I want to scream. Commander Velan is the worst Ranger Instructor ever. My scores are better than everyone’s, and he fails me for it? I can’t even believe it. Maybe he’s jealous that I’m so good. Maybe he’s jealous of all of us Raiges—a lot of people are, actually. Especially the Kincaids, but that’s a story for another time. When I’m less angry. Maybe when I tell my dad, he’ll see what a dumb decision Velan made, and he’ll overrule it. He could, if he wanted to. He’s the only one who’s really in charge.
But no. My dad—correction, the Commander General—would never do that. He trusts his people and he hardly even knows me, so why would he take my word over Velan’s? He’ll think I’m too young. That I can’t handle being a Ranger yet. But I can. Maybe if Senshi were here, she could talk to him. . . . But if Senshi were here, everything would be different. Then my dad would still care about me. Maybe he’d even be here sometimes, if not for me, then for her at least. . . .
I’m not gonna cry on this recording. That is not conduct befitting a Ranger—I mean, a Cadet. Better try this later.
Okay. Calmer now.
Here’s what happened: I went into Commander Velan’s office, expecting to be told I’d passed my Ranger test.
He said, “Your test scores are very impressive. In the classroom, you are an outstanding Ranger. But in the field, you collapse.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
And then he said the words I dreaded most, “I’m not advancing you.”
It felt like a punch to the gut. It took everything I had not to double over, or fall to the floor, or scream in his face. But he kept talking, and I knew I’d better listen. “You are emotionally unpredictable. You have improper threat assessment and you confuse courage with recklessness, which, at the end of the day, is just a far more dangerous way of being scared. You may try again next year. Dismissed.”
I was practically hyperventilating. This could not be happening. I wouldn’t let it. “Sir. Permission to address the Commander, sir,” I said, keeping my voice as steady and clear as I could.
“Denied,” he said. But when he met my eyes, I thought I saw an invitation there so I rushed forward with my argument anyway. “Sir, I am dedicated, have studied, and consistently displayed conduct becoming of a Ranger. I request that the Commander reconsider his assessment, sir.” I stood there, shaking but trying not to let it show as I waited for his answer.
“I understand what it’s like to see someone die,” he said. “I know what that does to you.” I had half-expected a reprimand, half-expected him to change his mind. But I wasn’t prepared for empathy.
I felt tears welling up at the kindness in his voice and fought them back. “Sir,” I said softly. “My father is returning home tonight. I haven’t seen him . . .” I trailed off. I couldn’t even remember exactly when I saw him last, but I didn’t want to admit that. It was embarrassing to have so little connection to a man who everyone knew. “Today’s a special day for our family. And I have to be able to tell him that I have advanced to Phase Two. I have to be able to tell him that I am a Ranger, sir.” I hated the note of pleading that entered my voice then, but there it was.
He stared at me for a long moment and I allowed myself the slightest hope that I might have gotten through to him. But then he shook his head. “You tell your father that I said ‘welcome home.’ Dismissed.”
He looked down at the next Cadet’s file, making it clear that our conversation was over. But I still couldn’t make myself leave. After everything I’d done to reach this point, how could it be over, just like that? It couldn’t. I wouldn’t let it.
Then came the reprimand. “Your lessons in discipline begin right now,” he said. “You may leave this room with the dignity and decorum befitting a Cadet.”
And so I left. What else could I do?
I knew what he meant, even though I pretended not to. I’m smaller and younger than most of the other Ranger Cadets, so yeah, I’ve got something to prove. I’m the son of the Commander General, and I don’t want anyone to think I got the short end of the genetic stick. But also, I’m good, and I just don’t see any point in holding back, not when lives are always on the line. If I’m faster, stronger, better than everyone else, then I’ll know that next time I come face-to-face with an Ursa, I can kill it. Before it takes anyone else from me.
I push harder than I have to. To me, that just seems smart. I can see where I may have taken a few risks during the Ranger testing that maybe I didn’t have to, a few orders I didn’t strictly follow.
Then again, following orders without question can get people killed. If I hadn’t obeyed Senshi’s order to stay hidden while she fought the Ursa, maybe . . . Maybe I’ll never know, but I do know what didn’t work: blind obedience. I refuse to make the same mistake again.
Maybe I do go too far in training sometimes. Maybe. Like, yesterday when we were running, and I raced as fast as I could to make sure I finished first. Bo, the leader of our group of Cadets, told me it wasn’t a race, that I shouldn’t push so hard. And I didn’t listen, because I couldn’t. I can’t let anyone talk me into doing less than my absolute best, every single time. Good enough isn’t good enough, not for me.
It bugs me that Bo got picked as our leader instead of me. Okay, he’s three years older, bigger, stronger—but I’m still faster and better. He’s a good guy, we’re friends and all, but I want him to know how good I am too.
When I got paired with him for our rock-climbing exercise, I left my safety harness behind. I climb better without it slowing me down. I ignored Bo’s order to put it on and reached the peak without it. At the top, I stood on a fifteen-centimeter ledge with only a sheer ninety-degree slanted rock face above me. I scouted for a handhold and swung out over the canyon sixty-one meters below, using my body’s own momentum to swing over and pull myself onto the ridge. Pure exhilaration. Doing it with a harness just can’t compare. There I was, literally on top of the world, staring out at the amazing city we have built in perfect harmony with our planet. And all Bo could say was, “That was stupid.”
I shrugged, grinning. “They don’t give statues for being scared.”
Bo just doesn’t get it. He doesn’t know what it’s like to feel your own power that way. And he doesn’t understand that I don’t take risks for the thrill—I do it because if an Ursa chases me up a cliff, it’s not going to wait for me to click into my harness before it comes after me. I have to be able to do it this way, or it’s meaningless. But I wouldn’t have tried it if I were in any real danger. It would be stupid to throw my life away on a training exercise. But just because he can’t do what I did, he labels it reckless. And so does Velan.
As we zip-lined back down to the plateau, the view was even more breathtaking. Buildings so at one with nature they literally seem to be an extension of the canyon where they were built. This is our home; this is everything we fight to protect. There’s no such thing as going too far when you have so much to lose.
That’s why, when we were running an exercise yesterday and I spotted a little flash of something among the rocks, the slightest disturbance in the air, I acted without hesitation. That’s all the warning we would get with an Ursa. They’re invisible until they choose to reveal their horrifying selves so they can more fully exploit our fear. I broke formation, disobeyed orders. Bo ordered me to fall back, but I didn’t listen. If it had been an Ursa, that would’ve made me a hero. But since it was just training, and I wasn’t authorized to attack, it made me a reckless Cadet.
They blocked my vision so the Ranger Instructor could take me out—probably because, even with his cutlass, he couldn’t have done it otherwise. I’m not trying to brag, but even with just a training staff, I’m really good. I still fought back, refusing to give in. That’s a Ranger to me—someone who never gives up. I know I’m just a Cadet now, but I can’t go along with everyone else like some kid playing follow-the-leader. That’s not what it takes to defeat an Ursa. It’s not what it takes to save lives. And that’s what really matters.
I feel bad that my whole team got pulled out of the exercise because of me. I know they were mad. Of course, none of them dared to complain. How could they, when I’m the son of the Commander General? Maybe they talk behind my back, I don’t know. Call it recklessness if you want, but it’s exactly what’s going to save my life someday. Theirs too, I bet. Can’t be sorry for that.