Wsim24B Ch 01

The beginning of this story will be somewhat familiar if you've read the first three chapters of my previous work 'Westrons'. Just as in that story, the title won't make sense until (much) later.

My excellent editors, Alianath Iriad and Lastman416 informed me a while back that I have a 'formula' in my writing, especially when it concerns my MC (and some of the readers who comment have told me the same). This is another attempt to vary the formula just a bit. Hope you like it.

***

Counsellor Treng tapped me on the shoulder.

- "Major Gomez wants to see you in his office."

My friend Fournier, sitting across from me, looked concerned. I could only shrug my shoulders as I stood up. I had no idea why the Senior Counsellor would be calling me for a meeting.

"On the double, Cadet. Hop hop."

- "Yes, Sir."

Off I went. Treng was a pot-bellied desk jockey whose only advice was to 'go along to get along'. Gomez was a different proposition: he handed out demerits and suspensions like they were candy. The only Senior Officer who scared me more was Colonel Pelek, AFOTA Senior Commander. He was one cranky son of a bitch.

AFOTA is the Armed Forces' Officer Training Academy, home to some 1500 cadets, plus their trainers and instructors, professors and administrators - all male. The female officer candidates were on Rymmel 3, a mere 200 light years away. The two academies were strictly segregated by gender, to prevent humanity's greatest fear: 'transgender fraternization'.

Honestly, if the mere presence of the opposite sex is enough to distract a cadet from his studies, what's that guy going to do when he becomes an officer, and temptation is all around? In my humble opinion, cadets should have been assigned nymphomaniac roommates, just as a test of our powers of concentration (they could also have graded us on physical stamina and creativity).

As I made my way to the admin wing, I had enough time to wonder why Gomez hadn't simply buzzed me on my wrist comm. Why have Treng tell me in person? Well, that's the Army, I guess.

Yours not to reason why, Yours but to do and die.

The Counsellor's door was slightly ajar. I knocked.

- "Come in." I heard.

The man behind the desk wasn't Major Gomez.

For one thing, the uniform was all wrong. AFOTA administrators wear the colour of their previous service: grey for the army, blue for the navy, and brown for support services. I knew that the Chiefs of Staffs wore black, but this guy's uniform was green. He had the insignia of a Captain.

Captain whoever-he-was was very tall, and sat straight-backed. He looked as if he had been an athlete not so very long ago.

"Close the door, and sit down." he said.

- "I was told to meet with Major Gomez, Sir." I said.

The man in green blinked. Once. His expression didn't change.

- "For today, I

am

Major Gomez. Understood?"

That confirmed it. Whoever this guy was, he was a Captain, and I'd been summoned to meet with him. That was good enough. I closed the door, and sat down.

He gave me a good, long look. I'm not easily intimidated, but I was a bit uncomfortable.

"How are you doing, Cadet?" he asked.

- "Fine, Sir." What other answer is there?

- "I've been looking at your first year grades. Your best is a First. Your worst is a 161st. That's reasonably consistent. You have talent. If you keep it up, you could graduate in the top 10%."

That wasn't a question, so I kept my mouth shut.

"Tops in psychology. Top ten in tactics. Top 100 in athletics, and individual combat. Good scores in UC, but not so great in leadership." He smirked at that.

UC was unarmed combat. I

was

good at it. Not the best, but good enough to earn respect. As for leadership... I don't think that our instructors would have recognized real leadership if it had slapped them in the face - not that I gave a shit about being a leader.

No, I wasn't gifted with humility. Not in those days, anyway. I was big, strong, and smart. Quick, too - both physically and mentally. And yes, a bit of an asshole - but I admit it. Is that humility?

"Where do you think that will get you?" he said.

- "Sir?"

- "What kind of future do you envision for yourself, Cadet?" He smirked again.

- "That will depend on my assignment, Sir." I answered. Asshole. He knew very well that I had no control over that - much as I would have liked to.

- "You may be imagining a prestigious post on a battle cruiser. Or perhaps a place in a combat unit, where casualties are high and promotions are rapid. But you're far more likely to end up in a garrison on a remote planet, or on the support staff at a military base. Do you know why I think that, Cadet?"

- "Connections, Sir." I knew where he was going with this, so I decided to cut the lesson short. Or shorter.

- "That's right." said the Captain. "Connections. You haven't got any."

My father was a civil engineer, while my mother was a city councillor. They had just enough money and ambition to send me here and partially pay my way.

"The plum positions," continued the Captain, "go to those with titles, or with fathers who can call in favours. There's always a place for geniuses, too, but you're not one of those. What's left over after the top spots are taken... well, that's what you can aspire to. Staff jobs usually don't go to UC champions. Your one hope would be to be sent to a sector where a war broke out - but that's not likely to happen, is it? No real wars for two decades, and no prospects of one for another twenty years. The Armed Forces will send you where they need you most - but they don't exactly need

you

, do they?"

This wasn't really news to me - I'm not stupid. But this guy was definitely shitting on my breakfast. I just couldn't figure out why.

"Do you go on rages, Cadet?" said the Captain.

He had changed tack so quickly that I was caught off guard.

- "Rages, Sir?"

- "I attended this very institution." he said. "The rages haven't changed."

- "Oh? What year did you graduate, Sir? If you don't mind my asking..." I was hoping to get an idea of how old this prick was.

- "I don't mind. I didn't graduate." he said. "But I know what rages are. Do I have to repeat the question?"

He didn't graduate. There had to be a story there. But he knew about rages. Every six or seven days, the cadets were given a short break (akin to Shore leave) for a brief blowout. They're called 'rages', or 'hoot and hollers'. Hundreds of cadets - sometimes almost a thousand - descend on the 18th district for a hyper pub crawl. For many, the goal is simply to get smashed. The more ambitious try to pick up women - or to combine the two activities (which I don't recommend).

- "Yes, Sir. I know what rages are."

- "And how do you do on those occasions?" said the Captain.

- "Sir?"

- "How successful are you with women?"

This was too weird. An army officer asking me if I got lucky? The truth of it was... well, I'm tall, well-built, and fairly handsome. Not a pretty boy; more of a man's man than a fashion model. But there are women who like the look, and I have the gift of divining the right approach. It's all about reading the girl; they don't

all

want to be told that they're beautiful. The prettiest women get lots of compliments. Some like to be surprised. Some are bored, or are looking for something different. Some like to laugh, and others are just waiting to be told what they want. The trick is figuring out which type they are.

I'm not a genius. But I understand a few things, and I can calculate odds. Most guys try the same crude jokes and the same inane pick-up lines. You can guess how often they're successful. I take risks, occasionally - but they're calculated risks. And I succeed more often than the best Powerball players.

- "I do reasonably well, Sir."

- "What do you do for money, Cadet?" The Captain looked me right in the eye.

This was a trap. Or a test. He already knew the answer. That information wasn't in my file. Who had he asked?

See, about half of the cadets are rich - or their families are. Another third are legacies; their tuition is waived because they're the sons of military officers. The last sixth are guys like me, here on a scholarship, and/or modest support from their parents. Rooms, meals and incidentals cost almost 6,000 a month. I was lucky if I had a thousand left over.

The Captain had been here. He knew how rages worked. The groupies and nubiles who flocked to the 18th when the cadets were let out to play expected to be brought drinks. And if you were going to score with them, you'd have to spring for a hotel room and a bottle or two. That could easily cost two or three grand.

"You're not a caddy, are you?"

That wasn't a question, either. He knew that I wasn't. Caddying was what some of the poorer cadets did for richer ones - running errands for them, shining their shoes, sometimes even doing their assignments. Fuck that noise.

- "No, Sir. I... I play poker, Sir."

- "That's taking a great risk, isn't it? Your scholarship barely covers the essentials. Would you be able to pay up if you lost?"

- "I rarely lose, Sir."

The truth is, I'm a very good poker player. I don't play the cards; I play the other players. And I almost never play against cadets that I don't know. I can read tells, and I'm good at picking up micro-expressions and those little tics that give away a good hand. I'm not greedy, either; I don't squeeze the marks too hard. I want them to come back to the table again.

I wouldn't have wanted to play against this Captain. He knew too much about me, while I knew nothing about him. These questions of his weren't random, either. But somehow I didn't feel like I was in trouble. If I was, he'd have pounced before now.

- "But what if you

did

lose?" he said.

- "I have access to other funds, Sir. In an emergency."

- "Access to other funds? Well put, Cadet. You mean Cadet Fournier, of course."

Well, shit. This guy knew that, too. Fournier was my friend, or at least my partner in a symbiotic relationship that benefited us both. Fournier had money. Scads of money. More money than he knew what to do with. He wasn't stupid, nor was he a weakling. He wasn't bad-looking, either. But he lacked confidence, and was painfully shy around women.

I picked him out early in first year, and made myself his study partner. His performance improved, and he rightly gave me the credit. He got me into a poker game, and provided me with entry stakes.

It was natural enough for us to stick together when we went out on a hoot n' holler. Fournier thought we were just going to get drunk, but I bet him that I could convince two girls to fuck us - all he had to do was spring for the room and a couple of bottles.

I got him laid - something he was too shy and awkward to do on his own. From then on, Fournier was my devoted friend, and my financial backer if I ever needed it. I know that, because I asked.

- "Of course!" he said. "How much do you need?"

- "I don't. Not right now, anyway. I just wanted to know if I could count on you in an emergency."

- "Any emergency, man. Not just for money."

- "Good to know. Hope you feel the same."

Was I using Fournier? Yes. Was he benefiting from our friendship? Damn straight he was.

I didn't have to pull girls for us at every attempt. Fournier was patient, and he understood the law of averages. Still, it was an uncommon event when we had to go back to the dorms alone.

When the Captain revealed that he knew about Fournier, I didn't try to sugarcoat it. When you're not sure where you stand, say as little as possible.

- "Yes, Sir."

The Captain sat back in his chair, and looked me over again.

- "Good for you, Cadet. Most men in your place would want to know who I am and what we're doing here. You're dying of curiosity, but you have the self-control to be patient - or the brains to know that I wasn't about to tell you squat until I was damn good and ready."

- "Yes, Sir."

- "I'm interviewing you for a position in ISEC. Well, an ISEC training program. You might wash out there. I doubt it, though."

ISEC? Internal Security? Intelligence. Spies, and spy-catchers. Undercover operations. Surveillance. It probably wasn't as glamorous as all that. I'm sure that they had their clerks and accountants, too.

But the Captain was probably right about my career prospects when I graduated from AFOTA. I'd get a job, of course. But a good one? That was less certain.

Now I was curious. Why did this Captain think that I'd be a good fit for ISEC? Or ISEC for me? I asked him.

- "You're a big, handsome young man. You look like you could be someone's bodyguard - which is an excellent cover for an agent, by the way. You're bright, and you can fight. Too many people underestimate unarmed combat. You read people. You sized up Fournier right away, and made yourself useful to him so that he could be useful to you. You're a good poker player, a pick-up artist, and you have a flexible ethical system."

I think that he had just called me unscrupulous - or worse.

"ISEC needs all of your talents, all of your skills." he continued. "What we offer is this: you would immediately graduate from AFOTA with a commission as a 2nd Lieutenant. Whatever rank we assign you in public, you would be paid as a 2nd Lieutenant, with relevant danger pay. You would be promoted from there. If you bail out or flunk out of our training program, you'll be included in next year's crop of AFOTA graduates, available for assignment, so you lose nothing."

I was... intrigued.

- "How long do I have to think about it, Sir?"

- "Twenty-three and a half hours. Come here at the same time tomorrow. I suspect that you already know the answer. If you're not sure, though - don't choose ISEC."

- "Thank you, Sir."

- "Good to meet you, Cadet. See you tomorrow."

He was right. I

did

know. I didn't have the connections and would never have the money to make a splash as an officer. Only a very select few cadets would be selected based on finishing in the top ten or twenty of our class. My scores were good, but not that good. There was a very strong chance that the Captain was right about my probable destination as well; I could end up counting spare parts in the vehicle pool of some remote military base.

Whereas this guy wanted me for my looks, my size and my skills. Fighting, reading people, playing poker and picking up women. He didn't care at all about my lack of family connections or money. That might be just the right kind of working environment for me.

All of that, plus I had a year to change my mind. I could see what ISEC training was all about, and still graduate from AFOTA with a commission. What did I have to lose?

Fournier would just have to learn to get along without me.

***

From the moment I told the Captain that I was choosing ISEC, things began to happen very quickly. I was given an hour to pack a bag. Then I was aboard a shuttle to the 4th District, where I was taken into a nondescript office building.

There were clerks, and there were medtechs. I was photographed, and then immediately put to running on a treadmill while they measured my physical responses.

That was followed by an aptitude test and a personality test masquerading as an interview. Three AFOTA cadets were ahead of me in the process; nine more arrived after I did. They tested us and worked us out all day, then showed us to a threadbare dorm room at the back of the building with beds and thin blankets.

I knew half of the other fellows, but we'd been instructed not to speak to one another. Given that we were probably under surveillance the entire time, everyone chose to obey that restriction.

For the next three days, we were subjected to a barrage of physical and psychological tests. After a while, I began to suspect that they were simply trying to confuse or exhaust us. If that was the plan, it was working. But there must have been some sort of method to the apparent madness, because by the third night, there were only eleven of us left.

On the last day, the medtechs inserted an implant into my right arm, and another in my left.

- "What are these for?" I asked.

The medtech gave me a well-rehearsed answer. "Right arm, contraceptive and protection from STDs. Left arm, a tracker - so that we can find you. Or your body."

Then came the final - and strangest - part of the process. I was given a new name. Until told otherwise, I was instructed to answer to the name 'Thorn'.

With the ten other cadets, I was put on a Halygon ship. The voyage lasted three months, during which we aged exactly two days. I spent almost the whole trip in a Stasis tank, hooked up to Sleepread programs. I learned ISEC regulations, how to bypass locks based on fingerprints or retinal scans, and became fluent in two more languages: Hindi and French.

We weren't told the name of the planet we landed on. We were quickly processed, and then loaded onto an aircraft. Two hours later, we put down at an odd little airfield. There were three landing strips, a couple of hangars, and a cluster of administrative buildings and warehouses.

An officer was waiting for us. He called the roll, and I answered to my new name, Thorn. The officer pointed to his chest, which bore a patch with the letters CA.

- "You will address me as Trainer CA." he said. "If you have a question, it had better be a good one. The best advice I can give you is to shut up. Use the bathroom if you have to. We leave in 5 minutes."

I thought that Trainer CA was laying it on a bit thick, but I soon discovered that all of our trainers spoke to us in much the same way. They didn't try to humiliate or degrade us; they simply acted like they didn't give a shit about us - which they didn't.

Five minutes later, Trainer CA led us on a brisk little two-hour run through the semi-tropical jungle. We clutched our bags, and did our best to keep up.

Training Camp 3 was located just off a sandy beach on the seashore. There were half a dozen barrack huts, a kitchen and mess hall, and a larger hut for our instructors. There were ten trainers and fifty trainees, twenty of whom were female.

That first night, Trainer BR explained that we were Pod 3. There were 5 pods, each of 50 candidates, each at a different location. We would be at Training Camp 3 for a month, whereupon we would be split up, and mixed with the remaining members of the other pods.

I don't know how many people heard the word 'remaining', but I certainly did. It was an accurate prediction; by the end of that first month, we were down to forty trainees.

The trainers were also rotated. These moves were made to prevent favouritism, and to reduce 'clubbing' among the trainees. You could try to form friendships, but you might not see those friends again for several months.

We were 'on call' from dawn on Monday until dusk on Saturday. Sundays were for rest, recuperation, and study. That didn't sound very encouraging.

They pushed us hard. We ran in the deep sand, climbed a rock face, and cut down trees. We swam in the sea, carried heavy rocks, and learned how to fall and take blows, which our trainers seemed happy to deliver.

They wore us down, and they wore us out. At first, I thought that this location had probably been chosen because of the extended hours of sunlight. The trainers worked us for 16 hours a day. We had half an hour each for breakfast and lunch (including our ablutions and bodily functions), and an hour for supper. There was food in the kitchen - but no cooks.

Whatever we wanted to eat, we had to prepare. Even if we had wanted to cook for each other, there was no time to do that and still have time to eat. We also had to clean up after ourselves.

The trainers set the tone on our second night, when they woke us in the middle of the night, and took us on a 10k run. On our fifth night, they simulated an attack on the camp. Some trainees searched for weapons, but most of us looked for cover.