Survival Aptitude Test_Hope's Graveyard

by Mike Sheriff

  “No,” she said. “Not a builder of things. A builder of minds.”

  Dominus hooted. “Laoshi the Librarian!”

  Cordelia squealed, seemingly delighted by the notion.

  “See? Even little Cordelia thinks it’s a good idea.” Dominus hoisted his glass. “To Laoshi the Librarian. May he have a long and happy life . . . after his insertion into a certain sector of a certain mongrel colony that shall remain nameless.”

  Myra rolled her eyes and hoisted her glass.

  Laoshi joined them. He even conjured a smile.

  What was another lie between friends?

  2

  Ill Portents

  LAOSHI OCCUPIED THE worst jump seat in the aeroshrike’s hold—not that he had a choice in the matter. As the team’s most junior member, he received the most antiquated equipment, the most dangerous tasks, and the most uncomfortable positions in the range of vehicles used by the Jireni.

  Of the six suspended seats arrayed in the circle, his was the only one that faced aft. It also afforded the least amount of headroom thanks to the unwieldy gear assembly used for retracting the deck beneath the seats. He canted his head to the right, clear of the assembly’s jagged cogwheels, and listened to Commander Nehjal’s briefing.

  “Our mission will degrade the mongrel’s command-and-control capabilities,” she said. “We can’t perform a direct assault on the main facility without suffering unacceptable losses. We can, however, achieve the same effect by destroying the relay centers that feed its sensor data.”

  Nehjal made eye contact with each member of the team as if to underscore the gravity of the moment. “Our objective is the relay center in Havoc’s southern sector.”

  Dominus shot a knowing glance at Laoshi from the adjacent seat. He’d been right about the insertion point—they were jumping into the colony’s most heavily defended sector.

  “We’ll be inserting with three other teams,” Nehjal continued. “They’ll be hitting the relay centers in the northern, western, and eastern sectors. The simultaneous destruction of all four centers is vital. If any team fails, sensor data will flow uninterrupted and tomorrow’s aeroshrike assault will be decimated.”

  The comment garnered somber nods from the team. All wore black, form-fitting jump suits—bodies bulked up by segmented armor plating, drop-packs, webbing, and assorted pouches. All were strapped into their seats. The aeroshrike had leveled off at three thousand feet after its launch from Daqin Guojin’s northern aerodrome. Safety protocols dictated they be ready to jump at a moment’s notice.

  If Laoshi represented south in the circle of jump seats, Commander Nehjal marked true north. Jiren Vandarian occupied the northeastern seat to Nehjal’s left; Jiren Tor the northwestern seat to her right. Dominus and an Asianoid Jiren whose name escaped Laoshi marked the southern inter-cardinal points of the compass. Two feet separated each member, but the spacing would shrink when the seats rotated belly-down at the release point. That was still hours away.

  “The aeroshrike fleet assaults Havoc at dawn,” Jiren Vandarian said. “We’ll have six hours from the time we touch down to destroy the relay center.”

  Vandarian served as the team’s second-in-command. His Indonoid features bore the scars of thirty years of service in the Jireni. Slight of build and assertiveness, he deferred to Nehjal’s authority. Since joining the team, Laoshi had heard him utter no more than a handful of commands.

  “What’s our extraction plan?” Jiren Tor asked.

  “An aeroshrike will set down three miles south of Havoc’s border at dawn,” Nehjal said. “It will extract the survivors from all four teams.”

  Survivors.

  The word resonated in Laoshi’s head like an ill portent. Until now, thoughts of his team members dying hadn’t entered his mind. The prospect of his own demise pressed him into his seat.

  It needn’t have been this way. When he sat the S.A.T. a year ago, he’d faced his greatest existential threat and came through unscathed. More than unscathed. His score had ranked highest among his cohort. He could have chosen any vocation. He could have opted for a lavish grooll ration, a private abode, and union. Instead, he’d joined the Jireni and placed his life in a new kind of jeopardy. And for what?

  “Three miles is a long way to travel for extraction,” Tor said, “especially if we’re dealing with wounded.”

  Tor’s concern stemmed from her role on the assault team. She served as aid practitioner, responsible for rendering wound care until extraction to proper medical facilities was possible. She hailed from Feizhou Cheng—the Africoid district and home to many of the city-state’s best medical practitioners. Her parents were highly regarded in the vocation, enjoying a level of recognition bordering on fame. She’d inherited their skills.

  Laoshi had complimented her on those skills during a training simulation a few months ago. Rather than welcome the accolade, she’d snapped at him. Dominus had explained the outburst afterward.

  Tor’s ascent to the ranks of Daqin Guojin’s medical practitioners should have been a given. Six years earlier, however, a sudden illness had sapped her mental and physical strength on the day of her S.A.T. It resulted in a score that spared her from harvesting, but left her few vocational options. The ill-starred experience had also left a hardened scar on an otherwise tender character.

  “Three miles is the minimum stand-off distance,” Nehjal said. “If we follow our training, we won’t have any wounds to deal with.”

  Dominus snorted. “That means Laoshi better not drop any more eavesdroppers.”

  He didn’t make the comment in contempt or spite, but Laoshi would have preferred the other team members to remain unaware of his shortcoming in the training facility. He’d have happily punched Dominus in the arm—if only he could reach it.

  “I’d rather not fall under Tor’s care,” Dominus continued. “She’s got shaky hands at the best of times.”

  “Don’t worry, Dominus,” Tor said. “There’ll be plenty of other ways for you to die on the ground.”

  Dominus smirked—goading Tor was one of his favorite pastimes. He nodded at the Asianoid Jiren seated next to her. “Do me a favor and slap Jiren Tor, will you?”

  The Asianoid didn’t respond. He stared into the middle distance, hands folded in his lap, eyes half-closed like he was in a trance. He’d maintained the same posture since they’d lifted off from the northern aerodrome.

  Of all the members on the team, Laoshi knew the least about him. The Asianoid was in his late twenties and handled the team’s comms equipment—a role that smacked of irony given his reticence. He also had one of the largest drop-packs attached to his lower leg. The flexglass bag measured two-feet long, a foot wide, and half as deep. It bulged from its contents—most likely comms equipment they’d need on the ground.

  A glint caught Laoshi’s attention. He shifted his focus to the aeroshrike’s deck. Transparent panels beneath the seats allowed an unhampered view of the desert thousands of feet below.

  Evening twilight washed the expanse with ruddy hues. Impact craters pockmarked rolling dunes. Twisted heaps of glass I-beams and lateral framework filled the craters. The material showed signs of heat damage.

  “Looks like quite a battle,” Tor said, pointing out the wreckage.

  From the accounts of the survivors, it had been. For the past week, the Jireni training facility had buzzed with tales of the aerial battle. Six aeroshrikes had repelled a mongrel incursion fleet of fifty gunships. Victory had come at an enormous cost. Tomorrow morning’s aeroshrike mission aimed to extract an even steeper price from the inhabitants of Havoc.

  “It’s one thing to hear the stories,” Laoshi said. “It’s another thing to see the aftermath.”

  “We lost three aeroshrikes and five hundred Jireni,” Commander Nehjal said, gaze tacked to the deck’s transparent panels. “If we fail to achieve our objective before the fleet arrives, thousands more will perish.”

  The aeroshrike’s airscrews increased in pitch and volum
e, rattling the seat’s overhead mount. It transmitted high-frequency vibrations into Laoshi’s bones and teeth.

  Nehjal pointed at the deckhead. “Climbing to cruise altitude.”

  The team members acknowledged the checkpoint by tapping a finger on the bridge of their noses. It marked the start of a sequence that would culminate with them plunging into Havoc at one hundred-eighty feet per second. Laoshi tapped his nose and drew a deep breath to settle his nerves. Months of intensive training crystallized in his mind.

  The next checkpoint would come when they passed through ten thousand feet and activated the supplemental oxygen. Clear tubes with tapered bite-frames dangled from the deckhead above each seat for that purpose. They’d remain on oxygen until reaching the exit altitude of twenty thousand feet. That could take three hours or more depending on the headwinds. The signal for off-oxygen would come ten seconds before the jump, followed by the ready signal and—

  “Remember, Jiren Laoshi,” Tor said, voice raised to compete with the airscrews. “If we start taking ground fire, the bridge crew will initiate the jump sequence.” Her smirk smacked of a sneer. “Better to exit early than exit dead.”

  The remark earned a round of fatalistic laughter from the team. Laoshi tried to join in, but his pinched throat made it impossible.

  “And remember to spit out the oxygen tube before the seat restraints unlock,” she added. “You don’t want to leave any teeth behind.”

  More laughter filled the hold. This time, Laoshi didn’t attempt to join in.

  Dominus leaned closer. “Relax! You look like a mourner in a funeral aerostat.”

  Laoshi grinned despite his angst. In many ways, the aeroshrike felt like a funeral aerostat . . . but for whose funeral? He surveyed the five Jireni the fates had placed him among. If forced to lay a wager, he’d have to say it was his own.

  As the newest member of the team, the odds of survival weren’t in his favor. Dominus may have only one combat jump to his tally, but that one jump gave him an enormous advantage—the ability to think under extreme duress. Tor, the Asianoid, Vandarian, and Commander Nehjal had enough collective experience to render them immune to the stress.

  “I’m fine,” he said.

  “You’re sure?”

  Laoshi was sure he wasn’t afraid to die—so long as it came quickly. He was sure he wouldn’t wish death upon any of the others to spare his own life. He knew these men and women as well as anyone on the sterile planet . . . and none better than Dominus. Unfortunately, Dominus could read his mind without so much as a second glance.

  “I just want it to happen,” Laoshi said. “Now.”

  “I felt the same way before my first insertion.”

  “Your only insertion.”

  Dominus shrugged. “That’s still one more than you, my friend.”

  Laoshi sighed. Dominus and the rest of the team had undertaken a week-long reconnaissance in Decay while he convalesced in a medical infirmary in Zhongguo Cheng. This mission’s threat scale encompassed much greater magnitude. They were jumping into the largest of the nine mongrel colonies, but at least his teammates knew what to expect. He was going in blind.

  “Be prepared for the unexpected,” Jiren Vandarian said as if reading Laoshi’s mind. “And remember—nothing ever goes as planned.”

  Laoshi absorbed the advice, but filtered it through a screen of caution. Vandarian had fifteen years seniority on Commander Nehjal. He’d been passed over for promotion seven times. It hadn’t taken long to understand why.

  Vandarian’s philosophical disposition impaired his ability to make quick decisions under pressure. His temperament seemed better suited for a life of study and tutelage with the Libraria. Laoshi should know; his personality carried some of the very same defects. He’d displayed them in his decision—if it could be called that—to join the Jireni.

  Dominus didn’t suffer from the same affliction. He’d written the April S.A.T. a year ago, five months before Laoshi’s test, and joined the Jireni within a week. It hadn’t mattered that his test result offered few other options; Dominus had known what he wanted and went after it.

  Laoshi had spent the better part of six months following his S.A.T. weighing his options. Unlike Dominus, his test result provided a wealth of choices. He could have entered the Cognos Populi, the Libraria or a host of lofty vocations in the city-state. Instead, he’d followed his friend. He was still coming to grips with the decision.

  Laoshi shook off the distracting thought. Sitting in the hold of an aeroshrike bound for Havoc wasn’t the place to second-guess his life choices. For now, his focus would be better arrayed on the upcoming jump.

  Unlike the S.A.T., it offered a thousand novel ways to cull him.

  THE AEROSHRIKE’S AIRSCREWS droned and throbbed. The methodical thrum and accompanying vibration lent an oddly relaxing air to the transit. Laoshi lowered his dozy gaze to the transparent deck below his feet.

  A blackness more total than he’d ever seen lay beyond its panels. The aeroshrike might be over Havoc, arid desert, or the Sea of Storms.

  The air of relaxation evaporated. Angst glutted his stomach, propelling a slug of bile up his gullet. Like Commander Nehjal’s earlier mention of survivors, the murk conveyed an ill portent.

  “Stand by, stand by, stand by!” Nehjal called out from her seat.

  Adrenaline jolted his limbs and purged the pall of doom from his mind. The stand-by call indicated two minutes until the release point. It also signaled the time to don helmets.

  The other team members secured their helmets, their movements measured and intentional. Laoshi removed the oxygen tube from his mouth and snatched his helmet from its cradle by his feet. He fumbled to secure his chin strap, hands trembling.

  “Nearly there!” Dominus said. “You’re going to love it, Laoshi—I promise!”

  “No talking!” Vandarian shouted.

  The undertone of fear in Vandarian’s voice riveted Laoshi’s attention. If a veteran of seventy-five insertions was scared, how should a novice feel?

  He placed his index finger next to his helmet’s chin strap. It picked up the accelerating throb of his carotid artery.

  One hundred-fifty beats per minute. More than double his normal heart rate.

  He boxed his breathing and invoked the mantra.

  Inhale for three seconds.

  Hold for three seconds.

  Exhale for three seconds.

  Hold for—

  A horrendous shriek obliterated the mantra.

  Laoshi pitched sideways. His helmet smacked into the overheard gear assembly. Up forward, men and women screamed.

  Another shrieking crash rocked the aeroshrike. Glittering debris speckled the air. It took a few seconds to recognize its source.

  Shattered armor panels.

  “All positions prepare for emergency exit!” Nehjal shouted, eyes impossibly wide.

  The seat direction prevented him from seeing forward. Whatever had unfolded, it inscribed a look of horror on Nehjal’s face. His other senses told him they’d been hit, but what had—

  His seat rotated forward in a nauseating blur. It jerked to a stop once his belly paralleled the deck. Six glass rings descended from the deckhead, each half-a-foot in diameter. Two dangled within arm’s reach.

  “Take hold!”

  He reached forward and gripped the rings, one in each hand. Dominus and the Asian Jiren took hold of the same pair, connecting the three. The other four rings provided connecting links for the other Jiren.

  Somewhere beneath the swelling panic, he knew the rings’ purpose. Try as he might, he couldn’t elevate the knowledge into his higher conscience.

  “Prepare to release on my mark!”

  Laoshi locked his gaze onto the transparent deck.

  It retracted, leaving naught but a black void between him and the ground twenty thousand feet below. He peered into the gloom.

  Delicate light trails scintillated like ripples in a fountain. They arced skyward, thickening as they
climbed.

  He gasped.

  They were the concussive contrails from supersonic rounds. The mongrels were targeting them.

  Three shimmering contrails grew thicker and thicker, closing on a steady bearing. The sonic rounds would strike the hold in another—

  The seat restraints released in unison. Laoshi’s stomach went hollow.

  He opened his mouth and screamed.

  3

  Aerial Insertion

  AIRSTREAM ROARED IN Laoshi’s ears. An invisible hand had reached into the sky and was yanking him down with malevolent urgency. Another disquieting sensation tunneled into his consciousness—relentless pressure that blasted his torso and limbs.

  He knew he was falling through the atmosphere—belly down, back arched, arms and legs spread—but he had no idea how he’d arrived there. The moments between exiting the aeroshrike and entering free-fall had vanished, erased by the mind-numbing terror of plummeting toward the Earth.

  He lifted his chin and gazed through his helmet’s shuddering faceplate.

  Hundreds of feet above, shimmering contrails slammed into a bulbous black object, visible only thanks to the sheen of its armor panels. Strobing flashes signaled the transformation of sound energy into heat. The aeroshrike’s hydrogen cells ignited seconds later. Brilliant plumes of flame engorged the sky. They seemed to climb away from him, rising impossibly fast.

  His mind wallowed, disconnected from reality, before realizing the explosions weren’t climbing. His body was accelerating away from them at thirty-two feet per second-squared.

  Laoshi gripped the ring connectors so hard he thought his fingers might break. They kept him connected to Dominus and the Asianoid Jiren. The other team members fell in tandem, clustered in a star formation. Luminescent film lent a subtle yellow glow to their faceplates.

  Communication was impossible—even via the helmets’ built-in mics and earpieces. He didn’t need confirmation from the others to know what had happened.