by Tarah Benner
I feel a fresh prickle of discomfort as I slip into the crowd of Space Force personnel flocking toward the defense module. I catch a few strange looks from the people who pass me, but only because I’m staring.
All the Space Force women carry themselves tall and straight. They move with purpose, and I remind myself not to slouch.
Fortunately, I manage to locate my pod without any trouble. I glance around self-consciously before scanning my face, hoping that the biometric lock recognizes me.
To my relief, the scanner beeps in confirmation, and I hear the door click and unlock. I take a deep breath and push it open. Whoever sent me the fake ID clearly knew what they were doing.
I walk into my new suite and am astonished to see a tall Indian girl sitting on the top bunk. I hadn’t realized that I’d have a roommate. Music is blaring from a sound pod on the floor, and her long legs are dangling over the bed in her black combat boots.
“Oh — hi,” I choke, staring like a deer caught in the headlights.
She frowns and sits up without saying a word. Clearly she wasn’t expecting to share her room either.
“Who the hell are you?” she asks with a frown.
I blink furiously, double-checking the room number listed on my enlistment papers. Yep — I’m definitely in the right place.
“I’m your new roommate, I guess,” I say, shrinking under the girl’s harsh gaze. “Maggie Ba — Jones. Private Jones.”
“No . . .” she says slowly, scrutinizing me as though something is amiss.
I swallow to wet my parched throat. My heart is throbbing, and I don’t know what to say. This girl’s stare makes me feel as though I’m being x-rayed.
“What happened to McDermit?” she asks. “I was supposed to room with —”
“McDermit was reassigned,” I say quickly, relieved to have some legit information.
“Nobody told me.”
I shrug as if to say, “You know the Space Force . . .” But this girl isn’t buying it.
“Why was she reassigned?”
“It was, uh,” I lower my voice, “a medical separation.”
At first I feel proud that I managed to remember some military jargon, but my new roommate is still regarding me with suspicion.
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“She got herself knocked up,” I say, annoyed by the third degree. Who is this girl? A private detective? “At least that’s what they told me. It was an emergency reassignment. I’m just excited that they brought me on.”
The girl is still staring at me as if there must be more to the story, but I sense her defenses wavering.
“Adra Kholi,” she says.
“Nice to meet you.”
I look around. The rooms in the Space Force barracks are even more spartan than my suite. The ceiling is slightly higher to accommodate the bunk beds, but there’s no loft and no desk — just two beds stacked one on top of the other, a chest of drawers, and two lockers.
“Your cargo’s already here,” she says, nodding at the two bins on my bunk. “You can have the bottom drawers. I was saving them for Amelia.”
“Thanks,” I say, feeling a fresh wave of apprehension.
What the hell was I thinking? I’d been expecting to pose as a private during the day and sneak back to the newsroom to work on Layla stories at night.
Having a roommate changes everything. I certainly can’t go missing half the nights without arousing her suspicions.
I snap the lids off my cargo bins to have a look inside. There isn’t much — just three extra uniforms still in their plastic packaging, six gray T-shirts, a package of underwear, a pack of socks, a mouth guard, a pair of plastic safety goggles, and some shiny black boots.
I hurry to stuff the clothes into my drawers, but Adra stops me.
“Aren’t you gonna wash those?”
I hesitate. “They’re new . . .”
“They’re gonna be wrinkled fresh out of the package,” she says. “Wyatt’s a real hard-ass. I don’t wanna get extra push-ups just ’cause your shit’s wrinkled.”
“Wyatt?” That name rings a bell. Why does it sound so familiar?
“Sergeant Wyatt?” she repeats. “Our CO?”
Suddenly it hits me how I know the name.
Shit. It’s Jonah — the guy who received my cargo by mistake.
“Right. Sergeant Wyatt,” I choke. “Uh, sure. I’ll send these out with one of the bots to get washed.”
I catch a very pronounced side-eye from Adra just as there’s another knock at the door.
I throw it open immediately — relieved to have a distraction — but my view of the hallway is instantly blocked by a hard familiar chest.
There’s a heavy thud behind me as Adra jumps down from her bunk, and I turn just in time to see her snap to attention like the perfect soldier.
I turn back to our guest: clean-cut brown hair, sharp jawline, eyes that could cut glass. I can’t see his butt from this angle, but it’s him, all right. He’s glaring down at me with a severe expression, and I have the immediate urge to slam the door in his face.
Instead, I copy Adra. I straighten up, snap my legs together, suck my stomach in, and thrust my chin up.
Jonah’s eyes narrow into slits, and they travel up and down my entire body. It’s kind of hot in a dangerous, bad-boy kind of way, but I feel myself start to sweat.
“As you were.”
I don’t say a word. Jonah is still scrutinizing my face, and I wonder if he recognizes me from when I came to his suite.
“McDermit, I presume?”
I shake my head. “McDermit was reassigned,” I choke.
“What?” He reaches up to check his Optix, and his eyes move rapidly back and forth as he verifies what I just told him.
His mouth hardens into a thin line, and he looks back to me. “And you are?”
“Private Magnolia Jones.”
He just stares at me as if waiting for something else.
“You can call me Maggie,” I add. “Sir.”
I cringe inwardly. What kind of person tells her commanding officer to call her by her first name? A complete and total idiot; that’s who.
Again, I get the sense that Jonah doesn’t believe me. He scans my face with his Optix, and I’m both amazed and relieved when I see the reverse image of my mugshot pop up.
“Private Jones,” he says, raising both eyebrows. “Counterintelligence.”
“Yessir,” I choke.
“No prior military experience.”
I swallow. This guy is going to be difficult. I can already tell.
Finally, his scowl is downgraded from contemptuous to suspicious. “Welcome to squad thirteen, I guess.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me,” he growls. “Training starts tomorrow at oh six hundred. You’re coming in late to the game, which puts you at a disadvantage.” He takes a step back as though he’s going to leave, and I catch the faintest shadow of a smirk. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long day . . . Don’t eat a big breakfast.”
18
Jonah
The next day when I get to the training center, my entire squad is already waiting — everyone except the new girl.
Ping and Davis are stretching. Kholi and Casey just look nervous. I’d been expecting two more new recruits, but after meeting Maggie Jones, I received a notification that my roster was full. It’s a good thing, too — I’m going to have my hands full.
When the privates see me, they all jump in line and stand at attention. I give them a quick “as you were” and turn my attention to the large clock hanging over the door.
New Girl runs in a minute before six, and I can tell that she thinks she’s late. I let her stew for a moment as she lines up with the others. She seems nervous — almost self-conscious — and she keeps messing with her uniform.
As I watch her, I get this bizarre sense of déjà vu — almost as though I’ve seen her before. It’s something about her eyes, which are
this Dead Sea–shade of blue green. They’re bright, curious, and full of trouble.
“Jones! You’re late,” I call, shutting down my own uneasiness with something familiar.
New Girl’s eyes widen in horror, and she turns beet red from the sudden attention. She’s breathing hard and fast as if she ran here. She’s clearly wondering if she got the time wrong.
“Would anyone care to share our policy with Jones?” I ask, glancing down the line.
Davis and Casey exchange nervous looks.
“Anyone?”
Nobody answers.
“Maybe twenty push-ups will help jog your memory,” I say savagely. “Go!”
Everyone drops down except for the new girl.
“Drop and give me twenty, Jones!” I yell.
A look of terror flashes across her face, and she throws herself to the ground so fast that I think she might bust her chin on the way down. She props herself up on her hands and feet and shivers down into the most pathetic push-up I’ve ever seen in my life.
Oh boy. It’s like day one all over again.
“Twenty push-ups, Jones — not twenty of whatever the hell that is!”
She lets out an exasperated puff of air, and her arms tremble as she struggles down to a ninety-degree angle.
“Jesus,” I groan, walking over to her and resting my boot along the center of her back. I apply gentle pressure until she sinks down all the way, and I feel her muscles wobble under the added weight.
“That’s one!” I bark.
New Girl pushes herself back up, but I keep my boot firmly in position. She struggles through four push-ups, and when she goes down for number five, I know her arms are about to give out.
“Keep going!” I yell to Ping and Casey, who’ve already finished their set.
Jones’s form really starts to fall apart on push-up number seven, and I call the others off and send them to run laps.
“Get up, private,” I mutter, watching her pathetic little arms wobble through push-up number ten. “Go run with the others — six laps.”
“Yessir.” She gets to her feet but keeps her head down.
She trots off to join the others in their laps around the training center, and I watch her go with a sinking feeling in my gut. She might have a background in counterintelligence, but she’s not cut out for this. This girl belongs behind a desk.
By the time they all finish their laps, they’re angry, sweaty, and out of breath. At the moment they’ve focused their rage on me, but the faster they learn that they’re only as strong as their weakest link, the faster things will improve.
I spend the rest of the morning reviewing commands with my squad and drilling them on the order of hierarchy in the Space Force. For Jones, this is all new information, but she catches on fast.
The ability to follow instructions and learn new things almost makes up for her pitiful push-ups. Even in the armed forces, being a quick learner is worth something.
“This is it,” I say, moving slowly down the line as they recover from another round of push-ups. “Tomorrow is the last day of Reception. You’ll each report to the training center at your scheduled time to complete your physical fitness test. The test will be administered by Lieutenant Buford. You’ll be asked to run a mile and complete as many push-ups and sit-ups in two minutes as possible. Standards will vary according to your age and gender.”
I take a moment to glare at each one of them in turn. “If you fail your initial PFT, you will be held back from basic training and put through a rigorous program to get you up to standards. At the end of next week, you will be given one more chance to pass the PFT. If you fail a second time, you will be sent back to Earth and forfeit your signing bonus. Is that understood?”
“Yessir,” huff the recruits.
“I suggest you take this seriously.”
My gaze lingers for a moment on Jones, who looks justifiably panicked. I’d be worried, too, if I didn’t know the test. The initial fitness test the Space Force developed is a total cakewalk — even for the criminally unfit.
The PFT at the end of basic? Not so much.
“For those of you who pass, basic training will commence Monday at oh five hundred. You will complete the day’s PT before breakfast and then proceed to the day’s scheduled training. I suggest you eat light. Basic is when we separate the men from the boys . . . It is in your best interest to put on a good showing.”
I pause for effect. “If you make it through basic, you will be given an assignment on Elderon. That assignment will be based on your professional background and how well you conform to Space Force standards. If you don’t make it through basic, you will be sent home. You will forfeit your signing bonus and any hopes of a career in the galactic armed forces.”
I look around to make sure my message has sunk in. All five of them look slightly nauseous.
“I’ll see you back here after lunch.”
19
Maggie
The rest of the day passes in a slow, painful blur. We do push-ups, sit-ups, burpees, and sprints and run through the same progression of eight basic drill commands. We do this until I think I might forget how to do anything else. I’ll definitely be right facing and left facing in my dreams.
Jonah’s litany of punishments and insults is so repetitive that I begin to wonder if he’s a bot. So far his only functions seem to be to yell “Drop and give me twenty!” and “That’s the most pathetic (blank) I’ve ever seen!”
My initial attraction has definitely worn off, but at least he doesn’t recognize me.
A few times I catch him staring, but I’m pretty sure it’s my weak push-ups that have captured his attention. I look dramatically different without my glasses and the full stopping power of my hair, so there’s no real reason for him to connect the dots between the girl who came to his suite and the girl who’s singlehandedly dragging down his squad’s PFT average.
By the time we finish with training for the day, my arms feel like two floppy sandbags attached to a Jell-O body. I hurt in places I’ve never hurt before. Hell, I hurt in muscle groups I didn’t even know I had.
At dinner I grab my tray and sit down at a table alone, and to my immense surprise, I’m joined by the springy Asian kid called “Ping.”
“Heyya, Jones! This seat taken?”
I shake my head in stunned silence. After my pathetic showing in Reception, I can’t believe anyone wants to sit with me.
Ping throws his tray down on the table and slides into the seat across from me. Even after our grueling workout, he still looks fully energized. He’s got the sort of eyebrows that always look friendly and the most persistent smile I’ve ever seen.
“Sore?” he asks, giving me a sympathetic grimace.
I laugh and instantly wish I hadn’t. Even that hurts. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“Ah, the first day was tough for me, too,” he says. “But you’ll get used to it.”
I open my mouth to say that I don’t know if I want to get used to being yelled at and berated, but I’m interrupted by a loud huff behind me.
Adra slams her tray down and shoots me the stink eye. “You’re still here?”
“Down, girl,” says Ping.
“I think we did two hundred extra push-ups because of you,” she grumbles.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “It won’t happen again.”
“It better not.”
“Adra, she’s brand new,” says Ping in that unperturbed, good-natured way of his. “We were all new — what — three days ago?”
Adra continues to shoot daggers at me from across the table, but she doesn’t say anything else. We’re joined by Casey, the big burly one, and Davis, the tall freckly redhead who looks about fifteen years old.
They all seem to know each other, and the group dynamics have already begun to take shape. Adra is the bitchy one with the dark wit whom everyone is too scared to cross. Ping is the peppy go-getter incapable of saying a bad word about anyone. Davis strikes me as a shrinking viol
et who follows Ping and Casey around like a puppy, and Casey . . . Well, Casey is what a homeschooled kid with a genius IQ grows up to be. He talks in a low wheezy voice and picks his nose when he thinks no one is watching, but he’s the guy you turn to when you want to build a nuclear reactor out of Popsicle sticks.
After dinner, I change back into my civilian attire and scoot off to the newsroom to finish my Layla story. It’s the first in a series about the companies that have established offices on Elderon, and Maverick Enterprises is at the top of my list.
I try to keep the snarkiness to a minimum as I cut together the footage from the Workshop and overlay commentary from my discussion with Porter. I include a quip about my cargo-bot delivery saga, but Alex cuts it to avoid annoying Strom.
She sends me off with a buttload of edits, and I get the feeling that I’m being punished. Making her changes will take me hours, and it’s already almost nine.
Alex doesn’t care. She doesn’t know that I’ve taken on another full-time job, and she doesn’t need to know. I don’t want to tell her what I’m up to until I have tangible evidence that the Space Force is preparing for something big.
It’s nearly midnight by the time I upload my finished story and trundle off to the barracks. I change back into my Space Force fatigues before heading down to the lower deck. I can’t risk muddying my two worlds and having someone figure out that I’m pretending to be someone I’m not.
Fortunately, Adra is already snoring by the time I reach our suite. I take out my contacts and fall into bed, wishing more than anything that I could take a nice long bath. My shoulders ache, I can’t feel my arms, and it feels as though Jonah took a sledgehammer to my back.
Story or no story, I’m going to be in fantastic shape by the time basic training is over.
20
Jonah
I’m shocked and impressed when I walk into the training center first thing Monday morning. Five recruits are waiting for me in the training center, and they’re the same recruits I had at the end of last week.
