by Richard Fox
Jerry laughed…the only one that laughed. Roland leaned away from him, hoping Captain Grainger didn’t think he was the mirthful recruit.
“You’ve all finished your initial evaluations,” Grainger said. “You’ll receive your scores in a moment, and these scores will be taken into account when you meet with the branch recruiter following this briefing. I highly encourage you to make your decision before your time with the recruiter ends, else you’ll be assigned to the needs of the service, and Venus just sent me another labor request.”
“I told you,” Jerry whispered.
A holo screen materialized over the captain’s head and a star chart centered on Earth filled the screen. Icons for settled stars spread from humanity’s home toward a yellow shaded region labeled Ruhaald Space to Earth’s galactic east.
“The Terran Union is engaged in aggressive colonial expansion to nearby stars and more Earth-like worlds linked to the Crucible jump-gate network. Colonists to higher-priority worlds receive tax breaks, homestead assistance and tuition forgiveness for any and all higher-education expenses. Some colonies are…idyllic,” —the holo shifted to a world with azure skies and Hawaiian-like islands— “others, less so. The Marines are currently engaged in a police action to remind the Xie’e that Cardova-II belongs to the Terran Union.
“Those that chose to apply for colonial assignment will receive a preference based on the conditions of their terms of service. The more in demand certain positions, the more preference in the way of points. Consider this when you meet with your recruiter. In addition, the aptitude you’ve displayed during your civilian schooling and assessment today will determine which positions you can apply for. This is simple. Anyone that asks me to explain it further will be docked five assessment points.”
Roland inched away from Jerry again, hoping he didn’t consider that last part another joke.
“Good.” Grainger raised a hand. “Release the scores.”
The slate in Roland’s pocket buzzed. He slapped a hand against the slate and gritted his teeth. Much of his future depended on what was waiting for him, and he said a quick prayer to his parents that whatever he was qualified for would manage to honor them. The thought of taking out the trash on a macro-cannon in the far reaches of the Kuiper Belt was nothing to be proud of.
He removed the slate and looked at the screen.
“I got an 88,” Roland said. “Is that good?”
“I’m 37?” Jerry frowned. He twisted around to the redhead.
“102.” She smiled. “You,” she said to Roland, “are about mid-tier for assignments. Your friend…not so much.”
Roland touched the screen and a list of positions came up with two columns of numbers. The first was the cutoff score; the second was for colonial weighting. The upper tier of positions were grayed out.
“So much for medical school…or advanced quantum spatial engineer, whatever that is.” Roland reorganized the table by colonial weighting. The positions that came with the best chance of moving to a garden world were all combat arms. Marines, Rangers and fighter pilots had the top spots.
“Casualties must be bad,” Jerry said. “Why else would they need more people on the front lines?”
“We’re not at war with anyone,” Roland said, “officially.”
“Sanitation engineer?” Jerry sneered at his slate. “Not no, but hell no. I’ll be a Marine. See if I ever have to clean up anyone’s garbage when I’m doing that.”
Roland scrolled through the list again.
“You have armor on your list?” he asked Jerry, who didn’t answer but kept mumbling to himself. Roland repeated the question to the redhead.
“I found it.” She flipped her slate around for Roland to see. “It’s hidden in another tab. But there must be some mistake…armor is zero-zero. No requirement, no colony points.”
“It’s almost like they don’t want anyone to apply,” Roland said.
“My sister tried for armor,” she said, “didn’t get past the first day of selection. Couldn’t tell me anything else, had to sign one hell of a nondisclosure agreement.”
“You two can plug yourselves into those tin cans all you want,” Jerry said. “The Marines are calling me. Did you know I’ve met the Colonel Hale?” he said to her. “Came to my restaurant a few days ago.”
“That’s great.” She waved a hand at him. “So you’re thinking about armor…”
“Roland.”
“Masako.”
“I was just at the armor monument…I can’t think of a better way to serve,” he said.
“Well, good luck.” Masako gave him a smile and stood up. A room number flashed on her slate. “Looks like I get to see a recruiter now. See you.”
“Bet we’ve got a while to wait,” Jerry said. “Hope there will be some Marine slots left by the time I’m called. You really want armor, or were you just trying to impress her?”
“I really want armor.”
“What’s going to get you more play with the ladies? The Marines’ full-dress blues or plugs in the base of your skull? I mean, have you ever even seen an armor soldier outside their walking tanks?”
“Not everything is about sex and money, Jerry.”
“If you just had the week I did, you might see things differently.”
Roland’s slate buzzed with a room number and directions.
“Don’t you take the last Marine slot,” Jerry hissed at him.
“What would a Marine say about this situation? Survival of the fittest?” Roland got up and gave Jerry a pat on the shoulder.
****
Roland double-checked the room number on a door with the number on his data slate. A nameplate for a Staff Sergeant Harris was just beneath the brass numerals. Roland knocked.
“Come in!”
He cracked the door open and leaned his head into the office. It was just big enough for a desk at the far end and a single chair canted to the side, ready and welcoming for the regular cycle of recruits. Staff Sergeant Harris leaned his elbows onto the desk, an array of data slates set in front of him.
“Yes, you, Mr. Shaw.” Harris motioned to the open seat. “Let’s get started.”
Roland hurried into the office and sat down. He kept his back straight, fidgeting with his now-dead slate.
Harris swiped his hand over a keyboard and Roland’s personnel file came up, complete with an older picture of him taken during a mercifully brief period of time when mullets had come back into fashion.
“You are prepared for your term of service,” Harris said. “Too many of your peers come in here without a clue as to what’s expected of them. Just because there hasn’t been a shot fired in the solar system since the last Xaros attack, they think military service is some sort of hobby the government decides to keep going. You completed your Scout training and evaluations…your instructors even recommended you for Ranger evaluation. Well done. Top quintile for athletic assessment…no surprise. Science, technology, math and engineering scores…are there.” He pushed himself away from his desk and looked Roland over like he was evaluating a major purchase.
“Have a preference in mind, son? Terran law requires me to consider your first choice.”
“I had a question…about armor. Is it available?”
Harris’ face fell.
“Not another one. Look, Mr. Shaw, the Armor Corps gets a lot of interest thanks to their contributions—overstated, in my opinion—to the last war. The Armor Corps is separate from all the other branches and they do things their own way, which don’t always make sense to those of us who’re in uniform. So understand that some of my information is a bit limited, but I know this: ninety-five percent of those that volunteer for armor never make it to Mars. Two-thirds don’t even get past the initial selection at SEPS.”
“Is there something in my file that makes you think I won’t make it?”
“It’s a numbers game, Mr. Shaw. If I bet a day’s pay on every armor candidate not making it through selection, I’d be a very
rich man by now. Armor has no physical or education requirements to start selection. With your scores, I can’t get you into the higher-tier engineering or medical fields…but Marines—even Strike Marines—that I can do in a heartbeat. The colony preference points for the Strike Marines is as high as I’ve ever seen it. If you want to start a new life on a world that makes Phoenix look like a festering dumpster fire in comparison, I can get you there.” Harris pushed a data slate, with a Strike Marine that looked suspiciously like a younger Colonel Hale, toward Roland.
Roland looked at the slate, but didn’t touch it.
“So I can go armor?” Roland asked.
Harris sighed heavily.
“Of course you can.” Harris waved his hand over his keyboard and started typing. “Couple things I’m required to go over with you first. In my official capacity, this question is usually forbidden under the Procedural Persons Act, but it’s a medical issue and it’s allowed. Are you a true born human being?”
“As far as I know. I thought all the proccies had memories of growing up and families and from before they came out of those tubes. Does any proccie know what they are?”
“You’re spot on about the proccies, son,” Harris said. “Ibarra had to grow them fast to rebuild the fleet. Took him nine days to grow an adult body and implant a unique mind from whatever alien sorcery he used to make them all. Millions of people joined the fight against the Xaros that way, their memories no different than someone born on Earth the old-fashioned way. They helped save the Earth, no doubts there.”
“Why does it matter if I’m a proccie or not?”
“Armor Corps won’t accept them. None of them can take the plugs to connect to the suits. Some sort of side-effect of being grown so fast in a tube. I’m a proc myself, can’t say I ever feel any different than the true born that come in here.” Harris took out a small cube with a finger hole in one end.
“It’s normally strictly illegal to base a government position—or anything, really—on if someone’s a proccie or not, but we’ve got a medical necessity waiver. Please,” the recruiter said, and tapped the desk next to the cube.
Roland put a finger into the device, and it lit up. He knew he was born before the war started, that proccies came on line just after Admiral Garret had won the battle that seized the Crucible from the Xaros…he’d never worried that he was anything but true born until this exact moment.
The box blinked on and off.
“Thank you.” Harris plucked the box from his finger and put it back in his desk. “Telomere length checks out. You’re true born. We’ll check off that box. Next, are you aware that armor candidates will undergo cybernetic augmentation as part of their term of service?”
“The plugs in the back of their skulls…I know, but that’s not permanent, right?”
“You can ask the doctor when you see her. I don’t have that information available. Next point, the term of service for any who complete armor selection is ‘for the duration.’ Anyone who wants to return to civilian life voluntarily must receive permission from the Armor Corps commander. You go Marines or Ranger, you’re out after a few years. You get your plugs with armor and basically the only way to leave is feet-first.”
“They don’t let anyone out?” Roland’s hands clenched into fists and his eyes went to another data slate with a Ranger in a black beret holding a plasma rifle on a desert planet.
“Not exactly. No armor candidate that’s ever made it to Mars for the last phase of selection has ever asked to leave the service. Seems they all opt to make a career out of military service. Which does lead to my next point. There is no penalty for non-selection or voluntarily dropping from armor while you’re a candidate. If they say no, or you decide it isn’t for you, you come back to SEPS with your same scores. Colony points might be different.”
“But I drop out of Marine basic training and…”
“‘Needs of the service,’” Harris said with a frown. “You don’t want to find out what that is.”
“Why does the Armor Corps make it so easy to quit? It’s almost like they don’t want anyone to even try to join them.”
“Armor wants a certain kind of person. I’m not privy to their selection methods, but their candidate-to-selectee ratio is terrible. Ninety-five percent don’t make it to Mars, remember? You can drop out at any time, no penalty. So, with all these cards on the table” —Harris glanced down at the many data slates on his desk— “you still want to go Armor? Or you want something with a better future at the end of your term?”
Roland picked up the Space Navy slate and scrolled down to a picture of a fleet over Saturn’s rings. He remembered when his parents had first told him about moving to Saturn with a colony fleet, about the exciting life he’d live on a space station and the endless opportunities he’d have when he grew up. He remembered how excited they both had been to get away from Earth.
Then he’d lost them both during the war. His father in the battle to retake Ceres and the Crucible jump gate, his mother when the Xaros returned and smashed Luna.
His mind wandered back to his walk past the armor monument and what the strange woman had said about how those ten armor soldiers met their fate.
“I don’t want to play it safe, to miss out on what I could be.” Roland put the slate back on the desk. “I want armor.”
“I hope you make it, Mr. Shaw. If not, I’ll see you back here and we’ll get you going down another path.” Harris typed furiously for a few seconds, then turned off his holo screen with a swipe.
The slate in Roland’s lap buzzed.
“Medical evaluation,” Harris said. “Get moving.”
Chapter 3
Roland’s chair tilted back and the headrest pressed against the back of his neck. A lamp moved over his face and he closed his eyes against the glare.
“I feel like I’m at the dentist,” he said.
“Did they do this at the dentist?” A medical tech pressed a button on her slate and restraints clamped down on his wrists and ankles.
“The doctor will be with you in a moment,” she said, and left the room.
“Wait…what’s this test even for?” Roland pulled at the restraint on one arm and it tightened even more in response. He let his arm relax, and the cuff loosened.
The room was oddly silent, the oppressive glare from the lamp making him wonder if he’d been sent to a military intelligence evaluation instead. One of his fellow orphanage mates had gone into the espionage field for his term of service and written back with a number of wild stories.
He heard the door open and shut, then an elderly woman with hazel eyes leaned between him and the lamp. The smell of cigarette smoke wafted off her white lab coat.
“I’m Dr. Eeks,” she said, “sorry for the wait. You may, at any time you choose, end the testing and be dropped from selection. Ready?”
“What…exactly are you going to do to me?”
“Standard neural profiling. If your body can’t take the plugs, then there’s no point in doing anything else, is there? You’ll feel a slight pinch.”
The headrest tightened against his neck and the back of his head. He felt the touch of a small, cold bit of metal against the base of his skull. He squirmed against the restraints, then forced himself to relax, taking measured breaths as the doctor looked at a holo screen projecting off her forearm computer. A body outline filled with red and blue nerves pulsated on the screen.
“Any fear of enclosed spaces?” she asked.
“No, ma’am.”
“Any history of neurological issues in your family? Multiple sclerosis, Parkinson’s, things like that.”
“I don’t know. My parents died when I was a kid. We never had a talk about whether any of my uncles were a bit looney.”
“Sense of humor while under duress, good.” Eeks tapped a pad on the back of her hand and files for Roland’s parents came up. “How does a soldier become armor, Roland?”
“I don’t…exactly know. There are the brain plugs
, right?” The bit of metal against his skull pressed harder. “That’s how the soldier moves the armor around. Am I supposed to know this?”
“Soldiers receive a neural shunt that connects them to their armor. The soldier doesn’t move the armor around. The soldier is the armor. Hold this for me.” She pressed a metal rod into his left hand.
“What is it—ah!” The rod sent a shock up his arm, contracting his muscles and tightening his grip. The surge stopped within a second and she plucked the rod out of his hand.
“Sorry about that. Needed a trauma reading…tell me why you want to be armor.”
Roland gritted his teeth, his patience wearing thin.
“There’s no wrong answer. I ask everyone,” she said, her eyes glued to the holo display of Roland’s nervous system.
“To make a difference. To honor my parents.”
She rubbed her chin, then clicked her tongue a few times.
“At this time, you’re eligible to continue selection,” she said. The cold metal receded from Roland’s neck and the headrest loosened its grip. “We need to continue gathering biometric data, which is where this little gem comes in.”
She held up a black hoop with an inch-wide plastic pad attached to it.
“It’ll conform to your skin tone once I put it on and you won’t even notice it’s there after a few hours. Remove this and you’ll be dropped from selection, understand?”
The seat back lifted Roland upright.
“What does it do?”
“Collects data. The neural shunt—if you do elect to receive it—has a number of potential…negative side effects. We do our best to screen out those susceptible, but…”
Roland looked at the monitor. The idea of being wired into a medical device was not altogether welcome.
