. Accessing the facility was not meant to be easy. A guard shack topped with a remote-controlled machine gun and a metal turnstile was the only pedestrian entrance.
Kallen rolled across the street and came up to the bulletproof glass of the guard shack.
“Hello,” she said.
A military police guard inside looked up, confusion writ across his face.
“I’m here to speak with Colonel Carius,” she said.
The guard stood and realized where her voice was coming from. She was so low in her wheelchair that he hadn’t seen her.
“Miss,” the MP said through a speaker in the glass as his confusion grew, “I’m not exactly sure you understand where we are. This is the Armor Center. Restricted access for trainees and cadre. Did you…did you see the signs?”
“I need to speak with Colonel Carius, please.” She smiled.
“You’re not…” the MP held up a data slate, “you’re not on the visitor list. No one’s on the visitor list. The colonel doesn’t take visitors. Well, Mr. Ibarra will stop by every once in a while. It’s all his technology they use in there.”
“Then put me on the list,” Kallen said. “I’m here to volunteer for the Atlantic Union Armor Corps.”
The MP’s mouth worked from side to side. He leaned closer to the glass and looked over Kallen and her wheelchair.
“Would you excuse me for a moment?” The MP stood, one hand on his pistol belt as he leaned around a corner and spoke with someone. Another MP with sergeant’s stripes on her collar peeked around the doorframe and frowned at Kallen.
Kallen leaned back as best she could. She could turn her head and neck well enough, but any movement below the C7 vertebrae was lost to her. A dribble of sweat went down her cheek. The lining of her ball cap was already soaked through.
In the distance, she heard the stomp of giant metal feet. Beyond the wall, armor learned to fight. Not the tanks with treads of wars past, but fifteen-foot-tall robots that carried a single soldier within the chassis.
The first MP came back, a guilty look on his face.
“Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” he said. “Recruitment to the Armor Corps is normally handled at mustering stations. Do you…I mean…I don’t know your situation but—”
“Those charlatan recruiters hanging around malls and high schools won’t talk to me,” Kallen said. “I’m here because of title eight, section twelve, subparagraph nineteen of the Atlantic Union Integration Act—a treaty my member state of Belgium is party to.”
“Oh, title eight,” the MP said, nodding slowly. “That’s great. If you could move across the street to the empty lot, I’d appreciate it.”
Kallen looked down at a sensor on the arm of her wheelchair and a holo screen popped up in front of her face. She darted her eyes back and forth and the sensor read her eyeballs to see where she was focusing to execute simple commands. She had loaded and readied the document in question beforehand, anticipating this issue.
The screen flipped around so the MP could read it.
“Title eight, etc.,” Kallen said and began reading. “‘Any individual that does not meet physical requirements for other military duties may be assessed for selection into the Armor Corps so long as they possess the required neurologic baseline for augmentation.’”
The MP’s lips pursed as he glanced from the document to Kallen.
“Yes, ma’am, it sure does say that,” he said. “But I need you on the other side of the street. This is a restricted area.”
“The other side of the fence is restricted,” Kallen said evenly. “I’m here to speak with Colonel Carius. The head of Armor training and selection. He can sign my waiver.”
“Are you going to leave?” he asked with a sigh.
“No.”
He rolled his eyes. “Hey, Sarge!” he yelled over his shoulder. “She ain’t leaving!”
“Get her out of the way!” the sergeant yelled back from the other room.
“Look, lady—”
“My name is Desi Kallen. Call Colonel Carius and tell him I’m here to see him. I’ve messaged him for the past several months and he’s yet to respond.”
“How did you even get onto the fort?” the MP asked. “The outer base isn’t open to the public.”
A holo of an ID card popped up next to her face.
“I’m an Atlantic Union employee assigned to 311th Personnel Command on the corner of Dixie and Spearhead Division Avenue,” she said. “I’m on leave at the moment and will tender my resignation as soon as Carius approves my waiver.”
The MP tapped on a screen and huffed. “That checks out. Doesn’t change anything.” He tapped on the glass and pointed past Kallen. “Other side of the road, please. Last time I’ll ask nicely.”
The ID card fizzled away. She raised her chin ever so slightly.
“Sarge, come watch the desk.” The MP adjusted his beret and left the room. A moment later he came through the turnstile and grabbed the handles on the back of Kallen’s wheelchair.
“I’m here for Carius,” Kallen said loudly. “I’m not leaving until I see him!”
The MP tugged at the handles of the locked wheelchair, then kicked an emergency release on the bottom of the battery pack. The locks clicked off and he turned her away from the gate, pushing her across the street as Kallen repeated her request.
He got her to a patch of grass with a line of wooden-framed pull-up bars on the far end. The faint smell of sweat from a PT session still hung in the air. The MP let her go and looked up and down the roads as electric cars hummed in the distance.
“Is there someone I can call for you?” he asked.
Kallen turned her chair around and rolled back to the gate.
“No, no!” The MP grabbed her as she got halfway through the road and brought her back to the grassy field. He let her go and maneuvered in front of her chair as she spun around, intent on returning. He held up his hands in front of her.
“Wait just a second, OK?” He looked over his shoulder back to the gate, where the sergeant watched the scene play out. “We can keep doing this and it won’t get you anywhere. I know…it looks like you were dealt a bad hand along the way, but you’re motivated! I appreciate that.”
“Then let me in to see Colonel Carius,” she said dryly.
“I can’t do that.” The MP adjusted his gun belt. “I can call Carius’ adjutant. She and I are friends. I’ll tell her you’re out here to see him. If you can’t convince the adjutant, you’ll never get any closer to the colonel. That’s just the way the military works. It’s a slow day because of the holiday weekend and all…maybe he’ll come out.”
Kallen narrowed her eyes slightl
y. “I’ll stay here until you call the adjutant.”
“You stay here until there’s an answer from the adjutant about Carius coming out here.” The MP held up a finger. “Colonel’s a busy guy.”
“I’m not leaving until I see him.”
“I got that part,” the MP said. “Just chill here, OK? You need some water or—”
“Back to your post!” the sergeant shouted from the turnstile.
“Right there,” he said, pointing at the ground before running back across the road.
The sun burned through the morning haze and a stifling heat grew through the air. She waited, feeling sweat run down her neck and face in rivulets as she watched the MP make several phone calls.
A text message from her supervisor at the 311th buzzed on the screen mounted to her chair’s left forearm: R U @ armor center???
She rolled her eyes. Most days she wondered how Mr. Dickins managed his position while being semiliterate.
After a half hour, the MP knocked on the glass, gave her a thumbs-up, touched his watch, then raised his hands in confusion. She gave an exaggerated nod, signaling that she understood the message: Carius was on the way, but he didn’t know when the colonel would arrive.
The morning crept on. She ignored the cars that slowed when they drove past, like rubbernecks at an accident scene. Kallen didn’t look at the clock on the screen. Time didn’t matter anymore. The sound of hydraulics and heavy footfalls from the other side of the wall gave her hope.
When the sun was high, she felt the first tinge of thirst. Her light shirt was soaked through with sweat, and her fingertips had wrinkled, prune-like from all the moisture.
The turnstile swung, its metal bars glinting in the sunlight, and a trim man in coveralls and boots with straps instead of laces marched across the street. His piercing gray eyes were locked on Kallen as he approached, and a bushy mustache run through with gray twitched from side to side.
She recognized Colonel Carius from his photos easily enough.
She smiled and looked up to him, dislodging sweat from her face. “Sir,” she said happily, “thank you so much. I’ve tried to—”
“No.” Carius stopped a few feet in front of her. “Go home.” He turned and walked off, the plugs in the base of his skull catching the light.
“Wait, no!” Kallen’s wheelchair lurched forward and struck the back of one of Carius’ ankles. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
Carius put his hands on her armrests and looked her in the eyes. “You cannot be armor,” he said. “You understand what we do? We walk. We fight. These things are done through this.” He touched his plugs then the back of a hand. “It is not a game with controllers. I. Am. Armor. That is the only way it works. It cannot work for you. Go home.”
“I could walk until I was fourteen,” she said. “I was a diver. Gymnast. All that is still inside my head, I just can’t get it out. It wasn’t even my fault—”
“Doesn’t matter.” Carius stood up. “You will not be able to walk in armor.”
“I went to Dr. Eeks,” Kallen said. “The surgeon that does all the plug surgeries. She said I’m a good candidate. I went to the best neurosurgeons in Brussels. They said the same thing. Look, I can show you.”
“No.” Carius shook his head. “There is a war on, you understand? The Chinese just launched an offensive out of Darwin and I need to focus on soldiers, not spending time to nursemaid a charity case. It is nothing personal.”
“If I have the plugs, then I can fight!” Kallen called out as Carius went away. “Sir, give me a chance and I’ll prove it to you!”
She rolled after him, but a furious knock on the guard-shack glass got her attention. The MP and the sergeant were there. The MP shook his head and made a spinning motion with a finger, then pointed back to the grass.
Kallen stopped and the guards relaxed.
She locked the wheels and thought she saw Carius glance at her as he walked back through the doorway.
Emotion welled up inside her, but she refused to let it come to the fore. She had worked for years to get to this point. She wasn’t leaving.
Hours passed and the sun swung to the other side of the sky. She felt the skin on the back of her neck pulsing with the heat of a sunburn. Inside the guard shack, a new pair of MPs came on duty. They glanced at her occasionally, but did their best to ignore her.
The sound of armor footsteps stopped as the early evening came on. The air grew muggier as the sun’s rays lessened, not much of a consolation prize for her.
The turnstiles moved and young men and women in the same uniform as Carius filed out. They stepped lively, checking Ubi phone slates and brimming with excitement. All crossed on the other side of the street from her. None had the same plugs as Carius; instead, they had a thin metal plate with a red ring fastened to the underside of their skull.
Kallen knew enough about the Armor selection process to recognize trainees—better known as “bean heads,” as they’d all had their heads shaved once they arrived at Knox for the neural bridges.
The trainees acted like they’d just been released from prison. A few gave her a look, but none spoke to her.
She heard them laughing as they continued down the sidewalk.
Two more trainees came through the turnstiles. One, a tall, lanky man with pale skin; the other shorter and muscular, walking with an air of battle readiness. The shorter one tapped the other in the chest as they came parallel with her on the other side of the street.
“You crazy?” the tall one asked with a slight German accent. “You heard Captain Martel.”
“He didn’t say we couldn’t speak with her.” The shorter trainee had an odd accent, a polyglot of English with a Middle Eastern undertone she couldn’t place.
“I’m not leaving.” She looked at them as they stepped over the curb. “Don’t even try.”
“We heard,” the tall one said. “I’m Bodel.” He extended a hand to her and she looked at him like he was an idiot. Chagrined, he pulled it back.
“Elias.” The shorter one had honey-colored eyes and was lightly tanned.
“Kallen. Someone’s talking about me in there?” She shook her head quickly, trying to get a bit of sweat off an eyebrow.
“Cadre said no one’s to…how’d he put it, Bodel?” Elias asked.
“No material aide.” He shrugged. “Weird thing to add to the safety briefing.”
“And we’re not to harass you,” Elias said. “So if you want us to go, we’ll go.”
“Speaking of…” Bodel jerked a thumb to the ever-more-distant group of trainees, “bus leaves for Louisville in twenty minutes.”
Kallen felt pathetic. Sitting in the sun all day, she knew she likely looked horrible, her blond hair frizzy, her face drawn from all the sweat.
Elias saw a pack of tissues tucked inside Kallen’s armrest. He plucked one out.
“May I?” he asked.
“We’ve got a release time, Elias,” Bodel said. “There isn’t a second bus to L-town and ride shares are ridiculous on holiday weekends.”
“You go ahead,” Elias said. “I know the steakhouse. I’ll catch up.”
“You sure you don’t want to—fine. See you there.” Bodel turned and ran.
“You got it,” Kallen said. “Go ahead and blow your nose.”
Elias dabbed the tissue against the side of her face and then under the line of her ball cap, removing built-up sweat.
“Thanks,” she said. “Maybe Carius is right. I can’t do anything for myself. What makes me think I can be armor?”
“There’s title eight.” Elias got another tissue and wiped down the back of her neck.
“You know about that?” she asked, her shock evident.
“That’s how I got in,” he said. “I’m a refugee, technically. I had residency in Germany and a clean record. Had to do some convincing with the recruiters to get me through the door to the Atlantic Union military.”
“Where you from?” she asked.
�
�We’d call it Kurdistan if it was a real place on the map. Daesh drove my people out when I was a kid. Got to the camps in reclaimed Europe and managed to get by,” Elias said.
“You’ve done OK for yourself if you’re here,” Kallen said. “How’s training? Tough?”
“About twenty-five percent get this far.” He tapped the plate on the back of his skull. “My old roommate just washed out. Real stud too. Now I’m bunking with Bodel. What’re you doing out here on a Friday night?”
“I’m more than this,” she said, looking down at her body. “I’m not going to be some cripple doing make-work for my entire life. I am…armor. I will be armor. Soon as Carius let’s me in. I’m not leaving until that happens.”
Elias looked her in the eyes. “Could be a while,” he said.
“I don’t care.”
“Storm’s coming.”
“Then I’ll smell better,” she smirked.
“Sounds like a plan.” Elias tapped out a message on his Ubi and slid it into a pocket on his shoulder.
“Have fun at dinner,” Kallen said.
“I’ll stay with you.” He moved to her side and covered her with his shadow.
“You don’t have to do that,” she said. “I don’t want your help. I don’t need your help. Sure, it’s not like I’m putting in a lot of effort in my chair here, but if your cadre said not to help me, then don’t risk your chance to be armor for me.”
“The captain said no ‘material’ aide,” Elias said. “I can just stay out here if I want. I’m on a twenty-four-hour pass. But you want me to go, I’ll go.”
“Then stay,” Kallen said, fighting back emotion. “Misery loves company, right?”
“Pain shared is pain lessened.” He looked over the horizon. “But whoever said that never spent a day in this heat. You’d think for armor training we’d spend more time in sims. Not the case. They’ve got us in scarecrows—wire-frame mock-ups of the suits that use the neural bridge to process commands—out moving cargo around. Least we’re not painting rocks yet.”
