Chương 9: Merits and Demerits

Academy Hill, Vidako Imperium Stellarum August, 2847 Over the days that followed, Arc got a very good idea of how Academy Hill, and the campus which stretched across it, were laid out. Lieutenant Kekoa and a constantly rotating cast of upperclassmen assistants—each of whom was only too happy to 'smoke' any cadet who made the slightest mistake—drove them to and fro across the paths, the greens, the training fields, and the obstacle courses with delirious fury.

At the center of the campus were the administrative buildings, such as the infirmary and Montalban Hall, the commissary and the officers' club, as well as a wide lawn surrounded by genetically engineered variations of Terran oaks. Moving north from there were the academic buildings, the athletic facilities, and the student dormitories, followed by housing for the officers and professors who made up the academy's faculty.

Continuing downhill led to The Valley, though lowly first-year cadets trying to survive Hard Burn weren't permitted to leave campus. The southern portion of the hill, nearest to the farmlands which surrounded San Teodoro, and to the thick equatorial jungle of native life that flourished beyond, was taken up not only by the small airfield to which Arc and his classmates had been delivered on that first day, but also by all of the industrial apparatus that went along with the school's function.

Mech hangars, repair bays, warehouses full of orderly row upon row of ammo crates, cranes, gantries, forklifts, industrial exoskeletons, shooting ranges and practice fields all together took up more than half the campus, but the largest single structure was the grounded bulk of the ISS Olybrius, a decommissioned frigate used for training.

Saker VTOLs buzzed overhead, grav-trucks came and went along the access road which led to the warehouse loading docks, and Arc ran along the edge of the fences, in line with the other cadets, sweating until his clothes were soaked through beneath the twin suns of Vidako. They ran past T-3 Tyros, the thirty-five ton training mechs of the Imperium Stellarum, singly or in pairs.

The third-class cadets, just a year ahead of Arc and his friends, sometimes moved their machines awkwardly, and the massive feet of the mechs shook the ground with every step.

"Get a good look," Lieutenant Kekoa told them, as they marched past.

"Because the only way you get to ride in those mechs is through me—and my job is to weed out those of you who are too weak to hack it. I'd sooner leave you sobbing on the ground than let you into a cockpit if you haven't earned it. I would rather you collapse right here, right now, with a burst heart, and die in the dirt, than see one of you maggots get all the way to a carrier, crack under the pressure, and get a wing mate killed." Arc looked: everyone did.

Those mechs were what was ahead of them, if they managed to survive the torture which currently encompassed their days. The Tyros were not fancy or complicated. They had one job, and it was a function for which they had been carefully designed: to teach cadets the very basics of how to pilot. Secondarily, the engineers had put some thought into how to make certain those cadets survived the inevitable accidents they would have.

In many ways, the shape of the Tyro was a much closer analogue to the human body than the Kestrel that Arc and Cassie had seen in space. There were no wings or thrusters, and both forearms ended in carefully articulated, five finger hands which could mimic the motions of a human, Alu'kan, or Torean. The lower legs and feet were disproportionately thick and wide, the better to provide a new pilot with stability and a lower center of gravity.

While there was armor plating on those legs, along with the tops of the hips, the outsides of the forearms, and the shoulders, the Tyros were obviously not meant to survive a battlefield. The silicon nitride ceramic plates were light and out of the way, to provide a maximum range of motion; only the cockpit itself, in the mech's chest, was heavily protected. There, the armor plating was thick and projected out from the mech's torso in the rough shape of a curved 'x,' which extended up over the top of the head.

Four hardpoints, a pair on the outside of each shoulder, mounted a relatively light set of weapons. Arc spent more time than he should have squinting, when they marched or ran past, and got called out on it once, which resulted in so many sit-ups that his stomach cramped. As far as he could tell, the training mechs were usually equipped with lasers. They probably don't want to waste ammo on new pilots. Occasionally, they were given a glimpse of the upperclassmen, as well.

During the second year at the academy, each cadet was expected to specialize in a specific model, and to qualify in its operation. While the Kestrels and Leviathans were in orbit, that left three different models of Imperial ground mech to train on Academy Hill and in the jungle. Out of those, the A-3 Culverins were the most impressive, and Arc caught quite a few of the other cadets watching them.

At seventy tons, they were also the largest ground mechs, with not only hardpoints on the shoulders, but an extended and ejectable rear firing platform that projected off the back of the mech and carried four missile racks, as well as an anti-missile gun. The Culverin's clawed feet were meant to dig into the earth and brace against the enormous recoil of their rail guns—something that had driven him crazy when he'd fielded a few back during the tournament.

They could carry a frankly preposterous amount of firepower, but that lack of mobility worried Arc even more in real life. He didn't ever want to be caught in a position where he couldn't maneuver. Nearly the opposite, in terms of function on the battlefield, were the R-3 Outriders. At only five tons heavier than a Tyro —most of that in armor—they were clearly meant for violence.

Their lines weren't so different, but the sleek curves at the shoulders and the sharp angles of the chest and leg armor gave the impression of a stalking predator. They were also equipped with thrusters mounted on the back of the chassis, though Arc hadn't yet been fortunate enough to actually witness a pilot lighting them off. He would also have given quite a bit to see the scout mech's adaptive camouflage armor in action, but he supposed they saved that for expeditions into the jungle.

It was the F-3 Janissary that Arc caught Cassie watching, during one of their rare breaks to rest. Bottles of water had been passed around, once they'd all collapsed onto the black grass, soaked in sweat. One of the front-line mechs had made its way by, moving between a hangar and one of the firing ranges. If the Outrider was meant to find a hostile force, and the Culverin to bombard it, the Janissary was built for breaking enemy lines, like a cavalry charge of old.

Faster than the fire-support mechs and more durable than the scouts, Janissaries were also the most likely to be equipped with close range weapons—which Cassie had pointed out.

"There—you see that handle magnetically locked to the back, just behind the shoulder?" she'd said, leaning in toward him and pointing with one hand.

"That's a plasma blade." Arc had squinted, then nodded.

"The Blood Hawk had two of those built into the tips of its wings," he recalled.

"Most Kestrel pilots don't bother to get that close." But before they'd been able to continue the conversation, Lieutenant Kekoa had gotten the cadets moving again, off to an obstacle course that left them absolutely soaked in cold, dark mud. Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators! And so it went. What rest they were given was only enough to catch their breath before being pushed into the next grueling exercise.

Arc forgot what it was like to have a body that didn't hurt, that wasn't covered in bruises, scrapes, and a constant layer of sweat. At mess, he ate what he was given, hungrier than he could ever recall being in his life, because of how many calories the cadets were burning each day. The best part of each day was shoveling down food in the evening, followed by a hot shower in the dormitories, and then collapsing into his bunk. There was never enough time to sleep, and he never felt fully rested.

Each morning he dragged his tired body out of the bunk at the sound of Cal Madine's alarm. Arc couldn't quite muster the will to be grateful for how the other cadet managed their time, even though he could see how useful it was. The most he could do was tamp down his own resentment toward his roommates and force himself not to scream for one more hour in bed. Everything they did was tested or evaluated. They were timed when they ran two kilometers, or as they scurried over the obstacle course.

When they queued at the pull-up bars in the athletic building, upperclassmen stood ready with tablets to keep count. Failure was punished with demerits, and success with merits, which the older cadets had the power to hand out. Lieutenant Kekoa explained the system the academy operated on during the fourth day of Hard Burn.

"We are not here to coddle you," the imposing Alu'kan officer declared.

"Some of you have come here from powerful and wealthy families, and some of you from dirt. It would be a lie to say that you are equal now. Cadet Beck, how many genetic modifications were coded into your DNA while you were an embryo?"

"Seven, sir!" Delvan answered, shouting the response out. He'd made enough mistakes—mostly, Arc thought, caused by anxiety or exhaustion—that the upperclassmen, such as Cadet Van Camp, had singled him out. Now, he gave off the impression that he'd rather crawl into a hole than be used as an example.

"List them," Kekoa continued.

"Enhanced NMDA Receptors," Beck began.

"Boosted Adrenal Gland. Hyper Efficient Brain Flush. Boosted reflexes, hand eye coordination, cardiovascular system, and musculature."

"You hear that?" Lieutenant Kekoa roared.

"You may not know what all those fancy terms mean, so I'll tell you. Cadet Beck learns more quickly than most of you do. He needs less sleep. He can stand up to more g-forces, because he's got a ticker that's better than yours. Put a gun in his hand, and I bet he hits a bullseye in his first clip, whether he's got any training or not. Does that sound fair to you?" The cadets looked uncomfortably at each other, or down at the ground.

"When I ask a question, I expect an answer!" Kekoa shouted.

"I said, does that sound fair? Does that seem like you are all equals, here?"

"Sir, no sir!" The chorus was ragged, perhaps from a dozen voices, but it was enough for the Alu'kan officer to move on.

"It is not, and we would be fools to say otherwise," the lieutenant continued.

"Cadet Beck has a nearly insurmountable advantage over those of you who haven't had any genetic engineering, which makes it a fucking mystery to me how he can be so incompetent."

"Genetic retroviruses are expensive," Kekoa went on.

"Fleet spends enough on your mechs, that pretty neural lace we're going to carve your skull open for, an AI to ride in it, and little things like your ammunition. Which means there are no free rides. If you want to catch up to someone like Cadet Beck, you are going to need to earn merits."

"Every academic class you pass will award up to fifty merits, depending on your grade. At five courses a semester, two semesters a year, a cadet with perfect grades will earn two thousand merits. I would be astounded if any of you were perfect, but in that highly unlikely event, you would be able to use those two thousand merits to requisition two genetic treatments from the infirmary. If you have to ask how much they cost in the civilian world, you can't afford them, so don't bother." Two years, Arc thought.

It would take two years of perfect grades before he could cut the amount of sleep he needed down to the same level that his roommates were working from, at the beginning of the very first day. I can't wait that long.

"If that very generous offer on behalf of the emperor isn't enough for you," Kekoa went on, "then you need to show us that you are worth investing in. Post the best time on the obstacle course, and I will award you ten merits. My assistants here," he motioned to the upperclassmen, "are volunteers, and they are earning merits for riding herd on your useless, pathetic asses. Not enough merits to make it worthwhile to spend their time with mole rats, in my opinion, but I applaud the initiative.

Next Saturday, the department of History and War Studies has arranged for a guest lecturer after supper. Attend, and you will receive twenty merits. I trust you're getting the picture."

"In short, show us that you're here to succeed, show us that you are investing in yourself, and the academy will invest in you." For just a moment, it almost seemed to Arc as if Lieutenant Kekoa was on their side.

"Now, get up and get moving! I want sprints, from this end of the field to the other, in rotation!" Arc lurched to his feet, alongside the other cadets, and lined up. It hadn't been enough of a rest: his legs felt like limp noodles, and he was so hot that all he wanted was to stand under a cold shower. But I need those merits. And that meant getting noticed for the right reasons—not simply settling for staying out of trouble.

He lined up behind Vee and watched as the Torean girl dashed off at Kekoa's whistle, so light on her feet that she barely seemed to touch the ground. Arc had the impression that with a single leap and the spread of her arms, she could soar up from the dirt track and be lost in the sky. Vidako's local gravity was just a hair over Terran standard, so he knew that wasn't actually possible, but that didn't put the image out of his mind.

The moment she dashed back past him, Arc sprinted forward, throwing clods of dirt up behind him as he went. Faster, he urged himself, turning it into a kind of chant. I have to be faster. Van Camp wasn't ever going to give him any merits, or any other kind of help, but there were another five upperclassmen watching the drills who hadn't taken against him. Arc tagged the ground just past the white line which had been spray painted into the dirt, reversed direction, and threw himself back across the field.

Spots clouded his vision, but he pushed faster, harder. If he earned enough merits, he could get the treatment he needed. He could stop waking up tired every day, and falling onto his mattress exhausted at night. He pumped his arms, forcing his body on despite legs that screamed in pain and lungs that burned deep inside his chest. When Arc rushed past Delvan, who was waiting for him, he didn't even notice at first. He skidded to a halt as his roommate took off and tried to make himself walk.

But he couldn't get his breath, and he bent over, holding his body up only by putting his hands on his knees and bending over. The dirt was so dark, like the soil in which the mulberry trees were planted back home. He could see the shadows picking out the edges of each individual clod or pebble. He couldn't catch his breath.

"Arc? Are you alright?" It was Cassie's voice, but she seemed very far away. Everything grew hot, a rushing sound filled Arc's ears, and he hit the ground. For a moment, it was dark, and he couldn't see. Then, light and sound began to return. He lay on his back, with his friends leaning over him. Beck's fingers were on Arc's throat.

"He's got a pulse. I think he passed out from heat exhaustion." The words should have made sense, but something about the individual pieces and sounds just didn't combine to form meaning.

"Clear the way, give him space!" Lieutenant Kekoa's voice broke in. Arc looked up to see the officer's imposing form, silhouetted against the wide sky.

"Can you hear me, son?" The Alu'kan officer snapped his fingers in front of Arc's face.

"Yes, sir," he mumbled, after he caught up to the question being asked.

"Good. Cadet Second Class Iyer," the lieutenant called.

"Get Cadet Sandhurst here to the infirmary." One of the upperclassmen leaned down and hoisted Arc to his feet. He found his arm over the other man's shoulders and realized that without the support he would have fallen right back over again.

"Just lean on me," Iyer said.

"Here we go."

"Cadet Sandhurst," Lieutenant Kekoa shouted, before they'd taken three steps.

"What is the reason you ran yourself into the ground, rather than slow down or give up?" Arc sucked in a breath.

"I had to do my best, sir. I need those merits." Kekoa laughed.

"Well at least one of you mole rats gets it! Good. The rest of you could learn from Sandhurst. I expect you to give me your best. And Sandhurst? Ten Merits. But if you push yourself that far ever again, I'll have your ass in a sling." Arc stumbled into motion, letting the older cadet carry most of his weight. It was a long walk to the infirmary, but what he'd earned was worth every single step.