26. The First Exhibition

After six months of 0430 sirens, they came to life at 0500. Half an hour of extra sleep, and not a single one of us took it in stride. Conditioned to be up before the 0430 siren so that we wouldn’t get chewed out for tardiness, the entire barracks sat in silence across thirty minutes of what should have been extra rest.

Eyes open, boots swinging off bunks, fatigues halfway on before someone checked the schedule and said, “Exhibition starts at 0600. We’ve got time.”

I lay in the door bunk, already dressed, staring at the ceiling and running scenarios. Beside me, Tomás’s pencil scratched in his notebook.

“You’re thinking too loud,” he said without looking up.

“You’re scribbling too loud.”

“Touché.”

We got up and did what we always did — morning drill. The squad assembled in the yard at 0500 and ran the routine without Vance or Okafor knocking down our door. We did it for the routine of it, exhibition or not, it was still expected of us.

The drill was flawless; six months of repetition had turned forty-five minutes of physical conditioning into automation. Forty-five pairs of boots struck packed dirt at the same time, and a single unified crack echoed off the barracks walls. If the system gave XP for drill performance, we’d all be Level 50 by now.

“Looking sharp,” Vance said as he passed, almost disappointed.

I could see a few of the other kids puff out their chests in pride as we were dismissed for chow.

Breakfast was surprisingly loud; a buzzing energy permeated the room. Excitedly chatting, running through game plans and talking about how the food still hasn’t gotten any more edible. Though some were feeling the pressure. Someone at a Barracks 4 table had their hands wrapped so tightly around their cup that their knuckles were white.

Jin still sat in her adjusted position, Tomás between us.

Seriously, even today?

We walked out at 0545, and the training yard was gone.

Where the sparring rings and dummy stations had been, an arena rose — walls four metres high, modular military-grade panels, observation platforms stacked above. A central display board dominated the far wall, dark for now. Temporary stands lined the perimeter, already filling with recruits. The whole thing must have been around fifty meters in diameter.

Not just our barracks. Barracks 3, 4, 9, 12—numbers I recognised—and others I’d never heard of. Barracks 15 through 25. The F and D-Grade population of the base was larger than I’d realised. Hundreds of recruits filling the stands, most of them strangers, most of them carrying the same Federation Standard future we were.

But the observation deck was what caught my eye.

The sponsor sections were arranged along the upper platform: company placards, designated seating, and evaluatory positions. Except that most of the seats were empty. In their stead, holographic projections shimmered in the allocated spaces. Translucent figures seated in corporate chairs that weren’t physically there. Blue-tinged outlines of evaluators watching from offices and boardrooms hundreds of kilometres away.

Haldane Logistics, two holograms, their forms flickering slightly in the morning breeze. Kepler Defence Solutions, three shimmering figures in matching corporate grey, their projected bodies occasionally losing resolution when the wind shifted. Meridian Defence Group, a single holographic evaluator, older, military bearing, his image more stable than the others.

Then the Tiernan section.

Four figures. Solid. Present.

Uncle David sat in the centre of the section, physically occupying a chair that every other sponsor had filled with light. Legs crossed and datapad on his knees. Though he didn’t seem to be taking notes, his eyes were glued to the arena floor.

Uncle Michael was beside him, leaning back with one arm draped over the chair. Sprawled on his face, I could see that shit-eating grin I’d seen so many times. He was talking to a woman in a military uniform on his right. She sat with her hands folded, watching the arena floor with an intensity that made David look casual. Mid-forties. Sharp features. Something about the line of her jaw was eerily familiar. Just who is that?

The fourth was younger. Mid-twenties, seated slightly apart. His gaze was firmly planted on the recruits, measuring them. His eyes scanned across the large swathes of greenies till it finally rested on me.

Of all the family, it had to be those two? Weren’t they supposed to be off on deployment by now? Fuckin—

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

“Marcus,” Tomás said low.

“I see them.”

“Meridian sent a body. Kepler sent two. Everyone else projected.” He paused. “The Tiernans sent four. To an F-Grade exhibition.”

“I know what it means, Tomás.”

The display board lit up, cutting the conversation short.

|EXHIBITION EVALUATION — PHASE ONE: SQUAD COMBAT|

|TEAMS OF SIX — ELIMINATION FORMAT|

Names populated the screen. Squad designations, barracks numbers. I scanned for ours and found it near the bottom of the lower bracket.

First match — Squad 1, Barracks 9.

Just a mix of D-Grades, no faction. Competent but organised.

The rest of the bracket was a blur of barracks numbers and unfamiliar squad names — the unaffiliated majority, the kids without factions who’d been cobbled into teams by default. Federation Standard firmware waited for most of them.

I stared at the bracket for a moment. We had three matches between here and the top of our section. Three fights that would decide platoon placement, firmware eligibility, and whether six months of training had produced something worth noticing.

“If we make it to round three.” Tomás paused. “We face the winner of Miller versus Osei.”

“When,” Jin said.

“When,” he amended.

The arena assignments loaded.

SQUAD TIERNAN, BARRACKS 7 vs SQUAD 1, BARRACKS 9 — ARENA ONE