13. The First Lessons

The mess hall was a metallic cavern of rust and exhaustion. The same blinding yellow fluorescent lights glared overhead. The same echoing of the greenie rabble. The only thing new was the smell of bleach and boiled protein. Hell, even the Prep-academy’s worst locales were in much better condition.

I grabbed an old, scratched metal tray from a pile and joined the growing line. A bored logistics officer plopped a ladle of viscous grey nutrient paste onto my plate, accompanied by a white block of condensed protein powder and a cup of recycled water.

I forced a grimace off my face as I stepped away from the serving line. Unsure of where to go next, I scanned the hall looking for those in my barracks.

It didn’t take long to find them. The recruits of Barracks 7 were huddled around a long table near the back. They all looked terrible, exhausted. Some still had muck and dirt on them, probably from when they were digging the latrine pit.

A lone wolf is just a dead wolf.

Instructor Kael’s words rang in my ears. I sighed to myself before heading off in their direction; may as well make the effort.

The low chatter at the table died as soon as I stepped into their peripheral vision. I ignored the sudden, tension and set my tray down directly across from Miller before taking a seat.

“Look,” I started, keeping my voice low and even. “About this morning—”

I reached onto my tray, picked up my vacuum-sealed protein ration, and slid it across the metal table toward him. A peace offering. Calories to make up for the breakfast I cost them.

Miller stared at the ration block, then slowly lifted his gaze to meet mine. His eyes were flat, completely devoid of the hot anger he’d shown earlier.

Without a word, he picked up his tray. The screech of his metal chair scraping against the concrete floor sounded like a gunshot in the quiet pocket of space around us.

“Lost my appetite,” Miller muttered to no one in particular. He turned his back on me and walked away.

The kid sitting next to him stood up immediately and followed. So did the girl across from me. One by one, the recruits of Barracks 7 picked up their trays and vacated the table. No insults or shouting followed their departure, just a collective, silent rejection.

I was left completely alone at a table meant for thirty.

I stared down at the grey paste on my tray. In Prep-academy, an apology or a bribe was enough to smooth over most missteps. But this wasn’t just pre-pubescent politics. I couldn’t just hand over a protein block and expect them to forget and become buddy-buddy all of a sudden. Building up some trust was going to be a long, miserable process.

I picked up my tray, refusing to sit alone like some sort of pariah and scanned the massive hall once more.

Near the centre of the room sat a lanky kid with deep bags under his eyes. He talked animatedly between bites, surrounded by a group of other greenies.

I walked over and tapped the metal table. “Seat taken?”

Tomás looked up, pausing mid-chew. His eyes flicked to my tray, then over to the empty table where Barracks 7 used to be. A knowing, slightly sympathetic smile tugged at his mouth.

“For one of the bravest, slash, dumbest bastards in camp?” Tomás slid his tray over to make room. “Of course. Take a seat, my man.”

I sat down, the tension in my shoulders finally dropping a fraction of an inch. The other D-Grades at the table cast me a few wary glances, but seeing Tomás vouch for me, they went back to their food.

“So,” Tomás said, leaning in slightly. “I saw your squad doing some manual labour outside the perimeter wire while the rest of us were doing callisthenics. Let me guess: someone finished the morning run a little too fast?”

“I broke the record,” I muttered, stabbing my spoon into the grey paste. “Left them thirty minutes behind.”

Tomás winced, sucking air through his teeth. “Ouch. Yeah, that’ll do it.”

“I figured it out. Eventually.” I slid the unopened protein ration across the table toward him. “You want this? Miller didn’t.”

Tomás looked at it, his stomach giving an audible rumble, but he pushed it back. “Keep it. You’re going to need all the energy you can get. Academics start at 1300, and that’s when they really start messing with your head.”

I picked up my spoon and forced the grey paste down. It tasted like chalk, but I didn’t stop until the tray was clean. I really was hungry.

[ 13:00 HOURS ]

Room 4D was a windowless concrete box. The air was stagnant, smelling of floor wax and unwashed bodies. We sat at battered metal desks, staring at the front of the room.

There were no glowing 3D topographical maps here. Just a flat, cracked smart-board.

Our instructor was a grizzled Warrant Officer named Graves. He walked with a heavy limp. The left side of his face dominated by a cybernetic eye that clicked audibly every time it refocused.

“Listen up,” Graves rasped. “You are D-Grades. Maybe even F-Grades. That means the Federation didn’t spend money on your genetics, and they aren’t going to spend money on your education.”

He tapped the smart-board. A crude, two-dimensional tactical map flickered to life. A swarm of red dots descended toward a blue line. Behind the blue line sat three massive blue triangles.

“Can anyone tell me what you are looking at?” Graves asked, his synthetic eye whirring as it scanned the room.

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Silence.

“Tiernan. You went to a fancy school. What is this?” Graves called on me.

I stared at the board. I knew exactly what it was. I had studied it from the perspective of the blue triangles. But I really didn’t want to show off again. If I got it right, I’d get sneers; if I got it wrong, jeers. Lose, lose.

“It’s a hammer and anvil, Warrant Officer.” My voice was flat. “The red dots are the Bugger swarm. The blue triangles in the rear are the cavalry, B-Grade or A-Grade pilots. The hammer.”

“And the blue line in the front?” Graves pressed, a grim smile pulling at his scarred cheek. “The lower grades?”

“The anvil.”

“Exactly.” Graves tapped the board again. The red dots crashed into the thin blue line. The line buckled, thinning out as red dots swarmed over it. “In high-strung, uppity-fuckity society, they teach you how to swing the hammer. Here, we teach you how to be a wall.”

The room’s temperature seemed to drop.

“Bugger swarms operate on standard tactics,” Graves explained, pacing the front of the room. “Despite popular belief, they are thinking beasts. Each one is intelligent. But they have coordination unmatched by any other. If a Federation mech walks onto the field alone, the swarm will overwhelm it. A standard-issue mech costs around forty million credits to manufacture. You cost the Federation a bowl of grey paste and a uniform.”