by Richard Fox
“Didn’t the drones hack almost every computer when they first attacked the system?” Burke asked. “The armor had someone inside, hardwired to the suit. There was nothing to hack. I’d rather be in armor fighting those things than in this,” he said, patting his uniform.
“Sir, why don’t we just ask Ibarra all this?” Masako half-raised her hand with the question. “I know he turned himself into some sort of hologram to survive the invasion. Where is he?”
“Marc Ibarra has…retired from public life.” Gideon’s hands balled into fists. “Let me ask you all this: if the armor was created to counter the Xaros, and the Xaros are gone, why do the Terran Union and the Dotari Hegemony maintain their own Armor Corps?”
“The final battle against the Xaros,” Roland said. “When President Garret dedicated the monument to the ten armor that died, he said there would be an Armor Corps for the next five hundred years because of their sacrifice.”
“I’m afraid it takes more than a politician’s promise to make something a reality, Candidate Shaw.” Gideon shook his head.
“I was on Cygnus,” Aignar said, the speaker in his neck straining to match the volume he wanted. “I think I saw you there.” He pointed a stiff hand toward the black-and-yellow patch on Gideon’s right shoulder. “Saw you take out a platoon of Vish tanks with your bare hands, then wreck one of their gunships when you threw a hunk of metal through the cockpit. That was you?”
“I fought at the Briar Patch,” Gideon said.
“We have armor because they make a difference on the battlefield,” Aignar said. “There was only one phrase we infantry loved to hear on the radio, and that was ‘armor in support.’”
“The Armor Corps is the force of decision,” Gideon said. “Commanders will send you to the heaviest fighting, on the most dangerous missions, because they know we will not fail. We will not falter. That we are…armor. You are all here to find your iron.”
Gideon picked up his pointer and collapsed it to the size of a pen.
“Time to lose your monitors,” he said. “Dr. Eeks is waiting for you all in medical. On your feet.”
****
A single auto-doc robot dominated the small surgical suite. The machine, which looked like a hunched-over beetle to Roland, was bolted to the floor. A half-dozen thin arms were folded against it, boxes full of medical equipment in antiseptic tubes forming a ring around the robot.
The smell of iodine was thick in the air. Roland rubbed his nose, unsure why such a modern marvel of engineering would have such a stench. He sat topless on a gurney with an opening on one end large enough for his face. Roland bumped his heels against the gurney’s frame, wondering if the cold air and the wait were just another test.
Dr. Eeks strode into the room, her eyes fixed on her forearm screen, a vapor tube in her other hand.
“All right, Mr. Shaw.” She took a puff on the tube and exhaled steam from her nose. The doctor twisted her tube around and offered it to Roland. “Take the edge off?”
“What? No…I don’t…can you smoke in here?”
“Evidently,” she said as she slipped the tube into the front of her lab coat. “Terrible habit to pick up. I practically had to beg Ibarra to get a new tobacco farm going in North Carolina. I swear the old bastard dragged his holographic heels just to spite me for being able to enjoy my body. Take your monitor off.”
She went to the auto-doc and brought up a holo screen showing Roland’s body, his nervous system pulsing in blue beneath his skin.
“Won’t I drop from the training if I do that?”
“Sharp cookie! I had one kid pee himself a little when he fell for that. No, won’t drop you. You’re about to get an upgrade.” She double-tapped a button on the screen and the monitor around his neck loosened.
Roland rubbed the now-exposed flesh, relishing the feel of the cool air against his skin.
“I’m getting my plugs?”
“Ha! That comes later, much later. You are getting neural Tachikoma shunts—or nubs, if you don’t want to be all medical like me.” She took a small, clear box from a pocket and handed it to Roland.
Inside were four small, brass-colored pins with long spikes.
“They’ll go into the base of your brain stem.” She flicked her wrist twice, and her fingertips lit up. She wrapped a cold hand around the back of his neck and pressed her fingertips up and down his spine. “Everything looks normal. Questions?”
“Why can I ask you questions…but the rest of the cadre look like they want to rip my face off if I get curious about anything?”
Eeks gave him a gentle pat on the cheek.
“All of this is voluntary, you know that. Two of your buddies dropped out the moment I handed them their nubs. The idea of undergoing cybernetic augmentation is easy to accept,” she said, jerking a thumb at the auto-doc. “Letting Boris over there start poking things into your gray matter is another reality entirely. It’s important that you understand what’s happening to you because if the nubs are too much to handle, then the plugs are beyond you.”
“How’re these different than the monitor…and the plugs?” Roland turned the case over in his hands.
“The nubs tap directly into your nerves and interface into the rigs. You can, if you choose, remove the nubs with a quick tug. Same consequences as removing the monitor. The plugs…are about half the size of an old railroad spike, and tie directly into your cerebellum. That augmentation is permanent.”
“What if someone wants to leave the Corps? Go be a civilian…family and all that?”
“The rest of your biology works just fine.” Eeks suppressed a smile. “But ever since the Corps formed during the war with the Chinese, no one has ever chosen to leave. Those that end their watch are all sent to Olympus. Well, that’s not entirely true. But we don’t know where they went, so it’s entirely possible that they—” Eeks froze, then turned her attention back to the auto-doc.
“Doctor? What’re you talking about?”
“Casualties, my boy. Casualties,” she said very quickly. “Redliners, killed in action. They’re all interred beneath the mountain. If they even find their suits.”
“Not that, who went where?”
Eeks brandished a finger at him, her demeanor now serious.
“No. I didn’t say anything. You understand?” She looked at him hard with her pale blue eyes.
“I must have misheard you.” Roland looked down at his knees.
“Facedown.” She took the nubs from him. “You ready for this?” The happier Dr. Eeks had returned.
Roland wiggled his face into the opening and tried to make himself comfortable. The floor moved beneath him as Eeks brought the gurney to the auto-doc.
“The nubs are temporary, right?” he asked.
The gurney stopped.
“Mr. Shaw, if you’ve any doubts, we can stop the procedure and I can bring a cadre member to speak with you.” She put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I’ve been doing this for a long time, son. No soldier who’s ever gone on to get their plugs and earn their spurs has ever told me they regret the decision. I carry the regret, for all those I send to war who never come back.”
Roland propped himself up on his elbows and looked at her.
“There’s a suit in the front hall,” he said. “Name on it was Elias. He’s one of the statues in Memorial Square. Did you know him?”
“That’s an odd question to ask at a time like this.”
“The last time I was there, this…lady talked about him. Seemed to think he was more important than the colonel that was in charge when the Xaros were defeated. Colonels are supposed to be brave, no fear. What about Elias? Who was he? Was he…scared when this happened to him?”
“I knew Elias,” she said sadly. “I tried to help him after his redline, but it took someone stronger than me to save him. He wanted his plugs more than any candidate I’ve ever met. You’d think he was fearless, but I could see beneath the surface.” She tapped her forearm screen. “Elias was af
raid, but he never let his fear stop him. He was the best of us, and we are less without him. You make it to Mars and maybe the Templar will teach you more about him. So what’ll it be?”
Roland lay down.
“Will this hurt?”
“We’ll put you under a bit of local anesthesia. Can’t have you scratch an itch while we’re in your spinal cord. Before that, you might feel a slight pinch.” Eeks wheeled him over and he heard the auto-doc come to life. There was a spritz of cold against the back of his neck and he squeezed his eyes shut.
****
The Fort Knox mess hall was different from the one at SEPS for one single reason—assigned seating. Roland’s meal came with a small map showing where each candidate class was to sit. The classes that had arrived before him were down to one or two tables each.
He carried his tray past the more senior candidates, none of whom bothered to even look at him. With drill instructors waiting in the wings like tigers ready to pounce, Roland wanted to get seated before he gave one of them an excuse to come for him.
One of his tables was open, but it was mostly full of Dotari, all seated shoulder to shoulder and eating from bowls in the middle of the table. Cha’ril put a blue, walnut-looking bit of food into her beak and chomped down, snapping the shell. She nodded to Roland.
Roland stopped behind an open seat and asked, “Am I allowed to—”
“Sit down, Shaw!” a drill instructor shouted.
Roland sat down and hunched over his tray. There were two feet between him and Cha’ril to one side. The rest of the Dotari stopped eating and stared at him.
“Sorry,” Roland half-whispered. “When they start yelling, things only get worse.”
“Do you dislike us?” a Dotari asked.
“No. Why?”
Cha’ril grabbed the bottom of his chair and pulled him over with surprisingly little effort. He found himself shoulder to shoulder with the alien, his tray of food still where he’d left it.
“Why do Terrans sit so far from each other?” she asked. “The separate food…do you think the others will try to take yours away?”
“We just…um…” Roland slid his tray over. He tried to shy away from Cha’ril’s shoulder, but she—and the rest of the Dotari—swayed toward him. He sat up straight, wondering why the Armor Corps hadn’t bothered to teach him anything about Dotari culture before this moment.
“How can you eat that mush?” Cha’ril plucked a steaming nut from a bowl and cracked it between her beak. She set it on Roland’s tray; the white flesh inside the shell looked like a walnut to him.
“Dotari newborns have lips like yours,” she said. “Our beaks do not form until partway through childhood. Try the gar’udda. They’re fresh from home.”
“Thank…you.” Roland stuck a fork into the nut and pulled out a piece. If I’m brave enough to get spikes put into my spinal column, then I can eat this. He shoved the nut into his mouth and chewed while the Dotari watched him.
He took a sip of water and swallowed hard.
“It tastes like chalk. Very bitter chalk.” He looked down at his tray.
“Another?” Cha’ril asked.
“No. Thank you.”
Cha’ril’s hand hovered over Roland’s plate of chicken and rice mixed with an orange-colored sauce. The milky-white pointed nails on her thumb, pointer, and middle fingers clicked together, then she stuck a nail into a lump of Roland’s chicken and popped it into her mouth.
She chewed a couple bites quickly, paused, then chewed again. Roland looked at his knife and fork, then at her fingers.
“What is this?” she asked.
“Chicken tikka,” Roland said and paused, wondering just how avian the Dotari were, “imitation chicken. All the meat comes from a tube and…do you like it?”
“Too spicy.” Cha’ril’s flat nose flared slightly. She leaned close to his ear, examining the organ so different from the simple hole in the side of her head. She set her palm onto the top of his head and gently ruffled his short hair. Roland stayed still, unsure just how normal this sort of thing was among the Dotari.
“I’ve never seen a Terran up close before,” she said.
“No kidding.”
She sniffed the side of his neck, then spoke to the other aliens in their own language. They watched Roland while he ate as fast as he could swallow.
Chapter 8
Roland pressed his knuckles against the seal on his body glove and ran his fist down his side. The suit tightened around his legs and torso, leaving his hands, feet and neck uncovered. Burke struck bodybuilder poses in front of the locker next to Roland.
“Feel like a superhero in these tights,” Burke said.
The sound of metal footsteps rang out on the other side of the lockers and Aignar walked around the corner. His bodysuit flapped open above his knees where the metal met flesh.
“You two going to make the cadre wait for us?” Aignar asked.
“Cadre are a lot easier to deal with than the DIs,” Burke said. “The cadre act like they don’t even care about us. The DIs know when I’m thinking the wrong thoughts.” He tapped at the nubs on the back of his neck. “I swear they’ve got their own feed.”
Other candidates in the same body gloves walked past them and out of the locker room.
“Get moving.” Aignar jabbed a stiff hand toward Burke and slammed his locker shut.
“Guess it’s tank time again.” Burke elbowed Roland. “Good luck.”
Roland cringed at the memory of the test in Phoenix and felt the new bruises Burke had given to him during the combatives training the night before.
On the other side of the door was a room with a dozen pods, all smaller than what Roland had experienced in Phoenix. Roland fell into the second row of candidates forming in front of Gideon and Tongea. An emergency medical robot stood against the wall, the status lights on its chassis blinking amber.
“Candidates,” Tongea began. He stepped up onto a small platform with a holo control panel as Gideon went down the line, touching the side of each candidate’s neck with a hypo injector. “This assessment will measure your physical suitability and mental fortitude. These tanks are a close match for the wombs used within the suits. You will be fully submerged within amniosis for an unspecified length of time. Any request to leave the pod early will result in termination. Any questions?”
“Sir?” Masako raised her hand.
“Stop raising your hand and just ask, Candidate Yanagi,” Tongea said.
“How do we breathe if we’re fully submerged?” she asked.
“Amniosis—the fluid within the womb—is hyper-oxygenated and serves as a life-support system in conjunction with the wombs. Your lungs and stomach will fill with the amniosis, rendering you less susceptible to shock and acceleration. Reaching equilibrium with your womb feels, until you get used to it, similar to drowning,” Tongea said.
Gideon stopped in front of a wide-eyed and suddenly pale Roland. The cadre looked down at his forearm screen, then adjusted the dosage on the hypo injector. He pressed it to Roland’s neck and the candidate felt something like ice water running from the injection site through his veins.
“As armor, you will be expected to endure high g-forces and jump directly into combat from orbit or from air assets.” Tongea picked up an open can from the control station. “If your body is not in equilibrium with the womb, the effect is similar to this.”
He dropped a pebble into the can and shook it, rattling the rock inside.
“How long can we last in there?” Burke asked.
“With regular amniosis replenishment,” Tongea said, directing a candidate in the front rank to a pod, “a soldier can survive almost indefinitely. Most can’t go more than a few months before the wither sets in. Without fresh amniosis, no more than ten days. After that, you will die from lack of oxygen.”
Roland waited until Tongea pointed him to the seventh pod. The floor beneath his feet was ice-cold, and he wasn’t sure if the shiver in his shoulders w
as from the cold or fear. The pod hatch opened with a snap, revealing a body-contoured space within. He’d seen coffins with more breathing room.
“Candidates, enter the pod,” Tongea said.
Roland put a foot onto the pod. The lining was tepid and slick against his bare skin. He lay down and the shivering got worse. Tongea came over a moment later with a small earpiece. He attached it to Roland and pressed a button that stuck to his skin against the front of his throat.
“Speak normally once you’ve reached equilibrium,” the cadre said.
“Do you use the same thing in the real armor?”
“We don’t need it.” He tapped the plugs at the base of his skull. “Cross your arms over your chest.” Opening a panel just behind Roland’s head, Tongea removed a hose tipped with a mouthpiece. “This makes it easier. Trust me.”
Roland, his body shivering, opened up and bit down on the mouthpiece, remembering an orphanage trip to Lake Havasu where he’d gone snorkeling several times a day. The memory of watching fish swim along the lake bottom was a momentary comfort, then Tongea closed the lid.
The darkness pressed around him. He heard Tongea’s footfalls through the pod as the cadre went to the next candidate.
“Shaw,” Gideon’s word came through the earpiece and Roland bumped his head against the roof in surprise.
“Shaw, your parasympathetic system is on fire. You’re scared. Do you wish to end this evaluation?”
Roland tried to speak, but his jaw refused to open.
“Nod your head if you’re done with this. Last chance before things become unpleasant.”
Roland shook his head furiously.
Warm liquid filled the base of the pod and rose up his body.
Just breathe…somehow.
The amniosis crept past his eyes and nose, smelling of sugar water before it filled his nostrils. The mouthpiece fed him air for a few seconds, then there was a click.
Warm fluid filled his mouth and ran down his throat. He tried to spit the mouthpiece out, but his jaw and mouth refused to comply. The pod squeezed against his body, stopping him from moving more than a finger’s breadth in any direction. He fought the urge to throw up as his stomach filled with amniosis.
