by Tarah Benner
Their presence here means they must have passed their PFTs, and it means I failed to scare them away during their first week on Elderon.
“Good morning,” I say, moving down the line to inspect each one of them in turn. Everyone looks as though they’ve finally got the hang of arriving on time and standing in line, which means they must have learned something last week.
“Glad to see you all made it to basic. This week is when the real fun begins.” I stop in front of Kholi, who looks none too happy to be here. “I can see from your smiling faces that you’re both surprised and delighted to have me for your drill sergeant.” I raise both eyebrows at Kholi, and her face turns white. “Trust me when I say that the feeling is mutual.”
I only have an hour allocated to PT this morning, so I can’t afford to waste any more time. I send them all on a warm-up jog around the training center, put them through a round of push-ups, sit-ups, and planks, and then line them up and make them run suicides. We won’t have access to the weight room until Wednesday morning, so it’s good old-fashioned body-weight training and sprints until then.
Davis is the only one who pukes over the course of an hour, which I chalk up to a success.
After breakfast, it’s time to issue the rubber ducks. The privates don’t even touch a real weapon until week two, so until then they’ll be drilling with black rubber rifles to simulate the weight and feel of a real one.
“As far as any of you is concerned,” I say, pacing back and forth in the supply room as the squad stands at attention, “this is a real weapon.”
I stop and glare at Ping, who’s got that infuriatingly pleasant expression on his face that I’ve come to recognize as his default. “It is an exact replica of the rifles you’ll be practicing with in week two and the M500s you’ll be issued in week three. It is not a toy. If you drop your weapon, point your weapon at a fellow operative, or mishandle your weapon in any way, you will find yourself on the first shuttle home. Is that understood?”
“Yessir,” the squad chants in unison.
I hand each of them one of the rubberized weapons and go through the names for each part of the rifle. I show them how to carry it, and we practice marching from the supply room and back to the training center with rifles in tow.
I put them through a round of push-ups, and then we march back out of the training center toward a room at the very end of the hall.
I throw open the double doors, and I can practically taste the squad’s collective nerves. The room is dark. It smells like plastic, and their footsteps echo off the walls.
I hit the light switch, and a dozen strips of fluorescent lights flicker on one by one. They illuminate a room about a quarter of the size of a baseball diamond and an obstacle course designed by the US Army.
The course is not exactly like the one that I completed in basic. The obstacles are made out of some high-density plastic, and the controls by the door allow the CO to control the climate and lighting and ratchet up the difficulty with just the push of a button.
I catch a glimpse of Jones’s and Davis’s terrified expressions as they take in the raised platforms and the apex ladder. The Space Force advises starting privates on the course in week two, but I want to run them through early to get some baseline times.
“You will each complete the course at least twice today,” I say. “Once as the operator and once as the coach.”
I hear the privates’ collective sighs of relief, but their comfort doesn’t last.
“It’s in your best interest to make sure your partner does well,” I say. “Your team will be judged based on your worst score.” At this, Jones, Casey, and Davis deflate. “The pair with the best worst score won’t have to run suicides after lunch. Everyone else will.”
I catch a few calculated glances among my squad members. I can see them sizing each other up, trying to decide who the best partner will be. Nearly everyone’s got their eyes on Ping.
“I’ve already picked teams,” I say. “Davis, Casey — you’re a team. Jones and Kholi, you’re together.”
“What about me?” asks Ping hopefully.
“You’re your own team,” I say.
Ping’s shoulders sag in disappointment.
“Davis will coach you on your run, and his score will count as your second score. Got it?”
“Yessir,” he says, perking up a little.
I turn to the controls and leave the course on the easiest setting. I keep the temperature on cool and turn back to the squad to see who looks the least prepared. I settle on Casey, whose flabby white face seems even paler than usual.
“Casey, you’re up! Davis, on deck. It’s your job to help him through the obstacles. You’re his eyes. You can offer suggestions, yell, cheer . . . You just can’t help him physically.”
“Yessir,” says Davis. He looks nervous.
Casey blunders up to the starting line, and Davis offers him a fist-bump. These two are going to be a shit show, but the allure of competition affects everyone the same.
I start the timer, and Casey takes off at a lumbering sprint. He lunges at the low red wall and somehow manages to heave his enormous body up to the top. He tries to rappel down the other side and falls, and I send him back to do it again.
It takes him three tries to rappel down the wall, and when he makes it, he immediately attacks the line of tires. He gets one of his enormous boat feet caught and trips, and I see his confidence begin to waver.
Next are the vaults. I know before he starts that he wasn’t built for this. The recruits who excel at this obstacle are light and speedy, and he moves like a rhinoceros trapped in a vat of peanut butter.
Casey clears the second hurdle with a grimace, and I guess that he twisted his ankle. He keeps at it, though, flopping over the last one as though his life depends on it. He throws himself to the floor at the mouth of the barbed-wire tunnel, and I see his face fall.
This is the place where the big guys struggle most, but lucky for him, the course designer opted for a pit of foam beads instead of hot rancid mud.
Casey digs in his elbows like a champ and pulls himself through at a glacial pace. He emerges from the tunnel, shoulders heaving, and grabs hold of the climbing rope to hoist himself up.
It’s hard to watch. Casey’s strong, but his body is heavy. His face turns a horrific shade of purple, and I see the veins in his temples bulge as he gives it everything he’s got.
He makes it three-quarters of the way to the top before he starts to slide down.
“What the hell are you doing?” I yell. “Finish it!”
I can practically see the hopelessness in his face as he turns his eyes to the ceiling. He is spent, and I know from experience that that last five feet can feel like a mile.
Finally he makes it to the top, his giant feet propelling him the entire way. He slides down and lurches over to the balance bridge, where he wobbles dangerously for about five seconds. He shoots across as fast as he can, falling twice and doubling back to the start of the obstacle. He leaps down to the narrow platform, and I see his life flash before his eyes.
Finally, Casey jumps down and lands on the lowest platform. He climbs up the apex ladder and bonks his head on the way down. I look up. He did the whole thing in just under eight minutes, which is pretty good, considering the shape he’s in.
Davis and Kholi both complete the course in about six minutes. Then it’s Ping’s turn.
Ping scrabbles up the wall like he’s got flypaper on his hands and springs through the line of tires as though his feet are on fire. He pulls himself up the rope in twenty seconds flat, trots across the balance bridge, and slithers down the apex ladder. He does the entire course in just under four minutes.
I don’t know what else to do — I clap. The others turn to stare at me as though I’ve just sprouted two heads. Ping thrusts out his chest and beams.
It doesn’t matter that the guy annoys the shit out of me. That was the most impressive first run I have ever seen.
U
nfortunately, New Girl is next in line, and I have a feeling that her performance is going to kill my good mood. She’s pale and sweaty and looks as though she might blow chunks. This is not gonna end well.
When she comes down the line, I think she’s going to run straight into the wall she’s supposed to scale — flat like a pancake. Instead, she stops short and gives a bizarre sort of hop to catch her fingers along the top of the wall.
She slams face-first into the side of the structure and flails around as she struggles to pull herself up. She walks her feet up until she gets to the top and drags her torso over with her arms and shoulders. She flops the rest of her body around and nearly falls off the wall when she misses the rope.
She makes up some time on the tires, but it all falls apart when she reaches the hurdles. Kholi runs alongside her yelling and screaming, and New Girl looks as though she’s on the brink of collapse.
Finally she face-plants at the mouth of the tunnel and drags herself through like a zombie crawling out of a grave. Her hair is spilling out of its careful bun, and she’s gasping for air.
All I can hear is the sound of Kholi’s screams. She’s yelling in a way that makes me think she’d be a damn good drill sergeant, but it definitely isn’t helping Jones. She’s slowly drowning in the squishy foam beads, and I think she’s got some in her mouth.
Finally she emerges, and the rest of the squad cheers.
At least that part of my plan is working. The competition is bringing out their animal instincts, but it’s also making them a team.
The climbing rope is next, and I know before she even starts that she’s gonna have problems. New Girl can barely get through ten push-ups, let alone pull herself up a twenty-foot rope.
Sure enough, Jones moves like a squirrel trying to climb up a greasy flagpole — maybe the worst I’ve ever seen. Her shiny blond hair is tumbling out of its bun, she’s gritting her teeth, and her lip is bleeding.
By now, Kholi’s voice is hoarse from yelling. I’m half convinced that she might tear Jones to pieces if she slides down the rope one more time.
Halfway up, New Girl emits a whimper and slides down all over again. I’ve seen enough.
“Stop! Stop!” I call, walking across the course to make sure she heard me. One more slide like that, and she’ll have rope burn so bad she won’t be able to hold a rifle for a month.
“Stop!” I repeat.
Now they hear me. Kholi whips her head around with such ferocity that I briefly wonder if she’s gone all Exorcist on me.
“Time’s up!” I yell.
“What?” snaps Kholi.
“You heard me.”
“She was almost finished!”
“It’s been ten minutes,” I say. “Time’s up.”
New Girl slides wordlessly down the rope. Her face is red, and her lip is trembling.
Shit. I know that look. She’s breathing hard and fast, her mouth is slack, and I sense that she’s about to unravel.
She brushes the hair out of her eyes and stalks off the mats, but not before I see she’s got tears in her eyes.
“Christ,” I groan, watching her go. I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do with that. I know she’s upset, but damn — watching her on that rope was painful for everyone.
I clear my throat and try to salvage the exercise, but the damage is already done. I march them back to the training center and let them run laps, but the rest of the morning is a total shit show.
Everyone is quiet and subdued, but I can feel the waves of animosity pouring off them. The obstacle course had the effect I intended. I managed to get them operating as a team, but they’ve united in their hatred for me.
I don’t know what I’m going to do. Four of my privates are truly terrible. I’m going to have to push them to their limits to get them in shape, but the harder I push, the more they resist.
The real thorn in my side is Maggie Jones. Something about her seems off, but I can’t figure out what it is. One thing’s for sure: She needs to toughen up.
When I dismiss them to go to lunch, I yell for Jones to hang back and talk. She freezes. Her lips are pressed together in a hard line, and she won’t quite meet my gaze.
“Sir?” Her voice is cold and icy.
“I saw your effort out there on the course, but I’m gonna need you to step it up moving forward.”
“Yessir.”
“I’m not trying to make you feel bad. There are standards on the PFT that you’re gonna have to meet.”
“Yessir.”
I grit my teeth, inexplicably annoyed. “You’re gonna have to work twice as hard as everyone else to get to where you need to be. That means extra time in the gym — giving a hundred and fifty percent in training. It’s gonna be tough, and if you can’t handle it —”
“I can handle it,” she growls, snapping her eyes on to mine.
I nod slowly, glad to have gotten a rise out of her.
“You want to tell me why you’re here?” I ask, glancing around the training center. The place is completely deserted.
“Excuse me?”
“Come on . . . You aren’t cut out for the Space Force. You’re an intelligence geek. Tell me why you’re really here.”
Jones looks momentarily startled — panicked, even. It happens so quickly that I wonder if I imagined it, because a second later, she just looks offended.
“I told you,” she says through gritted teeth. “Amelia McDermit had a medical issue. They assigned me to go in her place.”
“That’s not what I asked,” I growl, taking a step toward her so that we’re barely six inches apart.
The closer I get, the more I’m convinced that my hunch is dead-on. Jones isn’t the military type. She’s wearing mascara, for crying out loud. She’s too soft, too sensitive, and seriously lacking in upper-body strength.
“Why did you come here?” I murmur. “You have an impressive résumé. You could have applied to work in any other department on Elderon. What could possibly have motivated you to join the Space Force?”
“I’m here for the same reason as everyone else,” she says with a shrug. “I wanted to make a difference.”
“Cut the bullshit, Jones. Why are you really here?”
“What do you want from me?” she snaps.
“I want you to tell me the truth.”
“I am,” she says, losing all her composure in the blink of an eye. “Why are you here?” she growls. “Shouldn’t you be interrogating members of the Bureau for Chaos in some army black site? Clearly you get off on torturing people . . .”
A jolt of rage flares through my system, and I can tell at once that Jones knows she’s overstepped. She shrinks under my harsh gaze, and I resist the impulse to tear her a new one. I’m shaking all over with fury, but I need to keep it together if I hope to make my point.
“Look,” I growl, trying to keep my voice steady. “I don’t know why you’re really here, and I don’t care. You’re on my squad now, and you better get your shit together. Otherwise, I’m gonna have to talk to the captain and let him know you don’t belong here.”
By now, I’m so close to her that I can detect the faintest hint of freckles skirting across her nose. They’re doing something strange to my insides, but I ignore the feeling and keep my scowl firmly in place.
“The captain?” she says in a fake impressed voice. “Wow.”
The way her lips form the word, I know she’s fucking with me. A ghost of a smile flickers across her face, but I can detect the undercurrent of panic in her eyes.
“You’re dismissed,” I growl. “Get out of my gym.”
Jones doesn’t need telling twice. She skitters off to join the others for lunch, and in this moment, I know I’m right.
There’s something off about Maggie Jones. I just can’t put my finger on it.
21
Maggie
I stumble out of the training center in a daze, shaken and unnerved by Jonah’s assessment. He suspects something — I can tell
.
Who can blame him? I’m clearly not cut out for this. I’m going to have to step up my game. Otherwise I might get kicked out of the Space Force before I have a chance to do what I came here to do.
I hightail it to the dining hall, running a hand over the top of my head to smash down the curls trying to escape from my bun. I keep my head down while I wait in line, hoping I don’t see anyone I know. If Tripp or someone from the press corps sees me, my cover will be blown.
The bots serve me a steaming slab of veggie lasagna with dried globs of cheese and the most pitiful bowl of iceberg lettuce I have ever seen. I can’t exactly take advantage of Tripp’s first-class dining ticket — even when there’s a steaming bowl of lobster trotolle with my name on it.
I grab a drink at the end of the line and look around for an empty table. I can’t exactly go sit with my squad — not after I earned Adra a grueling round of suicides.
“Hey, Jones!” yells a voice to my left.
Davis is sitting at a table with Ping, Casey, and Adra. He and Casey seem to be rehashing Ping’s amazing run on the obstacle course, because Ping is bowing from his chair.
Davis waves me over, and I break into a grin. I can’t believe they want anything to do with me, but it feels nice to have friends.
I sink down in the corner seat, glancing over at Adra. She’s determinedly stabbing her fork into a rubbery brick of lasagna, and she won’t meet my gaze.
The guys seem oblivious to the awkwardness between us. They’re still laughing about Casey’s performance, which was almost as much of a shit show as mine.
Davis mimics Casey sliding down the apex ladder and busting his nose on the lowest rung, and I take a few bites to give myself time to recover from my conversation with Jonah.
“Better eat up,” Davis says to me after a moment.
“Yeah,” says Casey, shoving a hunk of bread in his mouth. “Otherwise Wyatt might come over here . . .”
Davis scrunches his face into a surly expression. “Time’s up! No lunch for you!”
They both double over in a fit of laughter, and I force myself to smile. I’m glad someone found the incident funny.
