Chapter 11 #2
Why was running in the real world so much harder than running on a moving belt? Why did my lungs burn? Why were my legs wobbly? Why was my soul crying?
All questions I hadn’t planned to ask myself upon enrolling in what was supposed to be my dream life.
Vann might have had a point about me romanticizing the military.
Unlike him, I wasn’t trained specifically for things like this, and he’d never told me what muscles and activities to specifically focus on, should I one day decide to program an illegal A2 and take his place at war college.
If they made him do this shit several times a week, it was no wonder he didn’t want to get drafted and do it every day.
But I was not going to admit that I fucked up. No, I was nothing if not a woman/man-like-thing of great commitment and determination.
I pumped my arms, compelling my legs to make it to the four-and-a-half mile mark.
On the treadmill, working out for pleasure and not because I hated all things good and holy like they did here, I was allowed to walk when I got winded.
But not here. Never here. My jog was admittedly slower than a fast walk would be at this point, but pumping my arms dramatically as I took tiny steps looked more like something the instructors wouldn’t scold me for.
I was a sad sack of lactic acid, but still I pushed myself.
Sebastian Takeyama ran past me next, his long legs propelling him forward like an elegant gazelle frolicking through the training grounds. I couldn’t remember how many times he’d lapped me. He was faster than my prickly roommate, but both of them were comically faster than I was.
My only respite was that I wasn’t the only recruit who was struggling, which was obvious as I out slow-jogged a guy whose nose sounded like a whistle as he sucked in hope and exhaled despair.
Comparing myself to the most advanced men in the whole school was pointless, when there were at least a handful of other new draftees that were wheezing at least as hard as I was.
I would say I ranked somewhere near the front of the back of the pack, which should have counted for something.
Presumably by day twenty or day fifty or year three, I would be better than I was now, so it was fine. I just felt woefully inadequate when I compared myself to guys like Sebastian and the Saturn-born.
Somewhere around the four-and-three-quarters of a mile mark, Breaker caught up to me for the… fourth time, maybe?
Counting and running at the same time was hard. I was built for math, but I was not built for math when oxygen wasn’t reaching my brain.
He slowed his jog to match my pathetic hobble. Considering all three of these men had well over half a foot on me, with legs and strides to match, I decided that was the only reason I was so severely out classed.
I would say all of these guys should be finished by now, but the third years were running fifteen miles, grabbing three laps for our one, so they actually had it even worse despite the fact that they made it look way easier.
“Inhale for three steps, exhale for two,” Breaker said with a smile and a wink, before he continued on. He probably got to log that for credit like ‘gave my flailing mentee advice today. Check. Gold Star!’
I was too out of breath to try any such techniques, however, so I put it in my pocket for tomorrow and squeaked to the end of the fifth mile, red faced, and barely conscious.
There was little time to waste before we were onto the next exercise.
I’d not caught the names of any of my team yet, other than Breaker who looked to be sandbagging, and Sebastian who seemed to be doing his best to keep everyone moving.
Sadly, my ambition to be the best soldier ever didn’t change the fact that I was lightheaded and ready to collapse by the time we got to a portion of the routine that simply involved carrying heavy things.
We were given two large sacks each—one for each shoulder, each weighing somewhere around thirty pounds—which we were then expected to carry to the top of a steeply inclined and uneven hiking path, before turning around and hauling them back down again.
If we weren’t great at hauling sacks of small earth rocks, we’d be doing remedial push-ups until we were strong enough to accomplish this simple task.
It was very basic and very primitive, really.
All the technology in the universe, and we were literally hauling heavy bags up a hill.
Sadly, despite many attempts to invent muscle stimulation chambers and more efficient exercise alternatives to streamline fitness and strength development, the human body still responded best to plain old movement and lifting heavy objects.
I squatted down to the floor, and with great effort, I managed to heave the first bag over my dominant shoulder.
I tried to heave the second one onto my left shoulder, only to drop the first one in my awkwardness.
Thirty pounds on its own really didn’t sound like a lot when I could distribute it across my whole upper body, but multiplied by two and in the form of these awkward, fluidly shaped sand bags, it was a pain in the ass.
I wasted five minutes just trying to find the right balance to get both bags secured, and I was thankful for the leg strength that far exceeded my arm strength as I hoisted myself upright.
Some of the men had already returned with their bags and moved onto the next exercise before I even made it to the start of the route.
I compelled my shaky thighs to march, telling myself this was just like that time I stole a whole sack full of jelly rolls from the bakery.
Amazing the lies we can come up with when reality fucking blows.
I was already starting to fall behind the other new recruits, as even the most remedial draftee among us had more natural arm strength than I ever would, and every step felt like its own accomplishment. Twenty steps down. Just three vertical kilometers to go.
My legs were still tired from the run, and my whole body was screaming as I lunged my way up the slope.
I’d lost the group completely as I fidgeted under the weight. I was starting to wonder if the real reason they had to issue a draft was because recruits were dying in training.
Another twenty steps, and even the second group of runners were out of sight.
This is already too much. What was I thinking convincing myself I could do this?
Yet another group was starting to come up the path, and I wasn’t even a third of the way up yet.
I forced myself to double step it, hoping to not get caught too quickly, but my boot caught a rock, and before I knew it, my natural attempt to correct my balance sent one sand bag careening from my shoulder.
My reflexes tried to stabilize that bag, only to end up losing the other one.
Both weights tugged me in different directions, until I was tripping up hill.
I caught myself on my elbows before I could knock myself out with a face full of rocks.
One of the sandbags landed on my right arm, and the other flopped onto a rock ahead.
The first soldier in the next group caught up to me before I’d even manage to get myself out from under the weight of my failure.
And of course, that first soldier just so happened to be my favorite person, running in an easy jog, with hundred pound bags on each shoulder.
“Too heavy for you, Mishka?” Elio casually mocked me from his high and mighty position of being tall.
Mishka?
Great. I already have a cute nickname. I had no idea what the fuck it meant, but I was sure it was somehow both diminutive and derogatory.
“No, I’ve got it.” I heard myself say, contrary to the fact that I by no stretch had it. Lies and misery didn’t stop me from trying to get the bags back on my shoulders though.
“Clearly.” He shook his head, while I did everything in my power to keep dignity as I hoisted up the second bag.
And again, my tired, battered body lost balance, and I stumbled and fell at his feet, dropping my sandbag on the toe of his boot, while I was on my knees beneath his towering presence.
That eye roll was so frustrating I almost wanted to cry.
Okay, maybe more than almost.
“I can’t watch this anymore,” he scoffed as he looked down on me, then he dropped to a squat, putting himself at my level.
He dropped his bags, placed each of mine atop his small pile, then he hoisted all of them back up and over his shoulders.
“I’ll tell your squad leader you won’t be making it up.
Get out of the way while you do your push-ups,” he added as a final jab, then he continued up the hill with a completely effortless gait.
Aggravated, I pounded my fist against the ground.
I needed to work harder. I knew I couldn’t catch up to someone like him overnight, but I had to be able to at least perform the bare minimum if I wanted any chance of making it here.
The rest of his group scuffled past me in short order, while I made my way back down the hill and did my push-ups in shame.
I was falling behind quick, and I didn’t know what to do about it. If the Empire’s Ghuls didn’t kill me, this definitely would.
Basics ended with weapons training, and I could barely pick up a baton at that point.
I should have been great at this, but exhaustion alone had wrecked my coordination.
I banked on strength of will, but I was more likely to be operating on strength of regret at this point, while I mechanically attempted to keep up with a synchronized routine, The twirling and swinging looked like a dance, and dancing actually sounded preferable now.
I’d cursed the decidedly over-feminine sport when I was forced to take it in high school as a fitness class, but in hindsight, it had been so easy and inoffensive and pleasant.
They never made us carry sandbags up a hill while we wore our little glittery uniforms. Never once did a man with biceps the size of my head give me a nickname.
In hindsight, my life had been quite wonderful when held up next to whatever the fuck this was. Working out had been optional. Breathing had been mandatory. Why did I give all that away again?
My shoulders were burning, my legs were shaking, and any misguided confidence I’d had shriveled into the hardest of raisins.
My grip strength couldn’t have even crushed a baby bird when we progressed to a downward striking drill.
I would say I put my all into that downward strike, but it was more like my shoulders gave up and my arms simply plummeted downward.
Mid strike, the baton flew from my hands, and I flailed to get a hold on the thing again, only to watch in horror as it flew toward my squad leader.
Without missing a beat, Sebastian Takeyama caught the training staff out of the air with one hand, spun it over his knuckles, then threw it right back to me with an unimpressed glare. That was pretty suave, to be honest. Intense disappointment suited the dark purple of his eyes.
I mouthed an apology, but Sebastian was already back in perfect teacher mode, continuing to demonstrate and lead the exercise, as though my struggles were all part of the show.
I swallowed down my self-loathing, when the guy next to me—Carl, I think his name was? Carlisle? Clayton? It didn’t really matter. I just knew he lost his balance and found it again by thwacking his training staff right into my stomach.
I doubled over with an unbecoming “oof” and he didn’t even acknowledge me as he attempted to play it off as part of the exercise.
Fuck you, Carl-lisle-ton.
“On your feet, Callan.” Sebastian demanded in front of everyone, and I was still going to call him my hero just for remembering my name so well. Did that make me special? Not how I planned to stand out, but sometimes the stars just dealt us really unconventional hands.
Internal pep talks were a new level of exhaustion brain for me.
Maybe I legitimately wasn’t built for this after all.
At the end of what I’d been fairly certain was going to be the last day of my life, I climbed into a pod in the restoration chamber.
I placed a breathing mask over my face, I closed my eyes, and I took a deep breath as I inserted the IV needles into each arm.
I tapped the button on the floor of the cylindrical chamber with my toe, and the door closed and sealed, while the tube started filling with a cold liquid solution that would speed my muscle recovery.
A simple saline drip functioned to rehydrate me at a rapid rate, while the other IV stabilized my body’s muscle structure and assured I had enough readily available calories and proteins to prevent my metabolism from using muscle tissue as fuel.
I’d never used one of these on Protectorate 005.
These were tools for the wealthy and not something that an ordinary citizen had access to.
If not for the three years I’d spent training to be a medic, I might not have even understood how they worked.
If Vann could have been put directly into a restoration chamber, he would probably be awake right now, but those resources were for people more important than we were.
Astaroth Academy, however, had several hundred of these chambers, available at any time of day.
I timed my session immediately following training, skipping most of my meal hour in favor of having a more private session.
After the morning I’d had, I needed every drop of healing fluid, and I didn’t want an audience while I pathetically crawled into the chamber.
It would get easier from here, but it was really fucking hard right now.
I closed my eyes, and took in the exhilarating, soothing, comforting, life healing sensation as it tingled through my body.
The IVs administered their medicine over about five minutes, while the liquid vibrated and pulsed around me like a gentle massage.
If I could have stayed in here for a week, I would have, but that bliss was entirely too short lived as the solution in the chamber had already started to drain.
A gentle drying procedure removed all liquid from my clothing and hair, then once the chamber’s moisture sensors were satisfied, the cylinder opened, and I was allowed to remove my IVs and my breathing mask.
My stomach grumbled as I stepped out of the blissful hug of recovery and onto the metal flooring.
My body was completely restored, but I was still hungry.
On functioning limbs, I headed to the cafeteria to hastily swallow down my rations.
One more day down. How much worse could it really get?