Chapter 10
At least I wasn’t at the bottom.
All students in the program were ranked against each other, be you a first year or a graduating third year, which probably felt like a strong motivator to do better if you had showed up here of your own accord with time to excel.
Being we were already borderline at war, I didn’t suspect I’d have the luxury of working my way through the ranks at a normal and natural pace.
The good news was that future evaluations would all be done in what was described in the information module as ‘a thrilling, state of the art simulation’ that would test our performance in a virtual space that claimed to perfectly reproduce the experience of piloting a Shinka.
Though I had no clue what that would entail, I still felt confident I had a much better chance of advancing my ranking if it was about technical aptitude instead of raw physical strength.
I had been so tentatively and nervously excited about the chance to be a soldier when I first accepted the draft notice. I couldn’t let a bad first day ruin everything for me. This was what I wanted, and I was going to prove myself.
Feeling resolute, I headed to my first academic class, following my CHRONO’s path through the Sigma corridor, passing by endless rows of classrooms. With thousands of new students, the same classes were running concurrently in every branch, but lucky me, mine was all the way at the end of the kilometer long hall.
On the other side of a metallic red door, I entered into an open chamber with high vaulted ceilings and various work stations around the perimeter, equipped with a number of different tools and monitors.
An unpainted Shinka Unit was sitting against the back wall, one knee bent, one straight, and an arm draped over its propped knee like it was sitting down for a relaxing picnic.
It took up the center of the classroom, relegating the rest of us to the edges.
Students were scattered about the room, chatting amongst each other while waiting for the professor.
There were probably a few other new recruits here, but there were too many people for me to pick them out of a lineup, so I couldn’t say for sure.
I didn’t see anyone I recognized from the sparring evaluation though, but they’d had tons of separate sessions yesterday to cover everyone, so that wasn’t a terribly noteworthy point.
The only people I did recognize were Sebastian Takeyama and my yet unnamed roommate, who were talking to each other at a work bench on the far wall.
I scrunched my nose. Why would either one of them be in the same class I was? They were both obviously third years, considering I’d seen my roommate doing evaluations on another mat yesterday, and he had that macho ‘I know everything, and I think I’m so tough’ thing going for him.
I double checked my location, in case I’d entered the wrong room, but my CHRONO verified I was where I was supposed to be. Just a coincidence, I guess.
I locked eyes with my fiery roommate for the briefest of seconds that could very well have lasted an hour. His brow furrowed, and I was about to go hide in a corner somewhere when he said something to Sebastian, then broke away and approached me.
“Are you following me or something?” He really was incredibly intimidating when he was up close. No one’s muscles should be that obvious in our thick, tailored uniforms.
“I’m following my GPS, actually,” I said, showing him my CHRONO, where my class assignments were still displayed on the screen. Sometimes being obtuse was the only way to deal with idiots.
His expression flattened, and he grabbed my wrist forcefully to get a better look at my schedule.
“H-hey—” I protested, trying to pull back, not wanting anyone’s hand that close to my cloaked old-fashion CHRONO that I wore beneath my modern bracelet model.
“We have strategy and first aid together too? How the fuck did you make that happen?” He side-eyed me like I was some kind of crazed stalker or something, but he also didn’t have any good way to contest what was coded into a government issued module.
“I didn’t make anything happen.” I tried to jerk my hand free, but his grip was unrelenting.
He narrowed his eyes, and I had no clue what kind of story he was imagining in his head. To his credit, his fixation on the idea that I was lying to him about something was unsettlingly sharp intuition. My lie just wasn’t anywhere near whatever he was assuming.
He opened his mouth to speak, when the professor walked in and called for the class to get to their work stations, cutting him off. He let me go in a show of frustration, and I slunk away in a show of nerves.
“Take your seats everyone,” The professor demanded as he strode through the center of the workshop.
His hair was a mess, defying gravity in a way that should be studied, while his coveralls were perfectly fitted on a wiry frame.
He paced straight back to the seated Shinka, then he hopped atop its foot with unexpected agility, before he settled into a cross legged position on the toe of the beast. He tapped his fingers on his knee impatiently, as everyone moved to their desks.
Like the most embarrassing game of musical chairs I’d ever been unfortunate enough to be a part of, I gave up my first chair, then found myself awkwardly standing around and waiting until I knew which one was actually free.
I was apparently the only one who had never been here before, and the only one who didn’t already have a pre-assigned station.
Once everyone was seated and I was the odd man out, I found the single desk that no one had claimed.
It was a safe assumption that that one was mine.
Which was unfortunate, since it was right next to the same guy who pinned me to a mat in “nineteen seconds.” I couldn’t say if I was more intimidated by Sebastian Takeyama or my red headed dorm mate, but sitting next to my idol would have sounded way better before I’d humiliated myself in front of him.
The fates were cruel.
I settled in with something that I hoped resembled nonchalance Sebastian glanced over at me, then paused for an extended moment, his expression as unreadable as always, before he moved his attention back to the professor.
Was that a good acknowledgement? A bad one? An annoyed one? A completely disinterested one? Who could say.
I fidgeted in my seat feeling completely out of place.
“So it looks like we have a new recruit today,” the professor addressed me, bringing all eyes in my direction.
“Vann Callan, yes? Impressive you would be enrolled in my class right out the gate.” He grinned down from his perch, before he jumped off and landed gracefully on the hard floor.
“You can call me Dr. Dorian.” He approached and looked me over appraisingly.
“Were you a mechanic? What station are you from?”
I stood, feeling like that was probably the correct thing to do before I answered.
“No sir. I was training to be a medic on Protectorate 005, sir.” I swallowed, then forced myself to continue.
“But everyone who’s born on a space station is taught to repair and rebuild critical mechanical components to assure safe and continued operation of the station.
I took those lessons very seriously, sir.
” That was true. More or less. My mother and father both taught me extensively how to fix things before they died, and I continued learning on my own afterwards.
Women weren’t technically required or expected to study mechanics or engineering, but we weren’t barred from it either, and I leaned into that freedom as much as I could.
He nodded, accepting my answer. “You must have scored well on your assessment then.” An unexpected compliment.
Somehow I didn’t imagine any of our instructors would be kind or soft.
“Excellent. I look forward to seeing what you can contribute.” He raised a finger.
“But don’t fall behind. There won’t be any concessions just because you’re new. ”
Dr. Dorian turned on his heel and returned to the center of the class. I sat down and dropped my gaze to my lap, trying to avoid the staring of my classmates, wishing I still had my long hair to hide behind.
Fortunately, despite my insecurity, once the lesson started, I actually had no issue following along.
This first day focused entirely on the structure of the finger joints on the massive humanoid machine.
I was at a disadvantage in the sense that I’d never piloted a Shinka to know what the controls were like, so I didn’t fully understand how the circuitry paired with the neural-linking system, but purely as an incredibly curious person, I was in awe of the intricacy with which the nerve signals were synced with the pilot’s, allowing for varying pressure and grip strength that was comparable to a human’s delicate hand control.
Some of the same technology that was used in cybernetic prosthetics was also used in the Shinkas, making the robots more like a second skin than an external vehicle.
This advanced technology paired with skin tight ‘Imperium’ suits ultimately joined our own neural pathways and nerves to the movement of the machines on a level more perfect than I could conceptualize from a passing verbal lesson.
The only true limit of the machines, from a combat perspective, was the physical strength of the compound metal and the pilot’s own reaction time.
The compound itself, however, had never been a failing point, which was evident in all of the shots and impacts I’d seen Sebastian’s Vetala take on during the attack on 005.