by JN Chaney
That was all assuming they even let Terry go to the surface. The instructor said it could happen, but never that it would. Despite Doctor Byrne’s optimism, there was no guarantee that the children could make the transition. It might all be a pipe dream.
“It’s not good to think so much about it,” John said one afternoon in class. “They told us it probably wouldn’t happen anyway, right?”
“Right,” Terry said. Besides, he didn’t know if he even wanted to go.
Mei’s head popped out from behind John. “Hey, what are you talking about?” she asked. “Of course we’re going to go.”
John let out a sigh. “Come on, Mei, don’t get your hopes up.”
“It’s not a matter of hope, John. It’s a matter of fact. Use your head and you’ll see. I’ve got the highest GPA in the class, and Terry’s right behind me. You’re the best athlete, and your grades aren’t that bad.”
“Gee, thanks,” he said.
“Look, I’m just saying we’ve each got a pretty good chance of getting chosen.”
“Why would they care about our grades?” asked Terry.
“Because you need all kinds of people,” she said. “Once we’re up there, someone has to use the equipment.” She looked at John. “Smart people. You know, so they won’t mess it up.”
John frowned.
“It’s okay,” said Mei, patting him on the shoulder. “You can be there to protect us while we do the important stuff.”
“You think they’d let me?” he asked. “Would I get a cool gun, like the soldiers?”
“Probably, but I don’t know what you’d use it on.”
“Yeah,” said Terry. “It’s not like there’s anybody there.”
“Maybe there’s other stuff,” said John.
“Like what? There’s nothing around but dirt and rocks,” said Mei.
“Rock monsters, duh!”
Terry laughed. “Makes sense.”
“They’d be ten feet tall, big and tough,” said John. “Some would even have boulders for heads.”
Mei covered her eyes. “Oh, no!” she cried. “What should we do?”
John pretended to hold an invisible gun. “Don’t worry, guys! I’ll protect you.”
Mei giggled. “Thanks, you’re the best.”
“Don’t mention it,” he said, grinning. “Somebody’s gotta protect you little geniuses.”
*******
July 19, 2344
The Academy, Central
Terry moved with the gun across his chest, pointing the barrel toward the ground. He was having an easier time today. The rifles were new designs—less bulky than the last ones—and he quickly discovered a better way to carry them. Each of the weapons had a small hook near the trigger, making it possible for Terry to attach the weapon to his vest. He wasn’t holding it so much as he was wearing it on his chest. It was still heavy, but now at least he could gather enough strength to aim and move. The hook made everything so much easier.
He lowered his visor and moved into the arena. It was darker than the last time, meant to simulate the night. There wouldn’t be much light on the surface, Nuber had said, so of course they’d need to practice using the goggles, otherwise known as the MX-09.
The MX-09s were a set of goggles that allowed the wearer to switch between several kinds of vision, including infrared, night, and standard vision. It was the first time Terry had ever used them, but it didn’t matter. The basics were simple. Infrared only showed warm bodies and nothing else, leaving most of the room in darkness. It was only really useful in open areas. Because of this, some of the other students seemed to be favoring night vision. It let the wearer see everything in shades of bright green—disorientating at first, but bearable once you got the hang out it.
Terry flipped between the three views and began to plan his attack. He’d begin in infrared so that he could find his opponents, then back to the night vision when he decided to move around. He fumbled with the controls at first, sometimes forgetting which direction he needed to spin the wheel to get the type of vision he wanted, but after a while, he got the hang of it. Once he thought he was proficient enough, he found a post and watched the others move through the battlefield. He spotted four opponents total. They moved frantically, mostly without any purpose. He wondered which setting their goggles were on, but as he observed them, it became more apparent. The one on the left is using infrared. He’s just sitting there, ducked behind a cube. The other one to the right is using night vision because he’s staying low and moving, but he has no idea where anyone is. Had none of them thought to use both?
Oh, sure, the others were probably changing them every few minutes, but Terry had taken to switching every few seconds. Between that and the newly discovered hook he’d found on his weapon, things were looking up. Now all he needed was a kill.
The one using the infrared—he’d be the easiest. He and another student were currently exchanging fire. If he hurried, Terry might be able to steal a kill without getting caught.
He dashed, his gun still hooked to his vest. He stopped quickly, switched his vision back, and saw the glowing red of the enemy, still in the same place. He’s pinned, thought Terry. Now’s my chance.
He ran to the rear of the target, unhooking his weapon and setting it on the cube nearby. He aimed it at the unsuspecting student’s backside and felt his hands trembling. Terry was clumsy with the gun, the metal difficult to grasp, and it was heavier now in his arms, heavier than when it was on his vest. He was careful, though, and he waited until he had the shot. He switched between the two visions a few more times, trying to decide which one provided the easiest kill. He decided on night and fired.
There was a loud buzz over the intercom, and Terry heard the computer say, “Player Three retired.” The “retired” soldier threw his arms up in a fit of aggravation and walked toward the exit. Once he departed the arena, another signal to continue followed.
He watched the remaining two soldiers, their sights now turned on one another. Terry moved the wheel to infrared and ducked behind the cube. He watched the red blur shift and move a little, placing his weapon on the mount and facing the other player. The student didn’t appear to be worrying about Terry at all. Perhaps he didn’t view him as much of a threat. Maybe I can use this, Terry thought.
He switched back to green, hooked his weapon, and moved along the outer wall of the arena, staying as far out of the others’ views as he could manage.
About halfway to the next cube, the buzzer rang and the computer’s voice erupted from the speakers. “Player One retired.” Another dead, but not his target. The signal to continue followed quickly, and Terry dashed to his next cube, his point of attack.
He made it, but he immediately took a knee and unhooked the metal weight he called a gun, placing it on the floor. He panted for a moment and once composed readied his position, switching to red and locating the target.
He took aim, carefully, slowly, and fired. He missed. The other player returned fire, sending several beams of light in his direction. Terry fell to his knees, dodging them. Almost lost it, he thought.
The enemy continued firing light beams a foot above his head, making it impossible to get a view. He flipped to green and scanned the area. The cube nearby extended to another, which had a mount in the middle, allowing for some firing cover. I need to keep him focused on this spot. Terry lifted the rifle above his head and fired blindly in the other direction. The enemy returned fire overhead.
Terry moved along the little walls until he found the elevated mount and switched between red and green. He focused his aim and fired at the unsuspecting student.
The buzzer sounded. “Player Four retired,” the digital voice announced. The lights immediately came on.
“Alright, everyone out of the arena,” said Mr. Nuber.
Had Terry actually won? He decided not to ask. Using the hook might be a violation, which meant he could get into trouble.
&
nbsp; He placed his weapon on the rack and approached the rest of the group as it formed. Mr. Nuber was already talking. “It went alright, this being everyone’s first time with the new goggles. I won’t ask you how they felt, because frankly it doesn’t matter. You’ll have to get used to them. What I will ask is how many of you stuck to only one viewpoint for most of the battle? Don’t lie to me, because I have recordings of each and every one of your feeds from the drill.” Most of them raised a hand. “That’s what I thought. Now, how many of you rotated them? And I don’t mean once or twice or even five times. I mean often. At least once every ten or fifteen seconds.” He looked around. Only a few hands went up, including Terry’s. “One, two, three. Seems about right. Three out of twenty-two used those goggles correctly. And according to the data I’ve got, those three were also the winners in their designated arenas. Interesting, don’t you think, class?” They all nodded. “Of course it is! Now you’ll have about two days to get used to switching between those two types of sight. Afterwards I’m gonna enable a third. A few days after that, a fourth.” Some of the students gasped. Terry couldn’t blame them. It was difficult enough to switch between two, let alone four.
“It doesn’t end there,” said Mr. Nuber, almost grinning. “You’ll get to experience some other upgrades in time, and you’ll need to learn how to utilize them all without question. No stopping to think about if it’s the right situation or if you have enough time. You’ll just do it and that’ll be it. We’re gonna rewire your little brains to do all kinds of things. Believe me when I tell you that multi-tasking is everything in combat. If you can’t keep up, you’re dead, so you gotta be quick about it.”
After that, and to Terry surprise, he dismissed them. Not a word about the hook. Maybe he’ll talk about it tomorrow, once he looks at the feeds.
But when the next day came, Terry used the hook again, and Mr. Nuber acted as though it didn’t matter, going on instead about how they needed to be faster and less clumsy. Move around the battlefield. Don’t stand in one place the whole time. You can’t hit a target if you’re only using infrared. Think of night vision like it’s your normal vision, and then switch to red and do a quick sweep to verify your enemy’s position, and do it often. Come on, idiots. You can do this!
So Terry didn’t stop…and Nuber never brought it up. Maybe it really is fair, he thought on the third day. Maybe that’s the point, to do whatever you can to win. So he started trying other things he wasn’t sure about, other tactics and tricks to give him the upper hand. He left his shoes and other pieces of his gear behind a cube in order to move quietly and faster through the arena. The others still saw him with the infrared, but he didn’t get so exhausted from all the extra gear anymore and he was able to go longer without stopping. As a result, he got more kills. Another day he moved a few of the smaller cubes around to form a kind of structure, hiding behind them and observing the others as they fought their little battles. At the end of the fight, when only one remained, Terry emerged and grabbed the kill, winning the match.
He was never criticized for his tactics. Every time he tried another scheme, a way to beat the system, Nuber said nothing and let him go on cheating. So Terry began to win. Not often, but still enough for it to matter. Enough that he wasn’t the slowest or the weakest in the class anymore. Instead, he was somewhere in the middle. Better than terrible. Worse than okay. It was mediocrity. Wonderful, beautiful, unnoticeable mediocrity.
*******
December 23, 2344
The Maternity District
Being the matron was hard work.
Mara had never been a part of the administration, even in her later years as a mother. Her only experiences were with raising children, organizing, performing and closing contracts, and being the occasional mentor to a younger sister. In all that time, she’d never been asked to play the politician.
Now things were different. Now she was the matron. Every day when she arrived at her newly furnished office, two or three dozen emails awaited her attention. They ranged from contract approvals to additional supply requests to petty complaints and even gossip. Nearly all of them claimed to be an emergency.
It didn’t take Mara long—little more than a week—to learn how to filter the letters. Grouping the contract approvals together, for example, streamlined her work and made it easier to quickly and efficiently respond to each and every email. Within the month, once she’d managed to establish a routine, it only took an hour and a half to get through the entire inbox.
This was a necessity, she quickly realized, since she was also required to attend several weekly meetings. Every morning, she met with her senior staff who oversaw the everyday work required to keep the wheels in the organization turning. She had meetings with the science department and the military separately, then she had joint meetings with the science department and the military. Bishop and Archer never came, claiming they were too busy to be pulled away. Gone were the days when the three heads of state gathered together to discuss their business. Now Archer and Bishop met privately without Mara, or so she had heard. In their stead, they sent subordinates, usually Captain Avery Ross and Doctor Byrne. Each was pleasant enough, but every meeting became a reminder of the other leaders’ disapproval, and it made Mara hate them all the more.
Byrne seemed fine, but he sometimes rambled a little too much and lingered a little too long. Mara suspected it had something to do with his age. He was nearing seventy-five and was rapidly losing his capacity to give a shit.
Ross wasn’t bad, not like some of the other military officials—or brats, as the mothers liked to call them. The captain carried herself well, acted respectfully to everyone she met, no matter the person’s designation, and always spoke in a manner that was both direct and dignified. The fact that she was a female had surprised Mara, given that most girls were adopted by the motherhood when they were still in the academy. Not many women were chosen for the military arm of the government, and the few who either had defective reproductive organs or bad genes. It was unclear which of the two categories Ross had fallen into. Either way, military women didn’t make it very far in the ranks, generally never getting above a first lieutenant. Ross, however, reported directly to Bishop, the most powerful of all the brats, and she’d been doing so for several years now.
Today, Mara was meeting with Captain Ross alone. The topic of discussion, according to the email she’d received, was to be the further acquisition and relocation of mothers for the Amber Project. The Amber Project being, of course, the very same one that Mara had once been recruited into, herself. Now, it seemed the military wanted more.
Mara supposed it must be a good thing. After all, if their confidence was high enough to warrant such a request, the children must be doing well. And ever since she’d taken over the role of matron, her meetings with James had stopped. There was no explanation for it. She’d simply shown up one day at Central, waited over an hour, only to be turned away by Captain Ross. “The colonel can’t meet with you today, ma’am,” she had said. “He sends his regrets and promises he’ll contact you for a follow up.” But the meeting never came. Bishop had completely phased her out.
The surface of Mara’s desk brightened, and a display screen appeared. There was a flashing icon in the center—a white telephone receiver—indicating a call. She tapped it. “Matron?” called the receptionist. Her voice was coming through the speaker at the corner of the desk. “Matron, your ten o’ clock is here. Shall I send her in?”
“Yes, Julia, please do.”
A moment later, the office door opened and in marched Captain Avery Ross. She was wearing the blue and white dress uniform, same as she always had and probably always would. The uniform was pressed, smooth, and seemed to fit her like a glove. Ross was a bureaucratic soldier. She sat in meetings, answered emails, and worked behind a desk. There was never a situation in which she didn’t—where she couldn’t—look her best.
And today Captain Avery Ross looked wonderful
. Her hair, a chocolate brown, was pinned up so as to adhere to the strict military dress code, though anyone could tell how much care had gone into its maintenance. The woman’s eyes were large and innocent, a seductive shade of cerulean blue.
Ross would have made a wonderful mother. She could have had any man she wanted, procured any contract she desired. Instead, through the irony of nature, her biology had betrayed her.
Even beauty had its price.
The soldier closed the door, stood silently in a position known as parade rest and waited to be acknowledged. She would wait, Mara knew, for hours.
“Sit down, Captain. It’s good to see you again.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the soldier. She took the only seat there was to take, right in front of Mara’s desk. “Whenever you’re ready, we can proceed.”
“Go right ahead,” said Mara.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Ross. She took out a pad and handed it to Mara. The pad had a list of several names on it. “These are the candidates we’re requesting.”
“I see,” said Mara, staring at the screen. The list included twenty names in total, many of whom she recognized. Tara Combs, Christina Medley, Sabrina Patterson, Patricia Dewey, and Lilian Summers, to name a few.
In that moment, Mara couldn’t help but picture Ava Long sitting where she sat now, looking over the same desk, staring at another bureaucrat, at a very similar, very familiar list with Mara Echols among its candidates. What thoughts did the first matron have when the messenger from Central had handed her that pad, showed her the list, and asked for her approval? Did she waver, as Mara did now, at the thought of signing such a thing? Did she falter?
Mara stared with empty eyes at the text on the pad, the words blurring as her thoughts began to trail and circle.
After a moment, Ross continued. “Once you sign off on the transfer, and pending their own agreement, the candidates will be moved to the northern wing of Stone Hospital, third floor. They’re to stay there for a total of three weeks, long enough to get through the initial tests and injections. Afterwards, they’ll be returned to their living quarters in the maternity district.”
