Tomás nodded at my statement. He didn't pressure or provoke a response from me; he simply accepted my words. Was keeping a family name hidden normal in the lower-grade training? Maybe more legacy kids ended up here than I'd realised.
We kept our walk steady, though we couldn't quite match the C-Grade's tempo or uniformity; we at least stayed on track. Tomás filled the silence easily; he had a nervous twitch that translated into a mouth that couldn't stop moving.
"My cousin—the C-Grade one—he said the first week is the worst, they break you down before they build you back up. Standard military psychology." He sucked in a full breath before continuing, "Of course, that's just the C-Grade training." He shrugged, "For probably just the breaking part, or not."
I replied, "Optimistic," barely keeping up with the boy's words.
Tomás pressed on, "Hmmm—more, realistic." Without pausing, he added, "My father was D-Grade, made it eight years before a Bugger took his leg, medical discharge, he always said the ones who survive are the ones who see things first."
He almost reminded me of Alexei; that need to fill the silence, as though he was afraid of it. The only difference was that Tomás had a sense of social preservation about him. An instinct of when to push and when to pull.
"And the ones who don't?"
"Well... They see things too late." A triumphant grin grew across his face, cutting through the boy's anxiety.
We passed a series of low buildings to our left; square concrete blocks with barred windows. Training facilities, maybe? Everything here had the same utilitarian brutality, as if the architects were competing to see who could strip as much joy as possible from those who passed by.
"Eight years is good," I said after a moment. "For a D-Grade."
Tomás glanced at me, surprised. "Yeah, he was lucky, knew when to push forward and when to hold." His jaw twitched. "Most D-Grades don't make it past three, the ones in Mech Corps, anyway, support roles last longer, but..." He finally breathed.
I waited for him.
"Nobody joins the military to file paperwork, you know?" He stumbled as we continued our march. "Well, not eeeeverybody— but still, cadets want to be pilots, heroes, the ones on the recruitment posters." He gestured vaguely at the sky. "Fighting the Federation's foes in gleaming mechs! saving colonies! and all that, the honourable way of getting citizenship, you know?"
An image of the holobanners back in Acheron flashed. The image of the Seraph-class mech that had cleaved through the Buggers, the movies that came out every year depicting the newest hero on the front lines, the countless holo-posters hung up in my—in his room.
"My dad said the first time he saw a Bugger up close—a real one, not a holo, he pissed himself, said half his squad did, said the recruitment vids don't show you what they smell like, what the sound was like when they tear through hull plating," He shuddered. "Said he still has nightmares, twenty years later."
The Buggers... a species of intergalactic ants. Biologically so perfect that their own mechs weren't made of steel, but of giant living arthropods. I always found it strange that they piloted one another; it felt... inefficient. The Buggers were anything but.
As the central building grew closer, its metallic doors were now in sight as we continued our march. The line in front of me began to funnel towards them, and the distance between our bodies closed. Bodies entered in twos, soon I was one of them.
The space opened up as I entered, revealing a massive hall. The ceiling was at least three stories tall; it felt like a hangar rather than an actual building. Overhead support beams ran across the roof, concrete floors shone to perfection, and yellow lights so harsh there wasn't a single shadow. Across the concrete floor, painted lines ran in every direction: Yellow, blue, red, and green.
Officials ran across the lines not deviating a single step. They held datapads in their hands, tapping at them furiously as they glided across the room. Eventually, they pulled off from their designated footpaths and strode out towards us.
"Form lines by the first letter of your surname! A through F on the left! G through M in the centre! N through Z on the right!" An Official barked. "Smallest on the left! Tallest on the right!
Tomás clapped me on the shoulder. "Guess this is where we split."
"See you around?"
"If they bunk us in the same block, sure." He started toward his line, then paused, looking back. "Hey, Marcus, the F-Grade thing— either you're the bravest or the dumbest bastard I've ever met, haven't figured out which yet."
"Let me know when you decide." I flashed a grin.
He met my eyes, flashing one back, "Will do."
As he disappeared into the manoeuvring crowd, I realised we were sorted by last name. If James Tiernan had already stripped my last name, would it be updated on the system?
I hesitantly began moving towards the T line. Circling it, I headed to the right of it. I was quite tall compared to the other kids, so I was placed near the top end. After a few moments of shuffling around, the line had formed; in total, five hundred kids stood side by side.
Officials began to deviate from their coloured paths as they stepped up towards us; the first one moved to the farthest left on the A-F line. He held his tablet up to the boy's face.
Holoscreens I didn't realise were there came to life. The boy's name, grade and awakening status all flashed simultaneously. It only held for a moment as the next official scanned the next kid, and the next, and the next. The officials moved quickly, and soon it was my turn.
[TIERNAN, MARCUS — F — AWAKENED — MECH CORPS]
The name hung there for a moment, white text against black, before scrolling upward and vanishing. My eyes narrowed at the sight; looked like James hadn't removed my last name just yet. Probably thought I was still coming home.
I could hear a few murmurs and the shuffling of feet. The official who had scanned my face paused for a moment, though his face betrayed nothing, he moved on. And just like that, the muttering had stopped; people didn't even look at me. Perhaps they weren't reacting to the name, but an F-Grade awakened already enlisted for the mech corps.
When the last name on the holoscreen flashed, the officials grouped towards the centre. They huddled in a circle, whispering to each other. One shook his datapad, and another cursed under his breath. Looked like the system was having trouble. I'm not surprised. There were billions of kids across the federation being hooked up to the system, and the Federation's military had always been a bureaucratic nightmare.
Finally, they dispersed. The officials peeled off toward different sections of the line and began calling out names.
"Ackerman! Booth! Calder!" One barked, three cadets stepped up.
"Wiggin! Halsey! Keyes!" Another ordered, another three stepping up.
This went on for a while as each official called out names in groups of three. The cadets were standing in single file in front of the official. After a group of about 30 formed a single line, the cadets began to shuffle forward as the official led them.
The hall began to thin as Officials led groups of thirty out of the hall. Returned and repeated the process. It was slow, painfully slow. More names called. More bodies directed. The crowd shrank from five hundred to five dozen. Still, no one called for me.
Eventually, an official approached. His hair greyed at his temples; he looked older than the rest of them. His uniform was neater, too; a single bronze bar sat on his epaulettes. This official was no official at all; he was a Lieutenant. I could see something flicker in his eye, a flash of blue.
"Tiernan?"
"Yes, sir?"
His pupils dilated for a moment as they began to slightly jitter; he was processing information. Likely through an augment. The Lieutenant's lips pressed thin.
"F-Grade. Awakened. Voluntary enlistment." A pause. "Mech Corps."
This again?
"That's correct, sir," I replied dryly.
His expression betrayed nothing. "You understand what that means."
"I do."
"F-Grade personnel are typically assigned to support. Logistics. Medical. Maintenance." He recited it like he'd said it a thousand times before. "Mech Corps is frontline. Ether cultivation at Rank-1 minimum by the time you turn sixteen."
"I'm aware, sir." My jaw clenched.
"Sixty-three per cent washout rate for F-Grades in combat training." His pupils stopped flickering. "Those who don't wash out—most of them don't make it past their first deployment."
I held his gaze, suppressing a sigh. "I know the statistics."
He studied me for a long moment.
"Barracks 7," he said finally. "Red line. Building at the end." He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket—actual paper—and handed it to me. "Show this to the barracks supervisor."
I took it; the paper was soft from use. Low-tech. Harder to hack, probably. Or maybe they'd just run out of budget for anything better.
"Good luck, recruit." He turned and walked away before I could respond.
The red line stretched toward the back of the hall, away from the main flow. Most of the remaining recruits followed blue or green. A handful drifted toward yellow. The red line was nearly empty.
I followed it alone.