I’m on my back, staring up at a mess of wires and lights. I'm about to go into a sim. I want to scratch my nose, but my hands are already inserted and connected.
This isn't like any sim-seat I've used before. This is a Tactical Small Arms Trainer Sim. It’s full-body immersion, with certain contact points hardwired to the system, that can track every muscle movement.
I listen to a short explanation by a technician as he wires me up.
“This is a multiple-weapon training system,” he says in a bored, nasal monotone. “It is full immersion and instantaneously responsive. If you take a hit, the system responds and you will feel the impact, the pain, and the loss of mobility. It won't kill you, but some people say they wish it had. We will be running a fire analysis, tracking hit or miss, hit location, and weapon movement during firing. Alright Grant, you're ready. Go whack some skids.”
Matt said I must do well on this, so again, no pressure. Sheree got me qualified for the course, but there's no possible way to cheat in the sim, and Matt can't change my scores because it’s monitored in real time. If I don't get a decent rating, it will send up a red flag, and someone might wonder how I made it to Special Forces. What I don't discuss with Matt is that if they look too closely at my file, they will discover that it was tampered with before I got here. I'd better do okay.
“Point and shoot, that's all you need to do,” is what Matt said.
Yeah, right.
I need to pee.
I’m also nervous about what the scan might pick up. The Nu-skin I put on yesterday only covered the stain temporarily. Once it had completely grafted the stain was back. So I doubled up on the Nu-skin so it would last long enough and told the tech I’d sustained an injury, hoping that would explain any anomaly that might come up with the scan.
I still have a bitter taste in my mouth from the tablets I chewed an hour ago; some sort of mild pharmacological hallucinogen that will “enhance” my sim experience. Another thing you don’t get with a regular sim-seat. I feel myself drifting as the visor affixes to my face and the needle from the sim pushes through the skin at the base of my skull, feeding the program into my cerebral cortex. I'm going in.
I blink, and look around. I'm in a small room with several corridors leading off it. There are five different weapons placed throughout the building. I need to use each weapon in turn, hitting a minimum number of targets to access the next one. On a table in front of me is the first.
I pick up the assault rifle and grab extra rounds with my other hand. Choosing a hallway, I run. There are doors on both sides of the hall. Targets—human figures—appear as I move. They pop in and out of the doorways. Some leap across to another door. Some run right at me. The figures are sort of blurry; I can't quite focus on them, so they appear distorted. The bodies are slightly misshapen too, but it's nothing I can pinpoint. And the whole time, just barely audible, is a whispery hiss repeating a word. I concentrate hard to make it out. Skid. The word is skid.
The next table is up ahead at the end of the hall. I shoot as I run and I'm there in under a minute. But the table isn't. I'm back at the other end of the hallway and the table is still up ahead. I swear softly to myself and get going. I must not have hit enough targets.
The floor tilts suddenly and I stumble, but manage to stay upright. As I move, it tilts the other way and my spent casings rattle as they slide around. As I attempt to stay upright, I realize that it's swaying up and down like a seesaw. I need to distribute my weight evenly to keep the floor level. Not easy to do when you are running and shooting at moving skids. I mean targets.
That subliminal stuff actually works.
If I touch a wall for balance it swings wildly downward and back up again. I shoot and move much more slowly than my first run down the hall. When I’m again within reach of the table, I slow down even more. I don’t want to tip the table over. My fingers touch the table and the room stabilizes.
Now the table is filled with small parts. I must assemble my next weapon, a pistol. I’m not as fast as Sheree, but I do it quickly. I slam in the magazine and go through a doorway on the left. It’s a large room similar to the mess—tables and benches filled with hundreds of people. Some are in uniform and some are in civvies. There are some children too.
I stop and study the room. I need to see what identifies the enemy. I watch for a repeated movement or some other sign. There’s a soldier about four rows over to my right. He tugs on a yellow brimmed cap and turns it slightly. I see ten more of the caps being put on or taken off. Okay, that's it. The first soldier no longer has a cap at all; he is no longer the enemy. I must shoot while the yellow cap is on.
I walk down an aisle. People get up and move around to sit at different tables. There's a lot of chatter. The level of noise rises with every step I take. I shoot the back of a head as the cap touches. I scan left and right as I move down the aisles, searching for yellow. I blow away four more caps without hitting any civilians. A cap lands on a head. It's a small boy, but I don't hesitate, I keep firing. I'm concerned only with the caps.
The pace accelerates. I miss two and hit a soldier in error. Out of ammo, I reload. Up on a table, I step over food and trays to give myself a better vantage point. I hit five more this way; I miss one by being too slow. A small table appears under the exit sign. I must have hit enough targets. I leap to the floor, cross to the table, and pick up the enhanced sniper rifle that waits for me. It's heavy after the pistol. The magazine is already in, but I stuff an extra twenty rounds into my vest. I exit the room and teeter on the edge of a rooftop.
I quickly step back and look around. I'm on one of a row of buildings overlooking an empty roadway. This roof looks down on the buildings on the other side of the road, all with blown-out windows. There is movement through one of the windows. I drop into position, eye to my scope. I shimmy up a bit on my belly. My elbows scrape painfully on the tarpaper roof. I've lost the target. There’s movement higher up, on another floor. I lock on it, ready to pull the trigger. It suddenly drops out of sight. I move on, scanning the road, the buildings. Even though I've got close to a mile range, I do not have the best overall view from here. I should be a few buildings over.
I sort of waddle over toward the next building in the row. It's about a four-foot jump to the next roof. If I take a running start, I'll be exposed. I back up, sling the heavy rifle over my shoulder, and stand and sprint in one movement. I dive across and land in a roll. I stay low and still. I move to the far end and stand to repeat the dive. A shot whizzes by me. I come out of the roll on the next roof and work my way to the parapet facing the street. I scan the windows across from me. This is a much better vantage point. I set up. There's a flash. On my belly, I aim and fire smoothly.
Down on the street there’s movement in a doorway. I get a hit. Someone else is hiding half a block down. I keep my scope trained on the spot. One minute, then two minutes go by. I am patient. The top of a head appears from behind a dumpster. I wait the extra second and take a perfect shot. There's a flash and a loud crack of thunder, and the sky goes dark. Rain pours down on me. After all this time in the desert, the rain is welcome, even if it's only virtual rain. Movement is harder to pick up, but that means I'm also harder to see. I set myself up at a new location, two rooftops over. Three solid shots. I don't know how many targets I need to hit. The gravel crunches behind me. I roll and aim. It's a virtual friendly, but I'll lose points for letting her sneak up on me. On the next roof there’s a table. I rise, leap across and dump the rifle. I pick up a stinger from the table. The virtual soldier is right beside me, but there seems nowhere to go. She steps off the roof, I follow.
It's a short fall, and I land in darkness. I remember my night vision device and pull it down over my eye. Open desert surrounds me. There's some brush and hills not far away, but I'm vulnerable. A droning sound approaches and I look up. I hoist the stinger to my shoulder and release the missile. I run as the aircraft explodes in a shower of twisted, flaming metal.
Ahead, advancing troops, maybe twenty soldiers, come toward me. I reach into my vest. My fingers touch cool molded polymer. I launch the fragmentation grenade into their midst. My throw is short, only seven or eight go down. I curse out loud as the rest of them approach.
There's another plane overhead. I turn and position the stinger to my shoulder, laser aimed at the incoming aircraft. The trigger locks, and won't allow me to launch the missile. The low-flying jet is friendly. It emits a burst of gunfire and a few soldiers go down. Six left for me to deal with.
I guess this is CQC hand-to-hand. I reach for my blade, but I'm too late. An arm moves up against mine. Somebody is in front of me, others come up beside me. They all press in on me with their hot breath. I'm surrounded. I gulp for air, but there isn't any. They've used it all up. My lungs can't expand; the constriction around my chest tightens. Pressure from the bodies increases as if they're going to crush the life out of me. Arms and legs compress around me and icy cold fingers pull at me. They touch me, pinch me, move around my body. I'm going to scream.
“You're all done, Grant,” a voice says.
The technician.
Slowly, I open my eyes. I need to lie here for a minute and breathe. I only got to four weapons. I don't think I did well enough to escape notice.
—
“Here's how this works. You fight until you can't stand up anymore,” the training coordinator announces in a loud voice. “It's necessary to experience the pain. You need to accept it, and know you can live through it. Then you won't be afraid of it anymore. You are being evaluated on stamina, and we will be rating you on your moves, defensive, offensive, and evasive. There is a mix of levels and experience, like in real combat situations. Your training schedules will be developed from today's sessions.”
I glance around.
I am so dead.
About ten people are chosen for the first round, and it begins.
Charlie Kingston is breathtaking. Her silver hair doesn't appear to move at all as she kicks, spins, and jabs. She is good, real good. I'm glad I don't have to fight her. I guess she's here to show us how it's supposed to be done, but I get the feeling she’s holding back, and that she’s considerably more lethal than she’s demonstrating here.
I watch her leap and grab a pole with both hands. She lifts her body out at a ninety-degree angle as she spins around the pole; her feet connect with the chest of an unprepared boy and he tumbles backward to land with a whump. Incredibly, she continues, moving into a back kick, and blood erupts from the mouth of Marissa, the unfortunate girl now lying on the ground. If I were picking sides, Charlie'd be on mine.
It’s over, and except for landing the occasional inexpert thump, I was taking all the body blows. Heading back to my room, every step is painful, each inhalation agony.
What was that about learning to accept the pain?
Dizzy, I can't quite walk straight. I drag my hand along the wall to steady myself as I move forward. One leg buckles, I right myself. Suddenly, an arm is supporting me; it pulls me into a room and lays me on a bed. I don't care whose arm it is, I'm just glad I'm not standing anymore.
“What the hell do you think you're doing?” a stern voice asks.
I open one eye. It's Charlie. Why is she pissed at me? What did I do?
“You should have seen the medic, girl, not gone hobbling off like that,” she admonishes me.
I didn't know there was a medic.
“Look, don't let pride get in your way,” she says, as her fingers glide over my ribcage, checking for damage. “It will only kill you, or someone relying on you. Proud people who are out there, on a mission, they're the ones who make poor decisions because they're only thinking about themselves, not their responsibilities. This is a humble business we are in. You need to learn to rely on other people, so they can rely on you.”
She stares down at me. I guess she didn't find anything cracked or broken.
“And don't go crying on me either,” she says, shaking her head at me. “That's self-pity, which is the other side of pride.”
She looks away.
I'm not crying, I'm moaning in pain. But I don't point that out, afraid she'll accuse me of being proud. I taste blood, metallic on my tongue.
“No pride. No pity. Got it,” I cough out as pain racks me.
“Confidence is what you need.” She turns her intense gaze back on me. “Confidence that you have done everything you can to be prepared for the situation you are in. With confidence comes clarity because you know you've already done everything you can for yourself. It lets you think about what's going on around you, instead of yourself. It keeps people alive.”
Charlie gives me some painkillers and I clean myself up.
—
I prep for another sim training session. The technician tells me it will be short. The drugs take me away and it begins. I'm in a blank landscape, an undefined gray nothingness. I look at two people. One is a Deviant. I must choose correctly. I have sixty seconds, then I must terminate. The quicker I decide, the better my rating. I look at the sad-eyed man on the left; he sits in a folding chair reading a book. The other man paces erratically back and forth, from me to the man reading the book. The pacing man turns, I see a bulge, a lump on his shoulder. He falls backward from the impact of my shot. The scene dissolves.
On my right are two women. One struggles to carry too many packages; the other walks toward me, a big smile on her face, as though she recognizes me. I do not want to talk to this woman; her skin is oozing something foul. I press the trigger. They disappear and are replaced.
Two figures pass in front of me, on their way to some place off in the distance. They are boys around my age. They have that easy strut of boys on the verge of becoming men, as if they have all the time in the world. One seems to have a slight limp. I decide, and he is dead. Next, a man and woman. I use the full sixty seconds deciding; it was something about the shape of her head.
I continue choosing death for one of two people as they appear. Some have obvious physical deformities, but many have no discernible sign of deviation. My gut tells me which one, and I do it.
But now there are two girls skipping rope. I hesitate. They are young, maybe eleven or twelve years old. Nothing is obvious. I make my choice and throw my blade into the chest of the one on the left.
The girl on the right looks at me and smiles, and she has razor-sharp, metallic-looking teeth. They click and snap. Her hands are hairy and bloodied. She comes at me and grabs me around the waist. She traps my arms and squeezes. Blood pounds in my ears; a sense of horror invades me. I turn my face away from hers, unable to look. Her stench is overpowering, like a latrine. Caught, there's a tightening pressure from all sides. I can't breathe in. Intense pain hits me as teeth suddenly slash at my throat and I finally react.
I free my arms from her awful embrace and rip her off me. I look straight in her eyes before I twist. I wrench her neck in one swift movement. It breaks with the gratifying sound of a twig snapping. But I can't make my hands let go of her. I scream and thrash, trying to rid myself of this horror in my hands. Other hands are on me, fingers pulling at my skin, touching me everywhere. I open my eyes and see the technician. I'm still screaming.
—
Back in the strategy room Matt winces when he sees my bruised face. Now, there's a confidence builder.
“You had a rough sim session, Jess. What happened?”
I take a shaky breath, remembering. “The sim was a little too real today. It won't happen again.”
“The sims were created to scare you, deep down. The purpose is to create dread, a blind hatred for Deviants. It's to prepare you for when you have to face them, so you won't hesitate.”
I think back through the sims, and I can see the truth in what he's saying. In the first one, the undefined figures were not actual people and the subliminal message reinforced that. They were just skids. In the second, I killed yellow caps, not people. Today, even when there was no obvious sign, I still chose one to kill, not knowing if it was truly a Deviant or not. That's the point, I guess. Eventually, I will not care who I kill. But I don't want to kill anyone, and I don't know what I'll do if I'm sent on a mission.
Who here would hesitate to kill me if they thought I was actually a skid?
—
I enter the common, and I'm relieved to see that Jay and Sheree are near the entrance, so I won't have to cross the room. People look my way, as if they could all sense when I entered. I never like attention, but this is starting to be a bit like paranoia.
I quietly tell Jay and Sheree about the sim, and the claustrophobic sensations I had. Jay says it's probably the drugs, and Sheree says she will make me something for it. Voodoo is all well and good for cousin Antoine, but I’m nervous Sheree will want me to ingest something foul.
Jay thanks me for wearing something different tonight. I stick my tongue out at him. I discovered that Boyd has been running a little business in black-market goods, including clothing that is distinctly not army issue. Jay convinced me to go, and I found the top I've got on. I think it looks nice.
I glance around and there, across the room, is the most beautiful boy I've ever seen. His face is perfect. It's the pale tone of his skin that seems to glow. And the line of his jaw and the straight nose above just-right lips. Eyebrows, black and arched in perfect symmetry over crazy long eyelashes and black, almond shaped eyes. All of it perfect and gorgeous. I stare, transfixed. Jay turns to see what caught my attention, and he snorts. Sheree turns to look, too.
“He's Nisay, supposedly it means 'love at first sight.’ But don't go getting any ideas. He looks nice on the outside, but the inside is extremely ugly,” Jay warns us. “He's a jumper, loves the free fall. They drop 20,000 feet in two minutes. And then they open the parachute.”
“He's beautiful,” I say, still staring. “But I'm not attracted in that way. It's more fascination. What do you mean about ugly on the inside?”
“He's a juice junkie,” Jay says. “Some of these guys, they love that adrenaline rush so much it becomes an addiction, but it only lasts for two minutes. So they start injecting themselves with a synthetic version, the stuff they use to get your heart pumping again when you're unlucky enough to have it stop. But they spike it with something, I don't know what, and it doesn't just give them the rush, it makes 'em crazy. Remember those guys we saw in the desert, coming back from that mission? They were all stoked on that stuff.”
I know which guys he's talking about, the ones dragging the bodies behind them. I look away from Nisay's face and notice a gel cast on his ankle.
“What happened to him?” I ask.
“He was all jacked up, jumping around on the roof of a jeep. Decides to jump off it. The idiot breaks his ankle.”
Sheree starts laughing. “Okay, wait. He's a jumper, drops 20,000 feet at a time, right? And he breaks his ankle from a six-foot jump? Yeah, I'd say he's an idiot.”
“Hey, not bad, Fresh,” someone says.
I turn to Hendrick, who's standing with Pete.
“What do you mean?” I ask him.
“Your sim scores, Fresh, yours and Sheree's,” he says. “I guess I can't call you Fresh anymore.”
I smile, but I don't understand.
“No wonder you were willing to let her throw knives at you,” Pete says in wonder, his chestnut-brown hair falling into his eyes. He has slightly stooped shoulders, accentuated by the misshapen brown sweater he has on over his skinny frame. He looks worse by his proximity to the perfectly turned-out Hendrick, forcing the comparison.
“Uh, hey. Let me get you a drink?” Pete says, almost hopefully, as if I might say no.
A hand lands on my shoulder. I turn.
“That was unbelievable the other night!” says a vaguely familiar boy. He's talking about me serving as a target for Sheree, I realize.
Pete tries to get my attention back, but he's interrupted by someone else, that girl Marissa. Her bruises look worse than mine.
“How did you do that? I was cringing just watching.” She shudders.
“I loved the look on Luke's face when you went up there,” Laurie says, winking at me. I can see now that the tattoo on the back of her neck is a peacock feather with human eyes peering out of it. I'm not sure if that has anything to do with why she winks a lot.
A few more people move into the circle that develops around me. My heart feels constricted, starts beating faster.
“I wasn't sure what you wanted …” Pete says as he hands me a cold glass, shaking the hair out of his eyes.
More people talk to me, I can't keep up. An arm wedges against me, and I'm back in the sim again, the band tightening around my chest. A hand slips into mine and Jay looks directly into my eyes. Instantly, I am saved. He calms me down without having to say a word. It feels as if everyone takes a step back, and there's enough air for me again.
Jay takes me over to where Sheree has gone to sit with Ramón, and I move into their protective circle.
“What's going on?” I enquire, still gripping Jay's hand.
Sheree looks up at me and nonchalantly says, “Apparently I got the highest accuracy score they've ever seen.” She smiles.
I bend down to give her a quick squeeze. The room fills up around us. The clack of the balls on the pool tables mixes with some horrible singing in one corner, cursing at a lost hand of cards, and the shouts of encouragement over an arm-wrestling match. Hendrick bounds up onto a table, drink held high. He stands with feet together, swiveling to address the room. He looks like a Nordic god up there, with his blond hair and shining blue eyes looking down at us.
“People, people! Your attention, please!” he shouts over the din. It quiets down enough for him to continue.
“As is our custom, a toast to the sim survivors!” Hendrick holds his palm up to let us know he has more to say. “And, as is also our custom, we welcome our new champion.” He turns to look over his shoulder. “Sorry Luke, your reign is over. All hail Sheree!”
The room erupts into cheers and claps and stamping feet. I feel a swell of pride for my friend. Sheree stands up to acknowledge the praise.
“What's your secret?” someone yells out.
Sheree's arms are stretched above her head as she turns in a circle.
“No secret. I'm just better than all of you,” she announces.
She finishes by pointing her index fingers around the room and then sits back down to the sound of groans and laughter. I could never do that. Sheree enjoys the attention, but she’s so confident it doesn't come off as smug.
Luke is near an exit with one of his buddies. Jake, his name is, the one who volunteered for target practice. Luke is furious; he rants at Jake, who nods in agreement. I'm relieved to see them leave. Luke limps slightly.
I look at the posted scores, and I'm surprised to see I ranked twelfth out of thirty-eight. I guess I learned how to hit some fake targets, but I still don't think I can do it for real.
Pete comes over, slides his arm around my shoulder and clinks his beer against my glass.
“Well done, Jess,” he says.
He squeezes my shoulder. I sip my drink, not sure how to get out from under his arm. He's a nice guy, I don't want to give him the brush-off, but I don't want him this close to me, either. I turn and slip away as more people approach to ask me about the knives and the sim, and what did I find the hardest and which was my favorite weapon. I try to answer, but there are too many questions, and I don't know why they're asking me anyway. Sheree is enjoying the attention she’s getting. They should ask her.
It's time for me to go. I bolt, not quite running, out of the common and down the hallway.
Outside, the open space and fresh air are a huge relief. I take in the beauty of the sun, low in the sky as it heads for the horizon. A hand rests on my shoulder and a little shock goes through me. I know who it is without looking.
“Sergeant?”
“Call me Matt,” he says.
I realize I haven't ever done that. Called him Matt, aloud, while actually in his presence.
“Okay, Matt.” It comes out half squeak.
“Come for a walk,” he says, and he takes my hand.