Chapter 09
I’m woken by a vibration.
At first, I don’t know where it’s coming from, and I panic because my mind instantly jumps to memories of desert planets and sand cephalopods and a giant mouth to swallow me whole.
After a half second of flailing around my bed, I realize it’s not a monster causing the vibration, but my handheld, which is tangled in the sheets.
I grope around for the device and squint at the screen.
It’s a message from Lament.
I’m awake all at once, gripping the display without clicking into the message.
I haven’t seen Lament since Sergeant Forst ordered him out of her office this morning.
And by haven’t seen, I mean have been actively avoiding.
After that disaster of a meeting, I marched straight back to my room to prevent running into him, using Illiviamona’s post-op sleep instructions as an excuse to hide away.
I know it’s cowardly, but I’m not ready to face Lament yet.
Everything feels too big. Significant. And while I’m worried he’s angry at me for lying to Sergeant Forst when we’d previously agreed to lie, you know, differently, I’m more worried he’s not angry.
That he’ll have decided he doesn’t care whether I stick my neck out for him, whether I want to help him.
I can handle Lament’s anger, but I don’t think I could take his apathy.
After a round of deep breathing and a bit of mental cheerleading, I open the message.
You shouldn’t have done that.
I exhale, feeling suddenly light and loose, like my bones have become too small for their sockets. My fingers fly over the screen. Your red card was lonely.
That’s not funny.
It needed a friend.
I’m being serious. No one’s ever gotten a red card on their first day.
What can I say? I like to break records.
I can see you’re being very mature about this.
It must be the relief, or the fact that I’ve just woken up at a random afternoon hour following my half-hearted attempt to sleep four hours on, three hours off, because I’m grinning at the screen.
The red card sucks, obviously. Word of it will surely get back to my Academy officers, and if the story winds up on NewsNet (a real possibility), Master Ira will see it, too.
Normally, the prospect of his disappointment would be like an iron clamp around my heart, but right now it barely registers.
I’ve come to terms with my choices. I’d make them again.
Apparently I haven’t replied quickly enough, because a fresh string of messages lights up my screen. I thought we’d agreed.
You weren’t even supposed to speak during that meeting.
Let alone take the blame.
It’s like you don’t care what happens to you.
Which is infuriating.
I’ve already established my place in the Legion.
But you haven’t.
So you can’t be this reckless.
The messages are so rapid-fire I wonder if he’s using talk-to-type. Or maybe he prewrote the text and is pasting it from his Note app. That seems like the kind of thing Lament would do.
My handheld lights up again. I don’t need a bonehead for a partner.
That gets me smiling again. So you admit we’re partners now?
I didn’t say that.
Yes you did. It’s time-stamped and everything.
That was a mistype.
I might be a bonehead, but I can still read.
The pause goes on for long enough that I think maybe he’s not going to reply. Then: You’re not really a bonehead.
My thumbs hover over the touch screen. I want to say something back.
Something stupid and heartfelt like, I hope this means we’re okay or I’m sorry for everything or You scared me too, you know.
Before I can embarrass myself, another message appears.
Illiviamona says you shouldn’t be awake right now.
I let out a huff. And whose fault is that?
Yours, I believe.
Excuse you. Your message woke me up.
Light sleeper?
Yep.
I’ll leave you alone, then.
It’s not really what I want, but I can’t exactly admit that, either, so I just say, Finally.
Good night, Hartman.
I scroll back through our message chain, rereading the exchange over and over until I practically have it memorized. It’s with me as I lie back down in my new bed in my new room, pull the thin thermal sheet up to my chin. The black text stains my vision as I fall asleep.
My first official week as a Sixer goes by in a blur of tactical training sessions, strategy meetings, and orientations.
Most of these are for my benefit, to help me acclimate to my new team and the expectations of life on Skyhub.
Which, generally speaking, are a lot like the expectations for life at the Academy.
There are early morning wake-up calls (I set three backup alarms), strict uniform rules (no loose cords, no wrinkled fabric), and physical training (which we just call PT and is something I’m actually good at, thank the stars).
Sergeant Forst heads most of the lessons, which either take place in the detachment’s briefing room or training room, depending on our schedule.
There hasn’t been any flying yet, and no Halobringers, much to my disappointment.
On the plus side, the sergeant doesn’t seem to be holding any grudges, despite our rocky start. On the whole, the week goes well.
As well as it can, anyway, given my fleetmates seem determined to take none of it seriously.
Like when Avi “accidentally” tosses a red T-shirt into the laundry with our whites, and everyone has to wear pink uniforms until we can get them replaced.
Or when Jester reprograms the automatic kitchen door to spout random wombat facts whenever someone passes through.
Or like now, in the briefing room, as the Sixers start playing a game where they send a word to our group chat, and whoever gets the sergeant to say it first wins.
Youvu Hum: Next word is breach.
Vera: LAMENT IS NOT ALLOWED TO PLAY
Me: Why can’t Lament play?
Jester: He’s too good.
Jester: He can basically trick the sergeant into saying anything on the first try.
Vera: LAMENT DO NOT RUIN THIS FOR US
The sergeant is currently standing at the front of the (predictably white) briefing room, delivering a lecture on firefight formations.
I wait until her attention is on her holographic whiteboard (tragically nicknamed the holo-wolo) before glancing at Lament sitting in the row behind me.
The room is set up like a miniature lecture hall, with two staggered rows of desks and ten seats (one of which is presumably for Toph, except his knees don’t fit under the table so they’ve installed an extra bench for him at the back).
Vera shoots Lament an I’m watching you motion. Lament just smirks.
“Which is why it’s important to hold your line,” the sergeant is saying, flipping through pictures of space battles, “even after a retreat is called.”
“Excuse me, Sergeant Forst?” Lament raises a hand. “Is that why the Legion banned the use of the Ten Calls formation?”
“Correct.” The sergeant looks pleased. She turns back to the whiteboard, so she doesn’t see Lament hold up his fingers, counting down from five as she continues.
“Though the Ten Calls formation was once effective against space attacks, today’s weapons are too sophisticated for such methods.
” Three, two … “You may remember, during the Battle of Linth, there was a breach—”
There’s a collective burst of groans and Are you kidding me?s. The sergeant appears startled. “I didn’t know you all felt so strongly about Linth. But yes, that breach was a terrible day in Legion history.”
She returns to the whiteboard and continues the lesson. The group chat goes wild.
Vera: LAMENT
Avi: How???
Vera: I TOLD YOU NOT TO
Youvu Hum: Do you play mind games with us, too?
Avi: Teach me your secretssss
Youvu Hum: I think he’s part Determinist.
Vera: I SWEAR ON MY MOTHER’S GRAIN YOU WILL PAY FOR THIS
Jester: You mean grave, Vera.
I try to keep up with the stream of replies, popping off one of my own: Well I for one am impressed.
Lament hasn’t responded to anyone else, but he replies to that. Impressed, huh?
I don’t dare turn around. I don’t look to see what kind of expression might be forming on Lament’s face, whether it’s cocky or amused or what. It doesn’t make a difference. I’m as red as a lobster, and everyone can see.
“Now,” the sergeant says in a tone that signals a change of subject, turning back to face us, “before we break for the day, there’s a new galactic development I need to brief you all on. One that may impact your upcoming missions, and that involves the Determinist movement.”
I straighten in my chair. So far this week, our meetings have only entailed hypothetical drills and duties. Nothing tangible, nothing about the Sixth’s real missions or objectives. I feel a wave of anticipation.
“As you know,” Sergeant Forst starts, “over the past three years, the Determinist leader Ran Doc Min has unveiled his self-invented predictive simulation, and he has begun using this simulation to foretell a number of dangerous planetary events. The accuracy of these predictions—and the man’s charismatic nature—have resulted in massive growth for both the Determinist movement and Doc Min’s power.
“In the past, Doc Min’s future-predicting simulation—which he’s named FPS—has operated on a relatively small scale.
It’s predicted things like floods and fires.
Tragedies, to be sure, but nothing that could destroy an entire planet, and therefore nothing the Legion has been obligated to investigate.
We do sometimes lend aid in these situations, of course.
When we have the resources, the Legion will always work with a planet’s local authorities to help save lives.
But our main purpose is to protect Romothrida on a large scale, both against threats within our own galaxy and possible dangers from beyond. ”
“But now Ran Doc Min’s simulation is hinting at something bigger,” Vera guesses. “Something with the power to destroy entire planets.”
“Exactly.” Sergeant Forst touches her glossy bun, adjusts the collar of her whites. She’s dressed like us in pants, a sturdy flight jacket, and combat boots, with a golden pin on her lapel to denote her rank. She doesn’t look like us, though. She looks restrained. Burdened by responsibility.
“Ran Doc Min has proven the accuracy of FPS again and again,” the sergeant says.
“It puts the Legion in a difficult position. If Doc Min claims something is coming to harm our galaxy, we are duty bound to investigate, yet to do that, we first need to speak with the man himself. Unfortunately, all our attempts to contact Doc Min have failed. He refuses to communicate with our representatives, and we can’t confront him in person, because he never appears in public—all his warnings are delivered by hologram.
If the Legion reacts to Ran Doc Min’s latest prediction, we’ll validate him in the eye of the public, but we cannot in good conscience validate someone we don’t understand.
What is Doc Min’s ultimate goal? Why did he build FPS, and how does it work?
Are his motives purely humanitarian, or does he have some other purpose?
Uncovering these answers has become our top priority, and my superiors have authorized the use of force to obtain them, if necessary. ”
“Because forcing people to give up their secrets has worked so well in the past,” Lament comments dryly.
The Sixers cringe. The sergeant’s face hardens. “The Legion uses established methods to obtain information vital to the safety and prosperity of Romothrida Galaxy.”
“The Legion only ever uses one method—”
“If you have a concern—”
“I have more than a concern—”
“Then let us discuss it at an appropriate time, Mr. Bringer.”
Sergeant Forst’s tone has flipped from I am attempting to be objective to That is enough, young man. She and Lament are glaring at each other like two tigers in a cage, and I look between them, confused. Where is this coming from?
Lament—seemingly ignoring every signal to not—points at the sergeant. “You know what the Legion’s problem is? They think just because they’re charged with safekeeping the galaxy, any choice they make is the right choice. Like they can do no wrong.”
“You are part of the Legion, Mr. Bringer.”
“Not that part.”
“If your loyalty to this establishment is coming into question—”
“At the Academy,” I interrupt, feeling very much like I’m sticking my fist into a pool of piranhas, “we’re taught that most situations can be handled without force.”
Lament and the sergeant both snap their eyes to me.
And … I did not think this through. There’s clearly something going on here—something beyond the Legion’s investigation into Doc Min—but I can’t read the subtext.
I don’t understand where Lament’s anger at the sergeant is coming from.
All I know is if I don’t do something right now, Lament is going to land that second red card after all.
“Direct violence,” I continue, “is only ever to be used as a last resort.” I look around the room, keeping my voice even and open, like we’re all just having a friendly little debate.
De-escalate, my heart demands with every painful thump.
De-escalate. “This is especially true since—as members of the most powerful fighting force in the galaxy—it’s up to us to use our authority responsibly.
Sure, we could blaze into every mission brandishing our weapons and leveling anything that stands in our way, but if we did, would we be any better than the enemy?
In that regard, I think Lament makes a good point. ”
I beam at the sergeant hopefully, but she looks entirely unamused.
“The Academy trains its cadets well,” she admits.
“They have produced some of the finest fleet members this organization has ever known, often outpacing the many other prep schools from which we recruit new members. But there is a difference between controlled training scenarios and real missions.”
“Isn’t the point of training to prepare us for real missions?”
“It is not that simple.”
“But what if—”
“Tomorrow, you will be given your first true orders,” the sergeant cuts in.
“You will begin to learn the truth of what it takes to keep this galaxy safe. The lengths the Legion must go—has always gone—to ensure our way of life.” Her expression changes.
It grows almost sad. I remember, suddenly, that before the sergeant became the leader of this fleet, she was a gunner, too.
“You are a member of the Legion now, Mr. Hartman,” she says, glancing at Lament, as if these words are as much for him as they are for me. “If force is necessary, I expect you to use it. Class dismissed.”