Getting excused from school and cop internship for mech training feels like skipping class, until I enter a small classroom with 50 other girls. Walls are khaki concrete that scream military. Dara pulls two girls from their seats up front and takes them for herself and Margarite. I sit toward the back on an uncomfortable wooden seat.
Dara glares at me as if the hard seats are my fault. I can’t shift from her hurting Janine to “let’s be girlfriends” to hating me when she doesn’t get her way. I steady my breathing.
Commander Hernandez barges into the room. You’re our instructor?
She stands before the class and waits until everyone’s quiet. “This room is intentionally uncomfortable to motivate you to master what you need and move on. No one gets comfy in the mechs. If we do, people die. You’re here by invitation, which means I can invite you to leave, to wash out. You may excuse yourself from the program at any time until I accept you as a mech. At that point I’ll ask you to sign on for six years.”
That’s a life sentence. Wouldn’t Nashville be better?
“Become acquainted with each other. While you come as rivals and enemies, within this program, we work together. Is that clear?”
When all she gets in reply are groans, she scowls, highlighting that grisly scar down the right side of her face. “The proper response from a warrior is Hoo-rah or We stand ready to deliver, depending on whether you’re acknowledging that you understand or committing to perform. I repeat, which I rarely do: as mechs, we operate as a single unit. We don’t tolerate animosity toward sister warriors or interns. Is that clear?”
A weak Hoo-rah comes in response.
“You want to wash out of the program, keep slacking. You want me to treat you like mech potential, then sharpen up. Our next order of business is the release.”
Above my desk appears an image that reads “Mech Trainee Release.” I push my hand through the hologram.
“Those who don’t think you’re old enough to sign, raise your hands and leave. The state recognizes your authority to commit to this release without parental consent.”
I’m not sure Mom would refuse, given the alternative.
“Read the release. It covers your commitment to the program, what I expect from you, and physical requirements and risks.” The commander slows for the next part: “Risks include death, permanent injury, mental and physical duress. We tear you down and build you up to be the best. This is before you qualify as a mech warrior. If you can’t agree, don’t sign. Begin reading. At the end, either sign or excuse yourself.”
She stops to let that sink in, and then continues, “So there’s no misunderstanding, pay attention to the section on fertility. You agree to aggressive contraceptive implants in case of attack on or off assignment. Given the rigors of your work, we can’t have pregnant warriors. Implants work six months on with no period and a hell-week off to purge your system. These plus the rigors of training, action, and potential injuries will likely render you infertile. It’s a cost of becoming a mech. If this is unacceptable, drop out and save yourselves heartache. I’ll return in half an hour. No one is to leave their seat.” She marches out of the room.
I skim the lengthy document for all the reasons I don’t want to become a mech. My eyes glaze over to the point that I must force myself to concentrate.
Dara grunts and tries to throw the screen off her desk. It’s a hologram that merely shimmers with her efforts. “This is bullshit. No one said anything about signing an encyclopedia. Is there anything we’re not releasing?”
“Then wash out.” It’s what I want to do.
“You calling me a chicken-shit?” Dara stands and receives a jolt from her armrest. “Shit.” She collapses toward the floor and receives a second jolt before she scrambles her large frame into her seat. “What the hell kind of prison they running here?”
Everyone stares at the amazon, the biggest girl in the room. Margarite looks anxious. Dara squirms in her seat, her body tensing, her face turning red. She rips the metallic armrest off the frame and tries to throw it toward the front of the room. The thin surface clings to her arm and delivers a steady current until she slumps into her seat.
I study my armrest: a mesh with electrical circuits for holographic images. They must enable the jolt that has the amazon twitching in her seat. I don’t want to see how she reacts when released.
I read the release more carefully. It lists physical risks: broken bones, diseases, organ damage, everything except pregnancy. Someday I might marry a woman or two like Mom did and consider EggFusion Fertilization to have kids. I might decide to hook up with Morgan or George, if I could find them. I haven’t given it much thought until now, but it’s another thing the Union denies me. What’s odd is how this conflicts with their need for warriors. To the extent genes matter, they’re selecting them out of the warrior gene pool. Is that the real intent?
I sign. What choice do I have? I’ll bide my time.
* * *
When the commander returns, she dismisses a mousy girl who refuses to sign and closes the door. “First phase of mech training will be history, procedures, rules, and regulations, all the fun book learning.” More brainwashing.
Dara stews, waiting for a chance to assert herself. It’s hard to keep my eyelids open after whatever happened last night. Curse my rashness.
“Before we begin, roll up your sleeves for your first injection.”
“For what?” Dara asks.
“Number One Grunt, didn’t you read the release?” The commander moves to the right front corner of the room and produces what looks like a gun. She stops at each girl’s left arm, fires whatever she’s injecting, and moves on. “As mechs, we use what works. This heightens your ability to absorb and retain instructions. What ordinarily would take a week of putting you to sleep with lectures will take four hours of concentrated learning, after which I’ll test you. Don’t fail me.”
I raise my hand.
Without slowing her injection routine or looking around, the commander says, “Number Two Grunt, you have a question. You want to know what constitutes a pass on my test and what happens if you fail.”
“Actually, ma’am–”
“I’m not a ma’am. You’ll address me as Sam or Commander. Is that clear?”
“Yes. Hoo-rah.”
“You might survive the day. As for the test, I don’t teach nonsense. I provide what you need to stay in the program, what it takes to survive, and what you need to succeed as a mech warrior. If you’re under fire and the enemy shoots 100 rounds at you, what percentage do you need to avoid?”
The deafening silence, punctuated by the whoosh of the injection gun, unnerves me. “A hundred percent,” I say.
“That’s what I expect from you. Nothing less is worthy of a mech warrior. When I was in the marines, they talked of giving 110 percent. That’s bull. You can’t give more than you have. But be forewarned, my standard of what you can do is much higher than yours. Don’t settle, or you’ll fail. I don’t need slackers.”
When the commander stands next to me, I brace myself. I hate injections. Along with the whoosh comes a knuckle punch to the arm, and I know I can expect more bruises. I put on my blank face.
When she finishes the injections, she stands by the door. “You grunts have four hours. The tutorial paces itself and requires your complete attention. You can’t leave your seats, as Number One Grunt demonstrated, except to use the bathroom on the tutorial’s schedule. When it announces your break, two at a time, I suggest you take advantage of the facilities in back of the room. Don’t make us clean up after you. You have five minutes before you’re penalized. After four hours, there’s a brief break before the test. The test is not multiple guess. In the field, you won’t get a list of options to choose from. Learn to deal with this.”
When the commander closes the door, the tutorial begins. Words stream across the holographic page at such speed I have to give it my full attention. The tutorial washes away concern over what I got myself into, anger at Dara, and curiosity over where Morgan is and how Janine’s doing.
The first part, history, I learned in school: how in the early decades of the 21st century, right-wing extremists tried to turn back the clock. When they failed, they seceded, bringing the Second American Civil War.
I concentrate, not because I’m interested or learning anything new, but because the commander worries me with her 100 percent. I’m amazed at how my mind absorbs like recycled paper towel. These meds could turn me into an “A” student, but I doubt it meets healthy all-natural standards of the FDA.
I read how the great Progressive CEO, Adrianne Picard, supplied mech gear and other tools that allowed Federal Union mech warriors to turn the tide in the war. It also enabled them to police 17 years of shaky peace, which the Outlanders often violate. The tutorial moves into mech history. During the brief Civil War, Commander Hernandez formed the Tenn-tucky mech corps in a matter of weeks. She brought together former marines, Special Forces, and street toughs, putting them through a grueling training program that continues through today.
Yippee. Can’t wait.
Next come mech rules and procedures, just like cop internship and school harmony. One difference: the commander emphasizes excellence over harmony, although mechs have to work together.
Excellence sounds good after wallowing in the bland, average, harmonious garbage of school, Union rules, clothes and food. Being expected to be my best could work, though they used “excellence” to dispatch my parents. I push those thoughts aside before I miss vital information for the test. I stink at tests.
When it’s Dara’s turn to take a break, the amazon goes with Capra, a tough sandy-blonde from the plantation party. Dara stops beside me and punches my injection arm. I force myself not to react.
I hear scuffling beside me and then, “I’m gonna turn this shock treatment on Sam.”
I check Dara from the corner of my eye as I focus on the virtual screen. She looks dazed. I don’t even see her leave. I can’t afford to miss anything before the test.
When it’s my turn, the tutorial screen goes blank except for a flashing red “BREAK-TIME” and the countdown from five minutes. I launch myself out of the wooden seat. Thanks for not electrocuting me.
I don’t wait to see who comes with me. The two-stall bathroom I enter is knee high in crumpled toilet paper.
I grab what I need, finish up, and shake my head at Jane, a small brunette with a pretty face. I rush to my seat with a minute to spare, close my eyes and take a deep breath. It’s been two hours and seems like 15 minutes. My mind drowns in facts, figures, rules, procedures, and the penalties for failure: washout, the brig, and death. My brain turns to mush. I open my eyes in time to see the tutorial continue: Welcome back, Number Two Grunt. How personal. Thanks, Commander.
Two hours later, the tutorial screen goes blank. The commander barges into the room. “Pencils down.”
Everyone stares.
“That’s a joke. The best you’ll get. In a moment I’ll release you to go across the hall for refreshments and a potty break, which I suggest you use. Except Number One Grunt, who will clean the toilets in the back of this room.” The commander stares at Dara. “The rest of you are dismissed.”
Dara stands and receives a jolt that sends her big arms into spastic contractions. She slumps into her seat. “This is bullshit.”
“No, Number One Grunt. This is respect. You want out of the program, keep pushing me. After everyone else leaves, you’ll have 20 minutes to clean the bathroom to my satisfaction.”
I take the long way around Dara, who glares back. “You’ll get yours.” Dara can’t strike the commander, so she has her eye on me instead.
Thin-faced Margarite waits for me in a large dining hall. Sandwiches, fresh vegetables, deserts, and drinks are arranged on tables along one wall. “Don’t mind Dara. She likes to boss.”
Famished, I grab a wheat-bread sandwich, expecting cardboard turkey with tasteless mayo. “How long have you known her?”
“Three years. She had a tough childhood with lots of foster homes.”
Haven’t we all–the tough childhood bit. I head for a seat in the corner. I need to chill and let my brain relax.
Margarite grabs a sandwich and follows. “If you let her think she’s in charge, things go better. Just don’t challenge her.”
Do you consider Dara your girlfriend? If so, why don’t you seem angry over last night? I lose my appetite. “Look, Margarite. I hope we can be friends, but I don’t take orders from Dara. You work it out.” I sit on a thin-cushioned seat and bite into my sandwich, trying to save my strength for the test.
Margarite hesitates, as if deciding whether it’s okay to eat without Dara. She sits across from me. “I’d like to be friends. You and Janine are great players. I’m glad she’s not hurt.” Her eyes have that withdrawn, tortured look. I bet she had a rougher childhood than Dara.
“Does Dara beat on you?” I ask.
“Heavens no. She’s not like that.” Margarite hangs her head. “I let her lead.”
Bet you do. I finish my turkey sandwich, which has a honey taste to it, and pocket a packet of oatmeal cookies. Then I head into the bathroom before we take the dreaded test. Margarite follows. Guess that’s why you get along with Dara.
* * *
After lunch, the commander hustles us into the small classroom where Dara sits. A dark gloom clouds her tough face, fighting mad with no way to express it. Did Hernandez talk to her while we were on break?
“You’ll have one hour to complete the test.” The commander moves to the door. “Don’t dwell on one question too long. Make me proud.”
When we stare quietly, the commander says, “The appropriate response for a warrior is I or we stand ready to deliver.”
She waits until she hears our chorus. “Much better.” Then she leaves.
The test involves open-ended questions that require thought. I freeze, close my eyes, and take a deep breath. I’m doing this for you, Janine, and for Mom, and so they won’t send me to Nashville.
What’s the capital of South Appalachia? Biltmoor.
What’s the population of South Appalachia? Two million. So, how have they held out against superior Union mechs for 17 years? Never mind. No time to digress.
What’s the mech corps mission? To rescue females, capture or terminate male escapees, enforce borders and patrol national parks on the Outlander side. How insane. If they’re on the other side, why is that our responsibility? Never mind. Stay focused.
When the hour ends, the commander returns to the room and studies her wrist-com.
I’m certain I’ve washed out. It was the hardest test I’ve ever taken, worse than advanced algebra. I tremble, thinking of Nashville. Then I see onscreen:
Congratulation, Number Two Grunt.
Did I get 100 percent? Can’t be. I answered every question, but I didn’t know the answers, unless whatever she injected created a new databank I can access.
I passed. Now what?