“And what about the gun?” Arlo snapped back, clearly thinking that he was still their ‘gold’ commander and in charge of them.
Well, you’re not… Solomon could feel his chest starting to swell with rage, and his fingers clenched the metal helmet under his arm. It was heavy enough that it would cause some damage were he to bring it down in an arc against the big man’s unprotected head...
“Trainees! At attention!” Asquew barked from above, and Solomon reluctantly dragged his eyes back to the balcony above, even though his ears were roaring with the pound of blood.
“If you cannot take criticism, then there is no place for you in the Marines,” Asquew stated heavily, and Solomon’s heart fell. This is it. I am going to get deported. We are all going to get deported, by the sound of it…
But Solomon couldn’t have been more surprised by what came next from the colonel’s mouth.
“As I stated, we were monitoring your progress and evaluating each of you through the challenge. Oracle has finished analyzing the results,” Asquew stated. “Which also means that we have a complete chat record of all recorded orders given, and orders ignored,” she stated precisely, and beside Solomon, the large Frenchman blanched white.
“It is never a good idea to lie to a superior officer, Regular Menier,” Asquew stated carefully, taking a breath. “We know that you gave the order to fire on your fellow Marines, and for that reason, your entire squad has been disqualified from the tournament, meaning that it is Blue Squad that rightfully won, and will be forwarded their specialisms based on their performance shortly…”
“YAAAS!” A jubilant cheer broke out from the standing line of other regulars and recruits which had, up until now, been the most morose of all of the trainees in the bay, as they were the ones inside the mech-walker that Solomon had fired upon. The colonels let them have their brief moment of celebration, whooping and laughing and thumping each other on the shoulders, before making a quieting gesture with her hand as she clearly had more to say.
“However, despite the gold squad’s apparent complete lack of operational awareness, my colleague Colonel Madavi has also made a recommendation about their trainees’ performance…” Asquew stated, passing over the job to the other Marine in full power armor, who stepped forward and stated, in a curiously still and gentle voice that Solomon hadn’t been expecting:
“Trainee Solomon CR is to be forwarded into the command specialism.”
“What!?” Arlo hissed, doing his best to turn his outrage into a sudden cough. He was not alone apparently, as the offended Blue Squad also fell quiet at the news, and Solomon saw several of the other trainee’s eyes once again return to their sport of staring daggers at him.
What? Solomon echoed the surprise.
“At several turns, we noted that Solomon CR managed to out-strategize the scenario, as well as pass on that insight to his squad: using the full tactical Malady to draw fire, using the contours of the land to avoid fire from the guns, proceeding to take control of one of the guns himself to secure the mecha-hound threat. He showed both use of strategy and tactics, as well as a concern for his fellow soldiers of his squad.”
“…but not ours,” one of the members of Blue Squad muttered, but Colonel Madavi ignored him and just carried on talking. “These are all command specialism traits, and Recruit Cready is the only soldier that we have seen so far who has displayed them.”
It was like Madavi was reading out a report, and Solomon couldn’t help but look over the older man’s shoulder to where Warden Coates stood, looking stunned.
“We expect the specialisms that we have ordained to be enacted immediately, and we look forward to our next observation session,” Madavi said, turning on his heel with a nod to Coates, before the pair of them, Madavi and Asquew, marched down the balcony and through an access door.
The room fell into an uneasy murmuring as soon as they had gone, and if Solomon could feel the enmity and hatred of the other trainees on him before, it was ten times worse now. But Solomon didn’t dare look around, as he had his eyes staring fixedly up at the only person left on the metal balcony—Warden Coates. Solomon watched as the little man stepped forward to the railing and said through a tight jaw, “Class dismissed.”
And that was it. Squads were breaking ranks and turning to their equipment lockers to start hanging up their kit and relax from the long day of exertion.
But Solomon stayed where he was, just as Warden Coates did above him, and the warden’s eyes bored into Solomon with utter contempt.
6
How We Do Things Here
For Solomon, the next days and weeks started to blur into one endless cycle of waking up, eating, going to the gymnasium, military exercises in the afternoon as well as either long hours spent in the study lounge, or else in his new specialism class—command.
Not that there were days, as such, on Ganymede. With the sun being just a distant—but still bright—star in the sky, the only source of constant light was the red, baleful glow of the gas giant Jupiter making the moon’s surface appear in a constant state of moody sunset.
Instead, there were military-style shifts, which Solomon was sure changed length from ‘day’ to ‘day.’ Some days, they would have time to perform all of their lessons before the final evening klaxon would see them stumbling back to the food delivery hall and bunks. On others, Solomon was sure that they had only had time to perform half of the lessons before they were once again stumbling back.
“Variable metabolic cycles,” Malady informed him, when he had mentioned this strange fact. “It helps the human body to function at peak, if daylight work hours are varied to increase hormone and endocrine function.”
Huh? Solomon thought. It sounded faintly creepy, to be honest, as if he was part of some sort of vast scientific experiment. Despite Solomon’s unease, he was pleased that the full tactical golem seemed to consider him something approaching a friend—not that the mechanical man was ever anything but pragmatic and monosyllabic, but it appeared that he ventured to talk to him, whereas most of the other recruits and regulars didn’t.
The regulars hate me because I have a specialism already and I’m still only a recruit, and the recruits think that I’m bad luck for them to be seen around. Solomon sighed, once again between his shifts.
The only other person who would voluntarily speak to him—usually to laugh at his not quite quick enough attempts at sparring in the gymnasium—was Jezzie Wen, his fellow gold-squad member and the only other recruit to be awarded with her specialism. Hers happened to be, of course, close-combat.
“You ready to lose again, Commander?” Jezzie called out as she approached Solomon and Malady down the food delivery hall between lessons. She looked tired and disheveled, in her tight-fitting training clothes that showed that she, like the others, had come from their ‘special’ lessons. Solomon had no idea if Malady had a specialism or whether being biologically sewn into his suit counted as a specialism all of its own. For himself, he knew that he had just spent two hours replaying hologram battles between glowing green and red markers, while Oracle, the station computer, narrated various ambushes, maneuvers, and famous tactics employed by the Confederate Marines in the past. It was tiring, and it wasn’t exactly what Solomon had been expecting, but he still found it intriguing.
It’s all a puzzle, he kept thinking. Every battle is an opportunity to use your resources in a way that would trick, outwit, and hopefully overwhelm your opponent.
Just like a well-planned heist, but when combined with the ceaseless physical training as well, it was more tiring than any criminal endeavor he had engaged with.
Which was one of the two reasons he shook his head at Jezzie. “I don’t think I’m fit for another bout of sparring,” he said, forgetting himself and almost actually smiling.
Dammit, Solomon, what are you playing at? he berated himself. Was he that starved of attention that he would make friends with a former Yakuza operative? That was reason two for not wanting to be
come too friendly with Jezzie. There were still Yakuza out there on Earth who wanted him dead, he reminded himself as he put the solid mask of disinterest on over his features.
“Oh, I see… Too scared of getting beaten up by a girl?” the woman said, her mouth playing a crooked smile. All Solomon could see was the way that smile pulled at the darting forked tongue of the dragon’s head that curved over her shoulder and up her neck…
“Oh. I get it.” Jezzie suddenly pulled herself upright.
Dammit, Solomon thought. She had seen him looking at the tattoo. She must know that he knew what it meant.
“It was a long time ago, now.” Jezzie’s smile faded into a flat grimace. “I should have thought that you of all people know that we can all make mistakes,” the woman said as she pushed past him forcefully.
Ouch. Solomon recoiled from the shove as if he had actually been hit. Maybe I deserved that, he started to think, before that other part of him—the watchful, wary part of him—broke in. It could all be an act. A way to get close to you, and then mete out Yakuza-style justice. He watched as the rather athletic form of Jezzie swaggered back to the bunk, sending others scurrying away from her in her bad mood.
“You should trust her,” grunted an electronically-amplified voice behind him. It was Malady, closing the small containment hatch on his side where he put the energy-gunk bars. Solomon had no idea what happened to them after that, and quite frankly didn’t want to know either. “She is trying to be your friend.”
Solomon was surprised that the large man knew much about friends. Wasn’t he mostly cyborg, now? Solomon was about to point that out, his temper rising in his chest so much that he wanted to lash out at someone. You can’t trust anyone. No one changes. Not really…
“Commander Cready,” a voice slurred behind him, and Solomon knew what was going to happen the moment he heard the angered tone in the Frenchman’s voice.
It was Arlo, still only a regular despite the days and weeks of training that they had all been put through. Solomon didn’t turn. Don’t give him the satisfaction, he thought, as ever since that training mission when it had been Arlo that had made all of the wrong choices, the Frenchman’s dislike of Solomon had seemed to fester into a deep, violent hate. And he had managed to spread that hate around too, always appearing to stand at the corners of the hallways with his beefy comrades, daring Solomon to pass them unarmed.
“Think you are better zan ze rest of us, Commander Cready?” Arlo whispered behind him. “Think you deserve your position, when you made ze rest of us look like a fool?”
I did no such thing! Solomon thought. “Not today, Arlo. I’m too tired for this star-spit…” He started to walk past Malady when suddenly there was an explosion of pain in his side.
“Urk!” Solomon stumbled to the side of the hall, grabbing the service ports to stop himself from falling to the ground. Arlo had kicked him in the side, just under the ribs, wounding him. You need to get up. Defend yourself. He was already moving, keeping his arms up in a defensive boxing position. He’d had enough beatings down on Earth to know how to protect himself. He knew that if they got him on the floor, it would only go ten times worse for him. It might even be fatal.
Thap! Another blow hit him, but this wasn’t coming from the larger Arlo in front of him, but on his right, where one of Menier’s goons had kicked out at him.
One in front, two at the sides… Solomon knew this game. As soon as he concentrated his attacks on one, the other would—
“Stop this,” Malady’s heavy voice cut in, and there was a clank of a metal foot as the mechanical golem-man shifted his position slightly. The attacks stopped, briefly.
“Stay out of zis, Malady,” Arlo snarled at him. “You know ze way it goes. You were a Marine before you got your butt kicked back down to the Outcasts, right?”
He was a full Marine? Solomon had a chance to wonder, peering from behind his raised fists to see that Malady had stepped forward slightly, shielding the convict with one side of his massive body.
But there were still four of them including Arlo, Solomon thought. But four unarmed guys wouldn’t be enough to bring down a full tactical, would it? He stood up a bit straighter, his arms relaxing a little to his sides as he stared at Arlo defiantly.
“Not here, Arlo. It’s not worth it,” he found himself saying, wondering where that reserve of common sense came from. Because one day, we will have to sort this situation out, one way or another, but neither of us want to end up on Titan for it, he figured.
“I don’t know about that, Sol,” said a new voice, as Jezzie stepped out from behind Malady. She had apparently heard the commotion and come back.
Don’t tell me you want a piece of me too, do you? Solomon’s heart froze.
But Jezzie didn’t join Arlo and his gang of stooges. Instead, the Yakuza combat specialist stood easily beside Malady, arms down and her body looking relaxed, but everyone there knew that she could explode into instant, vicious action the moment she desired.
It was three against four, and one of the three was twice the width of anyone here.
“Gah!” Arlo snarled at them, clearly seeing that this was a fight he wasn’t going to win. Instead, he very slowly raised his fingers to point at his own eyes and then at Solomon. “I’ll be waiting, Commander Cready.”
“You do that,” Solomon shot back, waiting for his attackers to trudge off to their bunks, before turning to Malady and Jezzie.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said in a tight voice, still unsure just why they had done that. Jezzie was angry at me a moment before, and Arlo said Malady was a Marine. That both made them candidates for knowing that gangs have a way of sorting their own problems out, internally…
“No, you’re right. We didn’t.” Jezzie heaved a sigh. “But one of these days, Solomon Cready, you’re going to have to accept the fact that you’re here. On Ganymede. For the next twelve fracking years. I do not intend to die because I can’t trust one of my comrades,” she said, turning on her heel before pausing. “Besides, I like picking on Arlo,” she said in a throwaway manner and stalked back to her bunk.
“And you? What’s your excuse, big fella?” he asked Malady, who appeared as motionless as a statue. The metal man took a long time to speak, but when he did, the answer surprised Solomon.
“Menier was right. I was a full Marine, before I assaulted my superior officer. Hence why they sealed me in my suit and demoted me down to the Outcasts,” he said in his quiet voice. “He was right, that Marines have a way of sorting out their problems themselves. Away from the officers…”
“Then why did you stick up for me?”
Malady paused for a moment. “I don’t know. I thought I saw something in you, maybe. That you were an outsider here yourself, like me, and that you were willing to at least be civil.”
Solomon had never even thought that the golem was capable of human emotions, or of feeling left out, isolated. He had thought that the man inside the machine was little more than another part of the whole—a biological computer—but it seemed that he had been wrong. He was about to say so, when Malady had already turned and left the room.
Outstanding. Solomon stood there for a moment longer, unable to tell if he was happy that he finally seemed to have friends, or miserable that his friends knew he was a jerk.
“Well, you DO have a habit of making enemies, Sol…” Matty said, with his back turned to his friend as he stood in front of the bright window screen of Neon Vespers, one of New Kowloon’s very refined, but also very unheard-of, restaurants.
Solomon had walked there with his friend Matthias, who had spent three days tracking down information on the governmental intelligence tracking chip that Solomon had found in his apartment.
Matty, just like he always could, had managed to track down someone who knew something about why Solomon might be under governmental surveillance. That was precisely the sort of reason why Solomon had pulled him in on this in the first place. Well, that and the fact that S
olomon was terrified.
“What are you talking about? I’m charming,” Solomon heard the memory-self of his dreams say. I must be asleep. A part of his brain was struggling to wake up. That is what is happening here, isn’t it? It was what had happened every night now for weeks. Dreams of his murdered friend. Dreams of murdering his friend…
“No, Sol, you’re not.” Matty laughed, turning to reveal his ruin of a face that he never had at this point in real life, but one the dream-Matty wore with apparent ease. None of the passing New Kowloon pedestrians seemed to mind or notice that this man was one of the walking dead.
“You’re a terrible, terrible person. Difficult to get along with. Sarcastic. Taciturn. And you fly off the handle whenever you think someone’s out to get you.” Matty was laughing, but there was an edge to his voice. “I mean, Sol, do you even trust me yet?”
“Course I do,” Solomon heard himself say. “You’re my brother, right?” By which he meant figuratively, but it was true, nonetheless. Solomon had known Matty for over ten years, easily. It was as close as Solomon Cready would ever come to having a real brother in his life.
“Right. I believe you.” Matty just laughed as the door to Neon Vesper’s lobby opened, spilling a dull green glow over the street as Matty and Solomon were ushered in by a tall man in a tuxedo with neon tattoos over one side of his face.
“Reservations?” The man took his place beside the lectern at one end of the lobby, in front of a set of frosted-glass doors.
“I was told that I would be able to contact Miss Cheung here tonight.” Solomon watched as Matty gave one of his winning smiles to the warden, who, like everyone else, was unable to resist Matty’s friendly nature.
“I will enquire as to whether Miss Cheung is receiving guests,” the warden nodded.
Outcasts of Earth (Outcast Marines Book 1) Page 8
