The following day was entirely drill, more drill, so much drill that the word 'drill' lost all meaning.
Wake up, morning drill, breakfast into pods, more drill. But in mechs, that time for hours. The only reprieve we got was during the academic lessons and cultivations in the evening. I even dreamt of drill.
Left turn, right turn, stand at ease, attention, by the right quick march.
But we were finally starting to get somewhere with it. By the second day of it, we were able to march in formation without crashing into each other. Bumping and scraping were pretty regular, but nothing serious.
I, of course, was nothing but a model citizen. Executing it perf—
"Tiernan! Slow down, check your left shoulder," Okafor called.
My head swung as I realised I was moving out of time with my left man. I knew I was in time with the previous rhythm, but something had shifted in that time.
God damn, recruits can't hold their own rhythm. Well, either that or I messed up. Definitely can't be the latter, though.
I had to hold for an extra second on my next step to allow for those around me to catch up, and we were on our merry way. A merry group of troubadors marching across the galaxy. Soon enough, the torture ended, just after we managed a solid twenty minutes of "Adequate drill."
We left the pods, with a pep in our step, free from man-made horrors beyond comprehension. Next on the agenda was chow and academics.
With a quick lunch, we were off to the academic block, all of us exhausted from the hours upon hours of drill. I all but flopped into my desk, not noticing who was holding our academic lesson for the day. Okafor stood at the front of the classroom, standing next to a holoprojector.
"Ooo, looks like we're getting some fancy lesson today, huh?" Sato said from my left-hand side.
"How are you not exhausted, Sato?" Park mumbled, his forehead pressed firmly against his desk.
"High vitality, baby, been putting some extra points in lately after I nearly beat Miller."
Just about the entire squad scoffed at that, and Okafor started.
"Attention to the front recruits," She called.
Once she had everyone's attention, she clicked a small button on the box-like device, and a blue light sprang from it. In moments, the entirety of the front of the classroom filled with a 3d projection of a full mech platoon — twenty-four units in staggered formation — advancing across a scorched landscape toward a Bugger swarm.
"Oh, it's this one, I've seen this a hundred times." " Sato whispered.
"Shut up and watch, Sato," Okafor said.
"How did she hear—"
"I didn't hear you, I just know you well enough. Now eyes front."
The platoon hit the swarm's outer edge, with fire and brimstone being brought to the menace. The Buggers came in a tide, chitin flowing across the ground in overlapping waves. The front line braced; they set down a multitude of shields that worked to stem the tide and block oncoming bioweaponry. Plasma sizzled against metal but did little to eat its way through. Then came the retaliation.
The second line pushed through the lanes that the opening salvo had blocked up. Close combat loadouts, heavy armour and ranged weaponry all working to batter through the swarm. In the back was a third line, likely sensors and support mechs, feeding targeting data and supporting where they could.
Each mech covered the one beside it, and each melee rotation cycled in time with its neighbour and firing patterns.
"That," Okafor said as the footage froze on the platoon's final advance, "is what a trained mech platoon looks like. That is what you are building toward."
She killed the footage.
"For six months, you trained as individual fighters. Some of you wondered why we didn't start with formations and group tactics from day one."
She paced.
"A fighter who trains in formation from the start learns to rely on it. They build habits that only work when the squad is around them — guard positions that assume a covered flank, timing that depends on a partner's rhythm. Strip the formation away, and they fall apart."
"A fighter who trains alone first builds their own foundation. When we put that fighter into a formation, they bring something to it, rather than lean on it. Every skill you built over six months is a tool you now contribute. Your awareness in a formation is built on your awareness alone."
I raised my hand.
Okafor pointed towards me. "Tiernan."
"Then what was the point of the exhibition's first and second phases?" I asked.
"To show the platoon leaders what your floors for coordination are. Whether or not your natural instincts are to work as a group or run around as solo units trying to win the whole thing by themselves."
I nodded.
The rest of the session was dedicated to the exact movement of each of the individual pilots, from the front line to the third. Each of them held their own, individual fighters of excellence working perfectly in tandem.
The final part of the day was cultivation. After the grand display from Okafor, we headed to our final slot of the day, where Kael waited.
We were back indoors this time, and I sat with my squad as we all began our individual cultivation time.
[FRACTURED ANAMNESIS — INITIATED]
[PROJECTED LEVEL: 25]
[PROJECTED GRADE: A-GRADE]
[DURATION: UNTIL DEFEAT OR VICTORY]
The first round went about the same as every other round. The echo came at me hard, switching between rotations and formless with a fluidity I still couldn't track. I lasted fifty-five seconds before a haymaker put me on the ground.
The second round went a little bit differently.
I continued my mimicry and focused on the way the echo moved physically and ethereally. I was just about starting to get a feel for how it moved; there was an errant predictability in its movement, but only when looked at through the lens of Ether.
The moment the ether gathered at the echo's fist, right before the release, the tell was there — a strike in motion that had to be released. The echo threw a straight right, infused it with Ether. I knew it was coming this time. I slipped the strike, barely, feeling the enhanced strike graze across my skin and threw a solid uppercut right into its jaw.
The echo was launched from its feet down to the ground, it rolled with the momentum and picked itself back up. It then came at me harder and faster than it had previously and floored me.
[FRACTURED ANAMNESIS — SESSION COMPLETE]
[DURATION: 51 SECONDS]
[XP GAINED: 48]
[CONNECTION POINTS GAINED: 8]
[CONNECTION THRESHOLD: 6.09%]
[ETHER SENSITIVITY: 2 → 3]
Finally, a free stat, and one that I really needed as well. I'm sorry I ever doubted you Mr. System, never again.
I went for three more rounds before cultivation ended. I couldn't land the same hit again — the echo had adjusted, tightening its channelling to the tell. But I could feel the ether moving now. Every strike the echo threw carried a signature I was learning to read alongside the physical tells I already tracked.
After my anamnesis rounds, I opened my eyes. Sato was beside me, staring at the sky.
"Done already?" I asked.
"Finished early." He was picking at the dirt.
The rest of the room was silent, as Kael stood at the far end of the room, monitoring.
"I just realised, Sato — I know basically nothing about you before the training. I know who you are now, but I have no idea who you used to be. You know my story. What's yours?"
He kept picking.
"Small merchant family. Kenji Trading Consortium. Freight from Eridanus and all the way to Alpha Centauri." He shrugged. "Three older brothers, all unawakened, all running different branches. I was the youngest."
"And then you awakened."
"D-Grade. First awakened Kenji in four generations." He picked dirt out from under his fingernails. "Dad hired three different lawyers for a deferment. Mum went to every liaison office in the sector."
"They didn't want you here?"
"They understood margins, shipping lanes and logistics. They saw something in those numbers and didn't want their youngest walking straight into it."
"But you came anyway?"
"I came running." He picked up a stone. "Remember the footage this morning? The platoon advances?"
I nodded.
"First time I saw that, I was eight. Cargo run to Proxima-3. Docked for resupply. Port screens were running an anniversary memorial." He paused for a moment. "I sat on a crate for two hours watching mech pilots drop out of carriers into a swarm. My brothers were checking manifests, while Dad was haggling fuel prices, or something. And I was sitting there thinking — that's what I want to do."
"And when the grade came back?"
"Packed my bag before Mum finished crying." He paused. "She thought I was being dragged away. I was sprinting."
"Do they get it?"
"All grades serve with honour." He echoed the punch line.
We both went quiet for a moment.
"Tragic backstory over," Sato said, "Tomorrow's framework day."
"Think it'll hurt?"
"Probably."
He closed his eyes, and I sat a while longer.