Date Point: Christmas Day, 4y11m2w AV
Folctha Colony, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Ava Rios
Christmas on Cimbrean seemed set to become something a little different to the small, family affair that Ava had been used to on Earth. Given that Christians were decidedly in the minority among the citizenry of Folctha, it was hardly surprising that there was a noticeable shortage of nativities and hymns, too.
None of the small congregation at that morning’s nondenominational mass had apparently minded. In fact, the sermon had stressed Matthew 6:5 and its implications for a Christian abroad in a predominantly secular galaxy. Not that you should keep your faith to yourself, as such, so much as that your faith was yours, your own little candle to carry. Giving you light and warmth, but also representing a burden of care, not to let it die and not to burn down your relationships with.
That…relaxed approach didn’t exactly gel with what Ava had learned in Sunday school. The ideas of Hell and Salvation had always scared her, while, insofar as Christianity as it was practiced in Folctha could be called a “sect”, their sect’s focus on personal fulfillment in this life through a loving relationship with God, rather than expectation of reward or a stay of punishment in the next through a regime of worship, spoke to her.
The consensus at discussion over coffee that had followed had broadly been that in fact a Christian on Cimbrean was free to have a much more personal relationship with God precisely for those reasons. Most of them confessed to feeling more spiritually fulfilled than they ever had on Earth. A few expressed doubts about “reinventing” Christianity, but even those voices were simply voices of caution, rather than rejection.
The hymns made her feel warm inside, as did Reverend Joanne White’s hand on the top of Ava’s head during the blessing.
It was like stepping into another world when they left the Faith Center to join in the secular festival outside. The size of the cargo jump array had limited the size of the tree they could import, but it still formed a towering centerpiece to the town park, decked in lights and ornaments fashioned from spaceship wreckage or from the by now thoroughly extinct Pinkwood tree.
There was no snow, of course. In fact, it was a warm Cimbrean summer’s day, hence the adoption of a number of Australian Christmas traditions, including bikinis, barbecues and Bacardi. A dozen engineers from the Byron motor pool—a motley bunch who had taken the name “The Alleged Orchestra” for their performance—were set up and vigorously arranging every seasonal tune they could think of on the fly, beating the music into shape until it vaguely fit their unique instrumentation, which included a Diddley-Bow, a metallophone made from a set of wrenches, and a Cello that had been recycled out of a couple of beer kegs. The result was amazingly musical, with a bluesy, jazzy, energetically raw twist that seemed to be going down well with the revellers.
The Gaoians were watching it all with plain and obvious bemusement, she noticed. There were a lot of them now, all males, and all seriously throwing themselves into the practice of meditation with the vigor of a man helping his child build sandcastles who’d suddenly uncovered a pirate chest. They were sipping mulled wine and probably enjoying themselves, though they were keeping out of the way.
There was so much to take in, none of it guided by any specific tradition, but informed by hundreds. People bringing out their presents to put them in little piles under the tree. The smells of the town feast being prepared, spices and dancing and an impromptu a capella rendition of “Fairytale of New York”, Sir Jeremy Sandy in a Santa outfit, the Soldiers versus Civilians tug-o’-war…
Hayley and Mark sitting in a corner, his arms around her waist from behind, watching their son—Sara’s little brother Jack—play with his classmates with strange expressions that were equal parts happiness and sadness.
There was a sudden pair of arms around her own waist. “Can I interrupt?” Adam asked her.
Ava glanced down at the camera. She hadn’t even been entirely conscious of taking the pictures. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” he took her hand and led her back towards the Alleged Orchestra, where people were whirling and skipping in circles to the music, linking arms, bouncing around one another and then spinning off to join up with a new partner.
She couldn’t keep up with him—over the last month he’d gone from quite athletic to military fit under Legsy’s watchful guidance—but she didn’t quit the dance when she couldn’t go on any longer. She just de-orbited to its outskirts, to clap along and cheer and whoop as he enjoyed himself, occasionally letting herself take a picture.
It was just the start of a day that lasted forever.
Date Point: Boxing Day, 4y11m2w AV
Adam Arés
Adam wasn’t yet asleep, but it still took him a couple of seconds to register the knock on his door.
He sat up a bit “Ava?”
She called through the door. “Can I come in?”
“Sure!”
She’d left the hall light on and leaned against the door frame, backlit by it, and Adam had to employ some willpower not to stare. She was wearing what looked a lot like one of his t-shirts, a thin white one. The shirt itself wasn’t blocking any of the light from behind her, and the varying depth of shadow her body made under it was…
He sat up some more and leaned forward to try and hide what the view did to him, discreetly bunching a little more blanket on his lap.
There wasn’t anywhere else to look though, without actually looking away from her. If he looked down then he had to contend with her legs, and as for her face…there was an expression there he couldn’t really read—a dark and intense one.
“Hey, uh…” He said. “You okay?”
“It’s after midnight.” she said.
“Oh…uh, happy birthday.”
She looked like she was about to say something. Then she shook her head, stepped onto the bed and hugged him. “Can I sleep here tonight?” She asked.
He scooted over and she dug herself under the blankets and wriggled into his chest. He smoothed her hair out of the way. “You okay?”
”…I just…” She looked up and kissed him. “It’s going to be tough, not having you around.”
He put a hand on the back of her head and held her. “That’s going to be the toughest bit.” he agreed.
“You’ll write me?”
“Every chance I get.”
She puffed out a huge rush of air into his chest and snuggled up against him even closer. “I love you.”
It was a phrase they rarely uttered. A vulnerable, weak little phrase, really. But that just meant it had so much more meaning for them. “And I love you.” he promised.
He could feel her smile against his chest, and the way she relaxed, and fell asleep.
She was still there in the morning when he woke up.
Date Point: 4y11m4w AV
Seattle, Washington, USA, Earth
Adam Arés
Leaving home had been hard.
Travelling alone and sleeping alone in an unfamiliar hotel room in an unfamiliar city full of the kind of traffic that reminded him painfully of San Diego, and which he’d grown accustomed to the absence of in Folctha, hadn’t made for a good night’s sleep.
That, and it was cold. January in Seattle versus early summer in Folctha had been an unwelcome introduction to the joys of a freezing grey drizzle that seemed to come right off Puget Sound, bent on freezing the whole city. He’d been tempted to dive for the warmth of his hotel room the second he got off the plane, but instead he used the hours of daylight and went straight from the airport to the USAF recruiting office.
That part turned out to be easy. He was in and out inside an hour or so, having practically had some documents thrust into his hands along with instructions to attend the Military Entrance Processing Station the next morning. Apparently, the recruiter had been impressed.
For lack of anything better to do, he took a walk and saw the sights. He’d have preferred to jog, but he’d worn his good chinos to make an impression for the recruiter.
He didn’t watch the people at first. He watched the architecture, and the city, taking in the square glassy greyness and the scratchy trees that were no more than bare twigs in the winter, the overcast-sky openness of the street plan and the whirr of bicycles. The traffic was familiar, but the city it crawled around in couldn’t have been more different. Cold though it was, he could see that the plants which seemed to be all over everything would actually fit here, rather than being aliens imported and maintained at great effort.
Of course, Seattle meant Starbucks. He knew that much, and eventually he dropped in on the one on 5th avenue, in the shadow of the monolithic black Columbia Center.
Mercifully, it was quite warm inside, and he shucked off his jacket—the rugged, all-weather one that most Cimbrean colonists had, with the “From Ashes” patch that only Ava shared. He tugged at the T-shirt he was wearing underneath, aware that it was an old one that, nowadays, was stretched tight across his chest and shoulders. It was a good shirt for showing off the gym-fit physique he’d picked up training with Legsy, but not exactly comfortable.
The people-watching skills that Gabriel had taught him prodded him a second or so later, alerting him to a change.
It was subtle. The young mother in line in front of him had shepherded her kids forward and was now keeping them in front of the stroller. The older man in the grey suit next to him scooted his chair forward and around the table a little. The Barista, on the other hand, was almost certainly sneaking sly glances at him down the counter.
He tried to ignore it, studying the menu as they crawled toward the counter, but it was difficult to ignore that the people who joined the line behind him left arm’s length at least, nor the snippet of conversation he could just hear from a middle-aged couple by the door.
‘No, I don’t think so…he doesn’t have any tattoos…‘
That…shocked him. Upset and surprised him. He fumbled his way through a clumsy order for a simple Latte, left the change for a tip, and made himself scarce.
His return walk to the hotel was a solemn and thoughtful one which he spent, rather than looking up at the buildings, looking down at his feet, lost in thought and trying to ignore the way people veered out of his path on the sidewalk.
In the end he spent the evening lurking in his hotel room playing free games on his phone.
The weather, if anything, got even more dismal overnight, which was in its own way fortunate because he barely slept, and an early morning jog in the bracing Washington weather did more to get him alert and ready than all the coffee in Colombia.
Once wearing clean and dry clothes, he caught a cab to the MEPS, which turned out to be just one small part of a huge building behind a wall of hedging and trees, by the railroad track and just north of the airport.It wasn’t what he’d pictured, but he trusted the cab driver, so he refused to allow himself to dither outside—he headed straight in after paying the fare.
Inside, it wasn’t what he’d anticipated either. He’d envisioned more of the posters and macho imagery that had decorated the recruiting office.
What he instead got was a reception desk in a fairly bland office space. There were flags and crests up and a general clean and efficient air, but if not for the uniforms he might have been in a civilian workplace. The reception desk didn’t actually have a human on it, just a series of touchscreens which, on being prodded, walked him through a quick and simple series of questions about who he was and what he planned on becoming, asked him to scan the barcode on the form the recruiter had given him, and then directed him to a printer which spat out a sticker with a QR code and his name on it, thanked him, and directed him to wait. There were a lot of chairs for that—Adam paced, pausing to grab meagre cups of water from the cooler in the corner. He’d barely been there for five minutes before he started to feel like a zoo lion.
He might have been there half the day before anything interesting started to happen. A handful of people were sitting and fidgeting alongside him, most about his age and with their parents in tow, before he was called and directed to a station where he filled in a form. Then he went back and waited. Then he was called to another station, where they asked him some questions. Then he went back and waited, again and again.
By the time it was done he felt both as if he’d never stopped moving, and also as if nothing at all had happened. He had no idea if it was afternoon or full evening yet, but eventually he was sat down opposite a handsome man in a blue shirt with the five stripes of a technical sergeant on his sleeve and the surname “Foster” on his chest, and had his hand shaken.
“So. You want to be a pararescueman?” the sergeant asked, sitting down.
“I do.” Adam agreed.
“Why?”
“The unit motto speaks to me. ‘That others may live’.” When Foster just waited patiently, he felt drawn to elaborate. “I’ve…I’m from San Diego originally, I’ve lost people, and I guess I want to keep others from having to experience that.”
“Have you considered alternatives?”
“Sure. But that’s my first choice.” Adam said.
“What alternatives did you consider?”
“I guess…security, force protection. Medic…That kinda thing, you know? I was thinking of being a cop like my dad, before I decided to do this.”
“Was there any specific event that changed your mind there?”
Adam nodded. “My friend was murdered. Sara Tisdale? On Cimbrean? I heard it was a big story back here on Earth for a while…”
Foster nodded. “You have my condolences.” he said. “But why did that change your mind about your choice of career?”
Adam took a deep breath, worried that what he was about to say might sound paranoid or crazy and ruin his chances then and there, but Powell’s advice had been impossible to misinterpret—speak honestly, always.
“I think…I think there’s a pattern at work.” he said. “like, everyone knows that San Diego was destroyed by antimatter, it was in the official investigation’s report. But nobody has that much antimatter on Earth, so there have to be aliens involved somehow, and who else would want to sabotage Folctha’s spaceport like the guy who shot Sara was trying to? Well, I think that the military know who’s behind it, and I want in. I want to stop them from hurting anybody else.”
“Hmm.”
Foster stood. “Stand up, let me have a look at you.”
Adam did so.
“look at me.” Foster continued. “Raise your arms above your head.”
Adam did so, patiently awaiting an explanation. He didn’t get one: Foster just gestured toward a pull-up bar. “See that? Get up on it and show me what you’ve got.”
Adam almost laughed. He’d been doing reps alongside Legsy in 1.15G in Folctha’s variable-gravity gym for the last month. He shook his limbs loose, reached up, got his form strictly correct, and set to.
He hadn’t even started to feel the burn yet when Foster interrupted him. “Okay, okay. Get off that thing, put this on and start over.”
‘This’ turned out to be a heavy weighted vest. Adam shrugged it on, got back on the bar, and resumed his pull-ups.
He was finally starting to feel some heat in his muscles when Foster spoke again. “So, why you?”
Adam dropped off the bar and turned to face him. Foster shook his head. “I didn’t tell you to stop, son.” he chided. “Get back up there and keep going.”
“Sorry.”
Foster watched him resume his form. “So…why you?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” Adam asked him.
“It’s a simple question, son. Why you? Why do you think you want this? Why do you think Pararescue is the right one for you?”
“Well, like I said, the motto.”
“Okay, well what makes you think you’re right for Pararescue?.”
Adam’s brow creased as he really started to feel his muscles working. The weighted vest was making all the difference. “I’m going to work damn hard for this.” he said. “if I have to stay on this…” he grunted “…bar ‘til I’m twenty to prove that, I damn well will.”
“You think you can work that hard?”
“I know—” the exertion finally started to choke off Adam’s words. “—Yeah. I can.” he finished, between pulls.
Foster nodded again and watched him for a few more before finally raising a hand. “Alright. Rest up.”
Adam lowered himself slowly down this time, and massaged his hands. Foster handed him a glass of cold water as he sat down, which Adam gulped down in one as the sergeant jotted a few short observations.
“Alright, I think I’m done with you for now.” Foster said. “You’ll need to go on through the rest of the MEPS, get your tests done and all that stuff, but assuming there’s no problems there, you’ll be coming back here tomorrow to speak with the special forces recruiter.”
Adam beamed. “Thank you!” he said.
“How’d you get here, cab? Where are you staying?”
Adam told him, and Foster nodded. “Right. We’ll pick up the bill from here on in, as well as transport. I’ll see you later on today once you’re done with all your tests.”
The rest of the day passed in a blur for Adam. He was measured, weighed, had samples of blood, hair and saliva taken, asked to walk around with one foot on tip-toe, had puffs of air shot into his eyes by a machine, spent some minutes with another machine pressing a button whenever he saw lights in his peripheral vision, a few minutes in a dental chair, filled in forms, answered questions, took tests. Even the businesslike intimacy of the full medical examination didn’t faze him.
The important part was, that he was past the first hurdle.
Technical Sergeant George Foster
“Okay, next up for review is…Adam Arés, permanent address…Twenty Delaney Row, Folctha, Cimbrean. Huh.”
“Yeah, we’ve got ourselves a space cadet here.” Somebody joked.
“Space cadet he may be, but he’s the real deal.” Foster commented. “I put him on the bar, stopped counting at fifty. He says he was training in supergravity for a month before coming down here. Looks like the British special forces garrison there took him under their wing.”
“Their CO gave him a reference.”
“What’s it say?”
“Pretty typical British, really.” The sergeant with that file examined the letter. “To.. blah, blah…’I’m sending this young man your way with my professional opinion that he may be of some use to you. Yours sincerely, Captain Owen Powell’ et cetera. End letter.” She smiled, folding it up again. “You’ve got to love the Brits, right?”
“Isn’t Powell the SBS officer behind the SOR program?” Foster asked. “If he is, then that’s a glowing reference right there.”
“That’s right.”
“Well his opinion seems on the money. The kid’s already fit and strong and he’s got exactly the right build for a PJ. So…Unless there’s anything wrong with him, Doc?”
The chief medical examiner studied his own copy of the candidate’s notes. “His bloodwork showed a lot of testosterone…” He commented. “…but I chalk that up to him being young, fit and eager to prove himself. I see no reason to suspect steroids or substance abuse. His mother died young in the San Diego blast so there’s no way to know his medical history from her…There’s a history of Glaucoma and Coronary Artery Disease from his paternal grandparents, but his ECG and intraocular pressures were all fine today. No concerns.”
Foster turned to the staff psychologist, Lieutenant Schoemann. “Doctor?”
”…He’s angry. Grieving and angry.” Schoemann concluded, examining his notes. “But he’s channelling it well, it’s motivating him healthily. He’s got a long-term steady girlfriend and he’s come to us. That shows drive and an ability to emotionally commit, and that month of hard training proves that this wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision, he’s thought about this and prepared for it. He’s…maybe not the most introspective young man I’ve ever met, but he’s not lacking in intelligence…Overall he’s calm, pleasant, confident, intelligent and well-adjusted, with plenty of healthy aggression. I think he’s an excellent candidate.”
“Guess he’s one for you, then.” Foster commented, turning to Master Sergeant Wood, the special forces recruiter.
“Absolutely.” Wood agreed. “He’s a strong PJ candidate, but he’s maybe even good enough for the SOR program.”
“You think?”
“It can’t be an accident that this Captain Powell gave him a reference like that.” Wood noted. “We’ll see how he does tomorrow.”
They moved on to the next candidate.
Date Point: First Contact Day, 5 years AV
Seattle, Washington, USA, Earth
Adam Arés
A car came to pick him up, rather than the taxi he’d taken the day before. It wasn’t raining this morning, but the wind was still cold enough to sting the ears, even through his Gore-Tex beanie.
The driver parked up and got out of the car, which surprised him, as did the fact that he was wearing sports gear rather than USAF blue. “Adam Arés?”
“That’s me.”
The driver shook his hand. “Master Sergeant Tony Wood, USAF special forces recruiter.” he said, producing a card to verify his identity.
“Oh! I, uh…thought I’d be meeting you at the MEPS, Master Sergeant.”
“You can just call me Sergeant, son. I figured I’d get a look at you in motion, you up to go for a jog?”
“Sure.” Adam had already taken a morning jog, but it had been barely more than a warmup and stretch, anticipating a day of being put through his paces. He suspected that Wood had something a little more strenuous in mind.
And so it proved. That month of training with Legsy paid off—jogging on Earth with no load was different to jogging on Cimbrean with a heavy bag to compensate for the gravity difference. In many ways it was easier, but Wood was a tall man with a long, easy stride that ate up the ground, forcing Adam to take three steps for every two of the sergeant’s just in order to keep pace.
Weirdly, the questions he’d been preparing for didn’t materialise. They just did a double loop round some of the interesting parts of Downtown before returning to the car, and Adam’s ego wilted a little when he noticed that Wood, although he was steaming up the air with regular, working breaths, had obviously found the run much easier than he had. Clearly, he still had a lot of fitness to gain to really make the grade.
“Not bad. Y’ain’t fast but next to some of the other kids I’ve seen…” Wood congratulated him.
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
Wood thumb-pointed to the hotel. “If you want to change, I’ll wait in the car.”
“Can I shower too?”
“Sure. Make it quick though, we’ve got a lot to cram in today.”
Adam nodded and ran back to his room for a quick rinse, dry and change job. Sure enough, when he got back to the car, Wood was pocketing an old-fashioned digital stopwatch.
He made a mental note: ‘Everything is a test.’
Wood didn’t comment as he climbed in, just put an arm on the back of the seat to turn and reverse out of the parking bay, then merged into city traffic.
“So. Pararescue.” he said. “I was a Combat Controller myself, the brother unit, but I got a lot of respect for the PJs. The training’s hell, but they do a heck of a job.”
“Captain Powell said they call it ‘Superman School’.” Adam volunteered.
“That they do.” Wood took a right turn. “Now, in all honesty, this is something I don’t say to most candidates, I think you’ve got what it takes to pass it.” he turned right again.
“Thank you.” Adam tried not to smile.
“Well, hear me out…” Wood took a third right turn. Adam wasn’t sure if he had a destination in mind—the route was such an inefficient one that he suspected the sergeant was just driving for the sake of keeping them moving. Fortunately he didn’t turn right again, but sat back and relaxed on a long straight.
”…What if I could offer you something more?” he asked.
“More?”
“Check in the glove box, there’s a tablet in there.”
Adam did so. When he swiped to turn it on, it filled with what was clearly a form of some kind. “What’s this?”
“Non-Disclosure Agreement.” Wood revealed. “You need to read it in full, sign and give a verbal signature, but the gist of it is that what I’m about to tell you is classified information and you’ll be liable to federal prosecution if you discuss it with unauthorised persons.”
“Okay…” Adam read the document in full, twice, then wrote and signed his name and, when prompted, carefully enunciated the script that the form displayed for him. “I, Adam Miguel Ángel Arés, solemnly affirm that I agree to be bound by the terms and conditions of this non-disclosure agreement.”
Wood nodded. “There’s a program in the works, something that your Captain Powell had a hand in masterminding.” he said.
“There is?”
“Yup. There was a space battle over Cimbrean about four months ago, you know about it?”
Adam nodded. “Yeah.”
“Well, Captain Powell, and the commanding officers of the two ships involved, HMS Myrmidon and HMS Caledonia, they made a recommendation to the British Ministry of Defence that specialist skills and training were going to be required to form the basis of infantry operations in space. The MoD decided to share the idea with the DoD, and from there it got bumped all around the Coalition and it’s becoming a joint Allied venture.”
He took a left turn. “It’s being called the Spaceborne Operations Regiment, or SOR. Currently it doesn’t even really exist—it doesn’t have any men, the spacesuits they’d wear are still being designed…but we know two things about it. The first being that its primary mandate will be frontline combat operations against the alien organisation which, you’re right, nuked San Diego and murdered your friend.”
“So it’s real.”
“Yup. That’s as much as I can tell you for now; even under NDA, you’re not cleared for the details. But you’re right, we’re fighting a war right now, and the SOR are going to be the guns in that fight.”
”…Alright. What’s the other thing?”
“Training will be four years. Minimum. And you’ll be under contract for at least four years after that, so this would be at least an eight year commitment, if you took it.”
“That’s…an awful long time.”
“Yup.” Wood agreed. “We had to jump through hoops to get that contract approved.”
“Would they be doing stuff other than fighting these aliens?”
“Anti-piracy operations, counter-Hunter operations…Most of the time you’d be operating exactly like any Pararescueman under the aegis of the USAF, so search and rescue of liferafts and broken ships, humanitarian aid, emergency medicine. Finally, you’d be a qualified astronaut and that means you might wind up spending some time on the ISS in some capacity.”
“Anything else?”
Wood’s jaw moved, thoughtfully. “Yes.” he said eventually. “We think we’re going to have to put the candidates on an extremely intensive physical track.”
“You are?”
“An armored spacesuit is going to be dang heavy.” Wood explained. “Every trick to make it less so is being considered, but the fact is that Spaceborne Operators are going to have to be strong, and you especially if you’re falling into the role of Spaceborne Pararescue. You’ll need to be able to carry all your gear plus one of your buddies with HIS gear and suit across long distances, and given the weights involved, we’re not actually sure that getting you that strong that quickly will even be possible, let alone wise.”
“It can be done, though?”
“Sure. The numbers are within the limits of what’s humanly possible, but if we’re going to get you that strong inside the duration of your training…At the very least it’ll be difficult, and probably quite dangerous.”
Adam sat quietly and ignored whatever route Wood was taking for some minutes. “I’ll…need to think about it.” he decided eventually.
“Good.” Wood nodded. “If you jumped at the chance, I’d have turned you down on the spot. You’re going to need to be sensible, not impulsive.”
“Test passed, huh?”
Wood laughed. “You passed that one, yeah.” he agreed. “The decision’s not going to finally land on you for months yet, I just wanted to give you time to process it.”
Adam recognised the trees and rail tracks outside the MEPS as they rounded a corner. “So, what are we doing for the rest of the day?”
Wood sniffed a little amused noise. “More tests.” he said.
“Everybody present? Very well.”
Adam straightened. The MEPS had a little ceremonial room, decorated in wood panelling and rich blue carpet with a selection of flags at the front of the room on a little dais. He’d been handed a little card full of instructions and the Oath of Enlistment as he entered, and had taken the time to read it. Some of the others hadn’t.
Now, there was an officer standing on the dais, getting their attention.
“Gentlemen,” he said “You will shortly be called to read aloud the Oath of Enlistment, as written on the card presented to you. There’s an alternative secular version printed on the reverse of the card for those who prefer, and I’d like to remind you all that the first amendment of the very constitution that you will now be pledging to support and defend guarantees the right of all citizens to be free in their own beliefs.”
He surveyed them all. “This Oath is binding. Once you have taken it, you will have formally enlisted in the United States Air Force, so if anybody’s getting cold feet, now’s the time to say so.”
Nobody did. Adam flipped the card over, double-checked its content, and nodded to himself, mentally preparing.
The officer smiled, “In that case, we’ll be going in alphabetical order…Arés, Adam.”
Adam stepped forward.
“Would you like a Bible, son?”
“No thank you, sir.”
“Then raise your hand and recite the Oath.”
Adam did so.
“I, Adam Miguel Angél Arés, do solemnly affirm that I will…” he checked the card “…will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I…will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that…” he checked the card again “and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the, uh…the Uniform Code of Military Justice. By my word am I bound.”
The officer extended a hand, smiling warmly. “Welcome to the Air Force, son.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He stepped over to where the officer indicated and waited, not hearing as “Himura, Daniel” was called.
There was no going back, now.
Date Point: 12 hours later Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas, USA, Earth
It wasn’t exactly night-time when the bus arrived at Lackland AFB, but the sun was definitely down, leaving only a kind of glowing blue-blackness where the stars would soon be. It was a warm night, FAR warmer than the early January climate he’d been exposed to in British Columbia and Washington. It felt more like Cimbrean, in fact, if not for the gravity. San Antonio in January had a lot in common with Folctha in summer.
“How the hell big is this base?” somebody muttered after the fifth minute of the bus rounding corners and driving past darkened buildings. Adam guessed they were already being hazed, the bus winding around to disorientate them and make the place seem bigger than it really was. He didn’t try to say as much, just grabbed his bag, ready to leap into action the second the shouting started.
And start it did. They pulled up outside a low building, the doors opened, and three men leapt up the stairs and began bawling threats and instructions at the trainees. Some of the smack-talk was so absurd and witty that Adam almost wanted to laugh. He resisted the crazy impulse, knowing it would only get him into trouble if he did.
He was the third or fourth off the bus, lining up alongside the others—he’d learned their names on the way down but right now it didn’t seem so important to remember them as to try and form a roughly straight line, and set his bag down in front of him, upright against his legs.
“Trainee, you pick that bag up and hold it until I say otherwise!”
Feeling silly and self-conscious, Adam snapped out a “Yes sir!” and grabbed it, hoisting it easily onto his shoulders. Silly or not, whether or not it passed muster as a response, one of the other trainees snickered at him for it, and promptly got rounded on. Adam just stood there, staring directly forward and holding his bag, trying not to attract any attention.
A face was suddenly inches from his own “You play any musical instruments, trainee?” it demanded.
“No, sir!” The face disappeared.
There was a lot of shouting, much of it…not insulting, but certainly calculated to shake any illusions he may have had about being confident or ready for this. He tried to stay focused in case any of it was directed at him. The fact that nobody else rolled up and roared at him suggested that he succeeded there, and it wasn’t long before they were bawled into filing into the building, assigned their seats at deafening volume, told to stand up, told to sit down.
Adam could focus on nothing other than making sure he heard and obeyed any order that was directed at him, responding to them as well he could. It wasn’t long before he found himself at a mess table with a tray in front of him. There wasn’t much on it—a sandwich, a bag of potato chips and a small carton of orange juice. the sandwich turned out to be frozen solid, the chips were plain and unsalted, and the juice was watery and unpalatable. He forced it down as best he could anyway, polishing off the juice and chips before he was halfway through the sandwichcicle.
There followed a gauntlet of paperwork and questions, being handed things, having things taken off him, being shouted at for reasons he couldn’t quite fathom, responding with reflexive apologies or acknowledgements.
He managed to retain which Training Flight he was in, at least. Not that he had a choice—he was forced to repeat the information so many times he doubted he’d ever forget it. It almost came as a surprise when he sat down on the bus to the dormitory and found that nobody was shouting for a few quiet minutes.
“What the shit have we got ourselves into?” the trainee next to him muttered rhetorically, sotto voce. Adam didn’t answer. He just gripped his bag and waited for the next order.
Out of the bus, lined up, given a few rules, into the dorms, picking a bed. He spent five minutes with his finger pressed to his locker, repeating the number on it until the knowledge was carved into his brain, never to be forgotten. It was the only moment that stood out of a blur of orders, instructions, beratements. He span through a cold shower in seconds, liquid soap in hand. Get wet, step out to let somebody else use it, lather up, step back under to rinse off, all the time being screamed at to move faster, faster, faster!
When the blur ended, he was lying in bed wearing uncomfortable new clothes and listening to the others around him try to get comfortable. He was pretty sure at least a couple were fighting back tears. Plenty, he knew, were repeating that same question to themselves that he’d heard on the bus: ‘What have we got ourselves into?‘
Adam didn’t wonder. Twelve hours of travel and the emotional jolt of leaving Ava behind had taken so much out of him that he was the first to fall asleep.