Koban: Rise of the Kobani

by Stephen W Bennett

  This commonly collected data started your records for the project, but contained no personal history or medical background. It only put your name on a company roster, and on a black Smart Fabric jumpsuit, which hinted at the carbon fiber exomuscle suit you could earn.

  Half of those issued jumpsuits would not finish the following week. Therefore, a detailed personal history was not collected because it might not matter. The “jumpsuits,” their collective group name, were sent to enjoy hell week, with “The First Son of a Bitch,” to pick out the truly dedicated, unyielding and most motivated candidates from the chaff. From that final group, the personal histories and medical background would finally matter.

  SOB-1was Special Ops Base number one. If you eventually made it through SOB-5, following twenty months of progression, you were a full-fledged graduate Special Operations troop, with eye and nerve implants, internal drug vials, and a booster suit to make you a semi- superman. You became a “new” citizen of Human Space, without a prior history if you didn’t want one.

  It was at Port Andropov where Noreen intended to infiltrate three of her TGs, Jorl Breaker, Yilini Jastrov, and Fred Saber, her second TG1, posing as candidates where they would pretend to “just make it” through the week of rugged planet-side exercise, and be sent on to SOB-1. She intended to allow them to fly stealthed single ships to within walking distance on different sides of the sprawling town, the only sizable city on Heavyside. Kap would remotely fly the single ships back to the Avenger. The latter was a feature they never knew the clanships and small craft had, until Kap proposed to pilot them home after a risk of discovery was discussed for the hidden craft.

  At SOB-1, Tet hoped they could discover more about what direction the Special Ops top command would be taking in the future. There should be doctors and researchers there with knowledge of those plans. If the hint Carson received from Mind Tapping Colonel Trakenburg, via a handshake were accurate, there was an intriguing possibility they could be about to try genetic enhancements. Trakenburg himself hoped the PU Army might be ready to embark on a genetic improvement program, unaware it would be similar to the one the Kobani had nearly completed. There might be a commonality of purpose, where they could cooperate, and give them a huge head start on the genetic research learning curve.

  If that wasn’t the case, Koban could keep its secrets, and wait for the time when the Hub government and its citizens were ready to accept them, or not, if that never happened.

  There was no possibility that Noreen would allow her TGs to be held against their will, assuming the camp had anyone that could hold them, once they had the answer to the questions and were ready to leave. She could drop down in stealth mode with twenty-four Chameleon Skin flex armor equipped TGs if needed, to pick them up, or the three might just steal transportation back towards Port Andropov and wait for her at any spot in between. SOB-1 was a hundred eight miles from the spaceport, ample room to get her people back. The new transducers would reach the ship if she held station in stealth at seventy miles once a day, at noon local and then back away to a higher ninety-minute orbit.

  ****

  Jorl made his way through the farming district on the east side of the Port city, drawing no particular attention as he walked in on a gravel two-lane road. He’d first stepped onto it five miles from the closest rabbit proof fencing. The mirrored single ship lifted well after he passed the edge of the first planted field, slipping through the atmosphere for over thirty minutes, to avoid a turbulence trail or contrail that might be noticed as it had done on entry.

  The number of rabbits surprised him, and made him curious, because he’d never seen one. They were apparently unafraid of him, despite having originally been introduced as a local food animal. They had far outgrown the demand for their meat, and wild ones were safe unless they were too slow to get out of the way of the occasional vehicle. He passed several dried and flattened examples in that category.

  Finding the spaceport was no problem, because all roads were like spokes of a wheel, the hub being the control tower and navigation beacon at the hub of the wheel. That was in front of him the entire way, with some low buildings across this roadway that were constructed on the periphery of the one-mile radius landing area.

  There were other people on the road ahead of him, some walking his way, some towards the port, and some crossed it on streets that circled the city. There was occasional truck traffic, with people sitting in the open backs, apparently going to work on one of the farms. His fellow TGs would be walking in from other sectors of the town, and the foot traffic would not look particularly unusual to anyone that noticed them. Even their homespun Koban made clothes seemed to fit in when he passed a few people that nodded or waved slightly as he encountered them.

  They all seemed to nearly drag their feet and slump when they walked. He became aware that he looked much more comfortable, walking with a lighter step and no slump to his shoulders. He’d just left the Avenger, where the gravity was maintained at Koban normal, and this was seven percent less. Not to mention the fact that he could run miles in this gravity and jump higher than twenty feet flatfooted. He made his shoulders slump slightly, and stopped lifting his feet quite so high.

  When he neared the closest-to-port radial road, which circled the landing field just outside the row of buildings blocking his radial street, vehicle activity had picked up. There was quite a bit of traffic here, and about a mile ago, the gravel road had become paved. That was where he encountered the electrified slats in the roadway. There was a mobile robot laser system just beyond that, to keep wild rabbit pests out of the town center, and collect their remains.

  There were sidewalks on both side of the three-lane street that circled the cargo buildings around the port. The buildings that gradually replaced fenced fields and food processing sheds had become homes and small businesses. There were street signs at every intersection, but the names and numbers didn’t mean anything to Jorl. He saw a man at a loading dock of one of the port buildings, placing boxes in the back of one of the small trucks. He swallowed his nervousness and walked over.

  “Excuse me, Sir, can I get some directions?”

  The man glanced up at him and saw his youth, fitness, and relatively clean clothes, compared to his own anyway, and drew the obvious conclusion. “Looking for the prelim camp?”

  “Prelim camp? Is that where…” he was interrupted.

  “That’s the place where you new arrivals are normally sent right off the ships, for preliminary indoctrination and physical conditioning. You’re looking to join spec ops ain’t you?”

  “Yes Sir, but I wanted to walk around and see the town first.”

  The man laughed. “I bet you’ve had your fill of that by now. From that direction,” he pointed back the way Jorl had come, “you were on the opposite side of town from even the few bars we have by the terminal and port. That’s pretty dull pickings for an off-worlder. If you have that much pep and energy, to stroll in this gravity for recreation, you might last longer than most of the patriotic but flabby kids that come here. I wish you luck kid.” Pausing just briefly, he added, “Say, considering the distance around the A ring, I can save your legs a bit and give you a lift to the induction center if you like.”

  “I take it this street is the A Ring?” He’d seen a sign.

  “It is, and I have a pickup to take over closer to the main terminal, a few doors from the camp entrance. Want that ride, or do you intend to jog?” The man laughed pleasantly, but he obviously didn’t think Jorl could go that distance. Tempted to race him in his beat up old truck, Jorl instead accepted his offer.

  When they arrived, Jorl could see a sizable cluster of mostly young men, and a handful of sturdy looking young women, gathered around a gate to a fenced off area. They apparently had disembarked from two large buses that were just pulling away.

  “Thanks for the ride, Mike.” He shook hands and got out of the beat up old truck.

  The man who had introduced himself on the ride said, “L
ike I told you, Jorl, I wish you luck. We need the fighters. If you don’t make it here, I hope you try one of the other forces. I spent three years fighting in the PUA on Bollovstic, and if I had not lost both legs at the knees and been evacuated for regrowth, I’d have died there when the bastards sealed it off. I’ll fight them again before they get to the Hub worlds. I’m going to be in better shape next time, living here for a few years.”

  Jorl looked at him with considerably more respect than the casual friendship he offered had already earned him. “I will, Sir, I promise I’ll be fighting the Krall some place.”

  As the truck drove off, Jorl saw Yil in the back of the crowd looking at him. He walked over, seeing that the gate wasn’t open yet, and several men were walking towards the gate from inside the compound. Yil stepped a bit farther from the back of the group to speak with Jorl.

  “Fred is near the front of the pack, he’s been Tapping people as he asks questions, seeing what pops into their minds. Did you realize that these are the first new people we’ve ever met in our life? I know everyone at home.”

  “You meant you’ve seen all their faces. There are a lot of people we see but don’t really know.”

  “Then you will appreciate how many new faces we are seeing here. I do think I’ve met everyone our age at home.”

  “That means here they don’t know you either. Which is a bit of good luck for you. You should take advantage, and score while you can.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Jorl pointed to two of the stocky, muscular, and homely young women that were trying out for Special Ops. “They don’t know you, so they haven’t had their ass dumped by you yet. You should ask one of them out on a date.” He laughed, reminding Yil of the number of girls he’d asked out just one time, never to repeat. He had a reputation as a never love ‘em, always leave ‘em sort of guy.

  Not denying the truth of the comment, he said, “They’re almost ugly!”

  “It isn’t as if you’ll be seeing them again.”

  “You’re an ass sometimes, Jorl.”

  “I get second dates, I must do something right.” He chuckled.

  A small cheer sounded as the double gates swung open and gruff, loud voices told them, “Run over to the reception area. What the hell are you flabby morons doing standing there? Move! Move! Move!”

  And so, a boring week began for the three TGs, pretending to be exhausted each night and having to flick water surreptitiously on their faces and shirts to simulate sweat. Heavyside was mildly warm at this early fall time, but there was nothing that the exercise could do to provoke heavy perspiration on any of the heat adapted young men.

  They followed instructions and stayed just behind the fastest runners, did other calisthenics a bit slower, or collapsed at the same time as the best of the other candidates. Their goal was to be in the top five or ten percent, well above the cutoff point, but not too noticeable or outstanding.

  They actually did encounter one problem they had not considered. Even if not pushed hard, their metabolisms demanded a high calorie, high protein diet, and the food provided met that requirement, but it just wasn’t served in enough quantity to satisfy them. They discovered there were those that were on their way to dropping out, and the regimen was actually making them sick to their stomach, killing their appetites. In the guise of helping them, they sat with them, urged them on and boosted their spirits, and coincidentally helped them hide the fact they were unable to finish their portions, a sure sign that a hopeful was on a downhill slide. The extra food was enough to keep the TGs from being noticed by asking for seconds at every meal.

  When the week ended, they were easily placed in the group that was directed to sit at a console to talk to an AI. They gave it their name, real or phony didn’t matter to spec ops. They provided scans of their hand and footprints for quick battlefield identification (parts could be blown off so they took all four), retinal scans for security access (eyes could be regrown but not duplicated), and a swab of DNA for graves registration (they were told). Then they tossed away the temporary and daily disposable exercise clothes they were issued each morning, and slipped into black jumpsuits with their name on the left chest. These fit remarkably well, proving their bodies had been scanned at some point to make the patterns.

  Surprising all three of the TGs, was one of the now somewhat trimmed down women who had made it to this point. It made them wonder if Alyson should have come with them, as a second TG1. Only, it was obvious that her pretty face and shapely figure would have been the focus of far too much attention when she kept up with the best of the men. Because of that, her eating like a voracious bear would be noticed, simply by sitting with some lucky close-to-washing-out male that shared food with her.

  At least one of them had been able to report in to Captain Renaldo nearly each day when she lowered the stealthed ship to seventy miles over Port Andropov, and often all three could Link at lunchtime. She told them the ship’s remote viewing system was able to identify them on many cloud free days. Alyson spoke to them one day and playfully told Yil he must have already asked the one remaining young lady out on a date.

  He sounded defensive. “We don’t get any time away, besides, she started out butt ugly and muscled, and slimming down through running hasn’t helped her looks. What made you think I’d dated her?”

  “We saw that she sat near you at breakfast this morning, and you didn’t even look her way. Ignoring old flames is your trademark, right, Yil?” Her laughter tinkled through his transducer and the transducers of the other two TGs. They grinned as his face turned red.

  He had asked Alyson out once, even if she was a year older. She told him she had heard of his love-‘em and leave-‘em one-night stands. She kept reminding him of that reputation whenever the opportunity arose.

  Jorl chimed in, “He won’t get another chance to ask her out either. We take a bus to SOB-1 after lunch. After hell week, she’ll be lost to his charms forever. She barely made it through this last week.”

  The TGs were clustered at a bench in isolation, eating their rations and pretending to talk to one another to cover their transducer conversations with the Avenger. Normally one or two of them would be boosting the morale of a candidate that was on the verge of quitting, picking at their subject’s uneaten food as the exhausted man listened to their encouragement. Today, only the candidates that had passed this round of physical testing had the black jumpsuits. It was going to be a hungry bus trip for the three.

  They arrived at the first SOB after the normal dinner hour, spending four hours on jouncy dirt roads, which took the jubilant “jumpsuits” to their first actual Special Ops training base. The arrival time came after the normal meal service for the camp staff, so there was a help yourself chow line set up, and the TGs heavily loaded their trays and split up to sit with men whom they had established as casual acquaintances in the past week.

  They learned the previous cycle of trainees had moved on to SOB-2 several days earlier. They would be here for six weeks, as their bodies were acclimated to Heavyside’s gravity.

  The TGs wanted simply to blend in with the group. Nevertheless, they had unwittingly attracted some degree of attention from the spec ops NCOs that had put them through their paces this past week. They were looking for men that had demonstrated signs of teamwork, or team building attitudes, as well as physical ability. The three TGs, although deliberately not excelling at the exercise, and who had selfish motives for their encouragement of the poorly performing candidates, were identified as three potential squad leaders, two per platoon of the six platoons that would start training tomorrow.

  This resulted in the TGs being separated and sent to different platoons, for what they were all told would be a very short night of sleep. The activities they expected to be conducting in the morning were apparent from the mile oval track and practice courses laid out, which they saw in the fading light of their arrival. It appeared to be a larger version of the obstacle course in the crater on Pold
ark, built for the TGs in Captain Mirikami’s group. In short, it was a kindergarten playground. With the first full stomach’s they had experienced for a week, the TGs settled in for a comfortable nap.

  They were assigned bunks, single level two-foot high narrow pallets, seven feet long, with an empty chest at the foot, and an equally empty wall locker several feet from the head, sixteen bunks total, and eight per side. Jorl was assigned the first billet inside the main entryway, on the left. They were told to strip to their skivvies, and slip between a slit in the fabric located a bit below the raised built in pillow at the head. It was surprisingly comfortable, and cozy. The fabric of the top could be pulled up to your neck or pushed down to your waist, and if you kicked for slack, it stretched to give it to you. This bunk was one of the best feeling beds Jorl had ever laid on, although a few gripes were heard about how narrow they were. He was asleep in minutes after the lights were out.

  To their surprise, when they were awakened at a “late” hour, 0500, they were fed, and then led to an auditorium where they were told they would meet the base commander, their training staff, and then talk to some doctors. It sounded even more boring than the tame looking obstacle course.

  Jorl saw Fred and Yil with their respective platoons as they filed in and sat in Living Plastic chairs, which rose from the malleable preprogramed floor, each row color-coded for the platoons and eight man squads. “So you morons won’t sit in the wrong sections,” an NCO told them as they entered.

  Jorl was in the dark blue squad and their section was second row from the front, behind the light blue squad, and by virtue of his last name of Breaker, he found he was close to the center of his alphabetically sorted squad. He was seated near the center of the second row of seats, looking up at a three-foot elevated stage, with a podium to the left side, and a number of Living Plastic chairs up there as well. He noticed that the chairs the trainees used were hard and unyielding, something that had to be programmed into the plastic matrix to keep them rigid. This was a subtle object lesson that they wanted you uncomfortable and awake.