The Ninth

by Benjamin Schramm

  The voice didn’t match her frame. She was skinny as a rail devoid of the curves expected in the female frame. It wasn’t that she was unattractive, but it would be a stretch to characterize any element of her appearance as feminine. Even her dark skin lacked the soft quality usually assigned to her gender. If not for the voice it would be all too easy to mistake her for a male in dire need of a haircut.

  “A formality.” Leonard smiled. “Your vote brings it to two in your favor. He is yours. Plus, I like it like this. Humphrey seems to enjoy the idea, Greg doesn’t seem to care, and Rhea can sharpen her claws on Sanderson for outsmarting her.”

  “But . . .,” Kindra protested futilely.

  Brent took a step toward his new squad leader and tried to bow as gracefully as the tripod had during the last exam. Lowering his head and crossing his arms felt oddly comfortable.

  “I look forward to serving under you.” He wanted to settle the matter so he could finally get some sleep.

  Kindra blushed a little. The other squad leaders raised their eyebrows.

  “Never seen that before,” Humphrey mumbled.

  “Just what is he doing?” Sanderson tilted his head.

  “I think it’s some kind of bow.” Rhea ventured a guess. “Maybe he does come from a rim world after all.”

  “Pardon me, but it has been a long day, and I’m very tired,” Brent said, mildly embarrassed. “Would you mind showing me which bunk is mine?”

  Kindra nodded in resignation and started walking toward the center archway. Brent followed at a respectable distance. He could hear the leaders of the FF talking among themselves behind him. Unlike the troopers in the hallways of the academy, the troopers in the massive common room paid no attention to the newcomer; there were no wide eyed stares, no giggling, nothing. He gathered from Leonard’s rant that the division must be used to new faces. If this was the dumping ground for the other divisions, it was likely that the roster changed after each trial – whatever that was.

  As they neared the archway, Brent could make out troopers relaxing in their bunks, some reading while others stared blankly at the ceiling with a 3P at their side. There were ten bunks on the left wall, each one nestled in open alcoves. On the right wall were nine similar bunks and one closed door. Brent imagined having a private room was a privilege of Kindra’s rank. She stopped beside the doorway.

  “Behind this door are my quarters.” Kindra seemed much more comfortable here than she had been out with the other leaders. “If you enter without my permission, the academy had better be on fire or worse. Hey, Bernard, we got a free bunk?”

  A trooper directly across from Kindra grumpily stirred. He rubbed his eyes as he turned.

  “Free bunk? Nah, all full up since the last trial.” He sounded half dead.

  Content that he had fulfilled his task, the trooper rolled back over. Abruptly he stirred and talked over his shoulder.

  “Hold on, Rolando washed out last week. Bunk nine should be free.” Bernard went back to sleep.

  “Well, there you go,” Kindra said politely. “Sleep well. Oh, and one more thing. Knock off the bowing. We are not exactly big on formalities down here. I don’t know what fancy ceremonies you are used to, but you won’t find them around here.” She nodded politely to him as she entered her quarters.

  Brent made his way down the rows of bunks. They were nestled into large square alcoves in the wall. A bunk rested on one side of the alcove, and a metal locker hugged the opposing side. As he passed other troopers, he spotted a few open lockers. Most contained a few uniforms hung less than neatly. The uniforms were all the green and orange of the FF, his new home. He noticed there was something behind the sloppily hung clothes. None of the lockers were in a tidy enough state for him to get a clear look at whatever it was, but the bright white thing had the appearance of a great big marshmallow.

  Finally, he found the alcove with a nine above it. Unlike every other bunk, his was perfectly made and the locker had a clean sheen. Brent was about to make use of his bunk when a hand slapped his back with unexpected force that sent him stumbling a few steps, tripping, and gracelessly landing on a combination of his chin and pride.

  “Sorry about that,” came a deep voice from behind him. “You looked a bit more hearty from behind. Didn’t expect to send you tumbling.”

  Brent rolled around onto his back and found an outstretched hand waiting to help him up. He followed the arm and found it attached to a short, plump body that failed to match the deepness of the voice. Brent realized he’d seen the trooper before. His name was Cain. He had been the one to walk over the table and his lunch.

  “Plan to sleep there?” the deep voice asked, with a hint of playfulness “It’s fine by me, but I might trip over you in the morning and I doubt you’d enjoy being crushed as a wake up call.”

  “At this point I’d probably sleep through even that,” Brent said as he grabbed the outstretched arm. “It’s been one of those days.”

  As Cain helped him up, Brent noticed his eyes widened. He had just realized whom he was helping up.

  “Wait a minute, aren’t you . . .” Cain’s voice trailed off.

  “Brent. Pleased to meet you.” He waited for it to sink in.

  “From recruit group C? That Brent?”

  “Unless I have a double . . . well another double, that would be me.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Attempting to get some rest; that’s what one normally does in their bunk at night, I trust.”

  “Wait, you have a bunk here? That means . . .”

  “I’m a part of the FF.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  Cain stared at Brent for a few moments then broke into thunderous laughter.

  “Welcome to the FF!” Cain smiled warmly as his voice took on the quality of a salesman. “After your performance today I figured you’d be adopted by a grade so far up I’d never see you again.”

  “Things really that bad?” Brent raised an eyebrow.

  “Let me put it like this: the FF hasn’t won a trial for as long as I’ve been here. We are a permanent resident of the washout grade.”

  “Washout grade?”

  “Well, technically we are in the twenty-fifth grade, but everyone calls it the washout grade. Simply put, there is no lower place to sink to. If you fail here you get a one-way pass back to wherever you came from.”

  “But no pressure, right?” Brent joked.

  “I wouldn’t worry. Anyone with talent gets adopted out of here. You probably won’t have to endure the FF past the next trial.”

  “What does FF mean anyways?”

  “Fighting Freaks!” a muffled voice shouted from behind him.

  Brent turned his head and glanced behind him, only to find a helmet with a reflective faceplate mirroring his face back at him. For a moment he bobbed his head making sure it was a reflection and not another double. As the mirror image matched him move for move he was confident he wasn’t looking at another double like the one in the combat exam. Studying the rest of the figure, he realized it was the same shape and color of the giant marshmallows he had seen in the lockers.

  “This armored thing is the blushing beauty of Kindra’s reserve forces,” Cain introduced the bulky figure, “the proud third squadron of the illustrious Finbarr’s . . .”

  Before Cain could finish his sentence the suited person leaped at him. However, with Brent between them, Cain had enough time to anticipate the lunge. Cain quickly dove under the leap and tapped something on the left forearm of the suit that started a strange hissing sound. Recovering from the failed attempt to grab Cain, the suit spun around. However, the helmet of the suit continued along the original leap, leaving the rest of the suit behind. Brent found himself face to face with that of a girl. Cain was now standing behind him and was laughing thunderously again. Brent paid no attention to the laughter as his attention was solely fixed on the person standing before him. From the neck down she was still enc
ased in a bulbous white shell that gave her the appearance of a living being made entirely out of marshmallows.

  With the helmet now lying helplessly on the floor he could tell she had earned her nickname. She was indeed pretty. She stood perfectly still as Brent studied her. He had only noticed in passing that she had been of normal complexion, but now he realized that in the few moments since she lost the helmet, her face had actually noticeably changed to a deep red. He could not tell if she was angry with Cain and his laughter or embarrassed under Brent’s close inspection, but he was certain that she was getting steadily redder, almost unnaturally so. As the reddening continued to the level of a bright red apple, he began to worry. Perhaps she needed the helmet for survival. He rested his hand on her forehead to see if she had a fever, and, while she was warm, it was not that great a temperature as to indicate illness.

  Two things happened immediately after he felt her temperature with his hand. The first was her eyes widened in an instant look of total surprise, and the second was that in the blink of an eye she was gone. Brent turned around and watched as the marshmallow girl moved with a speed he didn’t think was possible in the suit she wore. He then leaned over and grabbed the helmet that was now rolling around aimlessly and noticed that Cain’s laughter had stopped. He stood back up with the helmet in hand and turned to face Cain squarely, who was still staring down the hallway after the girl in the suit with a look of complete surprise.

  “Who was that?” Brent asked, waving the helmet. “Will she be okay without this?”

  “Hmm?” came the absentminded response that was more of a humming sound than a response.

  Brent stared at Cain puzzlingly until finally Cain seemed to come back to reality.

  “Did you say something?” Cain asked absentmindedly.

  “Yes, I asked you who she was and if she needs this.” Again Brent indicated the helmet.

  “That was Cassandra. She gets a kick out of scaring the life out of the new troopers by sneaking up on them in full gear.”

  “So she doesn’t need the helmet?”

  “Oh, she’ll want it back no doubt. But it’s not like her life depends on it or anything.”

  “So what was all that about? I seemed to lose you for a minute there.”

  “Just a bit surprised, that’s all. Look, I’ve been here in this division for over two years, and that was the first time I’ve seen sunburn Sandra not knock someone out for looking at her face. Let alone touch her. When you made contact, I was dead certain I was going to need a mop and a bucket to collect what was left of you.”

  “Well then, I guess it’s a relief to be alive. Wait a minute. If you knew she was going to beat the tar out of me when I saw her face, why did you disconnect her helmet?” Brent asked with a hint of annoyance entering his voice.

  “I assumed she would have had the common sense to hold on to the thing; didn’t think she’d carelessly let it fall off her head. When it did go flying I couldn’t help but laugh at her. She is always so careful to cover her face. For her to let herself be exposed so easily, and to the new guy, it was just too much – I had to laugh.”

  “You seem to think lowly of the marshmallow girl.”

  At that Cain laughed so hard that Brent worried Kindra in her private room would hear him. It took a while, but Cain’s laughter subsided, and he placed a hand on Brent’s shoulder.

  “You’ve got guts, I have to admit that, but a word of advice. Never, ever, call her that again, not in public, not in private, not even to me. It’s not smart to intentionally upset a heavy-worlder.”

  “Heavy-worlder?”

  “Cassandra is from a heavy gravity world on the rim. She’s spent her entire life in gravity that would make it hard for you or me to even breathe. As a result, with the academy’s standard gravity, she is as strong as ten troopers – at least.

  “Is that why she turns so red?”

  “No idea. I’m not a doctor and I don’t dare ask. In her book, just staring at her face is a capital offense; asking about it would be an atrocity beyond all others.”

  “Let me get this straight. She has the strength of ten troopers, and yet you make fun of her? What’s worse, you just made me commit a ‘capital offense.’”

  “She seems to tolerate some joking around, although I do have to mind her temper. You, on the other hand, I don’t think you need to worry at all.”

  “Why’s that?

  “I think she is scared of you.”

  Brent stared blankly at Cain. He wasn’t sure if he should have felt pleased at the prospect of someone who could snap him in two at the slip of the tongue being afraid of him or sheer disappointment at the prospect of a pretty girl being petrified of him. Noticing the serious look on Brent’s face, Cain smiled and patted him on the shoulder.

  “You worry too much. After what you’ve been through today, what’s one more perilous encounter?” Cain chuckled.

  “With a girl like that in the squad, it’s more like I’m wondering whom I should make my will out to.”

  “Leave me the good stuff. I wouldn’t give it much thought, though. Things tend to work themselves out. Try to get a good night’s rest.” Cain was still laughing as he wandered off toward the back of the long row of alcoves.

  Finally free of distractions, Brent laid down on his neat bunk. Exhaustion pulled at his eyelids. As he drifted off to sleep he took a final glance at the helmet. Why was it that the most beautiful things in nature were always the most deadly?

  Chapter 10: Assessment

  A gentle progression of three tones awoke Brent. He sat up and felt his forehead. It was completely dry. For the first time in his life he had awoken peacefully. His dreams weren’t peaceful and the normal nightmare had awaited him, but having lived through it had stunted its sting. It was also comforting to remember bits and pieces of the dream after he awoke. He knew had dreamt of the final exam with the gaping maw. A shiver ran down his spine as he recalled the eerie light seeping out of the thing in orbit.

  Shaking his head he put thoughts of the previous day to the side and stretched. Getting out of his bunk, Brent turned and made the bed. He suddenly realized he was the only one up and about. The other troopers were still lazing in bed. As he watched the others contently cuddle with their sheets, an unpleasant odor wafted past his nose. It stuck him he had been quite active the previous day, and he couldn’t remember the last time he had showered. Fetching his pad from the locker where he had stored it the night before, he started searching for any information on the facilities of the academy.

  After a few minutes of random searching, Brent couldn’t find anything useful. Whoever had organized data on the pad had done a poor job of it. It almost felt as if the system had been designed to be intentionally counterintuitive. Glancing around him he found the other recruits still lazing. Brent sighed quietly to himself. All he wanted was a shower. Why was it when he needed assistance there was never anyone handy? As he put the pad down he noticed the display had changed; it wasn’t on the last page he had pulled up. Studying the new image he quickly realized it was a map. At his fingertips was a detailed map of the entire academy. In no time he had located the nearest facility. It was a massive complex apparently serving the needs of at least ten divisions.

  As he was about to head out he realized he didn’t have a change of clothes. The night before he had only tossed his pad in the locker after he had rolled on top of it in the middle of the night, and it had jabbed him awake. Investigating the locker more closely, he found three uniforms, all of them the same type as those worn by the Weavers. His stomach churned uneasily as he realized he would have to wear the same uniform as those disgusting brats. A small patch of green and orange on the right shoulder was the only place that identified which division he belonged to. There was another uniform, but it was much more detailed and rigid, obviously for formal ceremonies and the like. Behind the four uniforms was the giant white marshmallow. Cain had said Cassandra wore her “gear” all the time, but didn’t say
how it worked. For now, the only use Brent could make out would be as a beach ball.

  Grabbing one of the standard Weaver outfits, Brent headed toward the archway to the common room. After a couple of steps he stopped and turned back to his bunk. Gently placing his new clothes on the bed, he grabbed the loose helmet and headed down the rows of alcoves in the direction the girl had run the night before. Brent had no way of telling which bunk belonged to her, of course, but he had a feeling he wouldn’t have any trouble spotting it. As he passed bunk after bunk, he watched the troopers toss and turn, attempting to steal as many more minutes of sleep as they could.

  Finally, Brent found what he was looking for. Unlike the other bunks, he came to one that was completely covered in sheets; every inch of its occupant was covered from head to toe. Resting against the locker was a headless suit. As he placed the helmet back where it belonged, the suit made a soft hissing sound. The helmet disappeared as the rest of the suit seemed to ingest it. The arms got shorter and shorter. The legs vanished. In fifteen seconds the entire suit had collapsed into itself and now rested before him as a giant solid white metal marshmallow. The bunk’s occupant shifted uneasily. Brent quickly headed back to his own bunk, grabbed his Weaver uniform, and headed out to the common room.

  He expected the room to be empty as the rest of the division slept, however there were two neat rows of troopers already assembled near the doorway leading to the hallway. Brent kept a safe distance behind them as they left the common room. They seemed to be headed in the same direction he was. He followed them as they snaked down the corridors of the station. Every now and then he would spot another group of troopers moving in similar formation. When the two columns came to a stop, Brent checked his pad. They had reached the communal facilities. In pairs of two the troopers entered the new room as their squad leader stood outside the doorway. Brent recognized him as Sanderson, the one who had gotten him into Kindra’s squad.

  “Early riser I see.” Sanderson smiled at Brent as he entered.

  The room was easily twice the size of the common room. The floor was covered in a square grid pattern. In the distance he could make out an uneven wall of foggy white. Brent’s study of the uneven wall abruptly ended when one of the grids on the floor rose, encasing a trooper in an opaque square of foggy white. Only a rough silhouette of the trooper was still visible, with all details obscured in some kind of privacy screen.