moment, I imagine something unusual in Lt. Lazarus’s expression. Hesitant expectancy. But that can’t be. In fact, Lt. Lazarus, who’s back to being as stony-faced as ever, wants me to fail. I know it in my bones.
I try to center myself with a deep breath, slowly exhaling as I head toward the staging pad. The chatter turns to murmurs.
Pointlessly, I pull up a jumble of the contents of the test brief in my head. Yup. I’ve got scatta-brain . Bukin’s already on the stage, striking and powerful with his black jumpsuit and close-cropped white-blond hair. This is his first test, and I don’t doubt he will pass. He doesn’t acknowledge me as I step up.
“Cadet Cassiel Winters and Cadet Dimitry Bukin,” says Lt. Lazarus, hushing the audience with his baritone voice. “Are you both ready?”
I meet his cold gaze. Uh, how about never?
“Yes sir,” we both answer simultaneously.
Lt. Lazarus uses two fingers to quasi-salute, then points them at the programmers who manage the controls. The last thing I recognize is King. If that’s his reassuring face, it isn’t working .
The air around me goes static.
Chapter 2
The scene slowly charges up. I crouch down quickly, remembering that I’m supposed to adopt a protective stance at all times. I reach for my built-in thigh holster, clasping for the familiar feel of the blade handle. Empty. Right. Must ‘neutralize threats’ in the most efficient way possible, using only my body and brain.
It’s still really dark. Okay . Makes sense . The test brief mentioned the rescue would take place during the Nights of Niian (its solar star rises only every two days).
Good, Cassiel. You’re holding it together!
My eyes have almost adjusted. I make out my mission members, also crouched. Well, I did that right.
Quickly I take in my surroundings. We’re huddled closely in a circle, at the foot of what appears to be a steep crag, a half a mile NE of the makeshift space outpost where Sgt. Henderson is being held (I know this from the test brief). Because of the outpost’s remote location on Niian, we assume (correction, I assume) the complex will be pretty basic, a few rooms, max. Less trouble for us to have to ‘infiltrate and clear’ in our search for the target.
My breaths are rapid and short in the glow of Stoddard’s UPS (Universe Positioning System), which he wears on his wrist. Niian is very cold when its solar star’s absent, and my gear offers very little protection, in more ways than one. I expect Stoddard to be staring at my headlights. Instead, our “commander” is acting totally professional.
“All right, team,” says Stoddard.
Team?
Whoa . Bukin and I glance at each other. The word team is not in Stoddard’s vocabulary. The guy’s all for one and one for all. Some programmer’s getting a kick out of making Stoddard into the pro he should be. (For a second, I’m deeply disturbed by the fact that the real Stoddard won’t see the irony. Watching this replicam of himself will only inflate his already huge ego).
Stoddard continues. “Looks like the transporter fucked up. We’re approximately one mile north of the outpost.”
Crud . Curve ball No. 1. This little Command ploy means we’ll be doing a flat out run for at least 10 minutes, leaving me out of breath and shaky. Metatabulous .
“Our ride’s slated for a return pick up in”—Stoddard checks his UPS—“30 minutes, giving us just enough time to get out of here before the next Gogol security sweep if we really crack it.”
“We’ll have no more than 12 minutes to locate the target in the outpost,” he continues. “And just eight minutes, tops, to return to the rendezvous coordinates.”
“I’ll lead,” Stoddard says. “Winters, you bring up the rear.”
Stoddard, who has already determined the route, shoots out into a hunched run, like a professional athlete. The other replicam, Jackson, follows, next goes Bukin, and then I give it my best effort, stumbling just a
I try to center myself with a deep breath, slowly exhaling as I head toward the staging pad. The chatter turns to murmurs.
Pointlessly, I pull up a jumble of the contents of the test brief in my head. Yup. I’ve got scatta-brain . Bukin’s already on the stage, striking and powerful with his black jumpsuit and close-cropped white-blond hair. This is his first test, and I don’t doubt he will pass. He doesn’t acknowledge me as I step up.
“Cadet Cassiel Winters and Cadet Dimitry Bukin,” says Lt. Lazarus, hushing the audience with his baritone voice. “Are you both ready?”
I meet his cold gaze. Uh, how about never?
“Yes sir,” we both answer simultaneously.
Lt. Lazarus uses two fingers to quasi-salute, then points them at the programmers who manage the controls. The last thing I recognize is King. If that’s his reassuring face, it isn’t working .
The air around me goes static.
Chapter 2
The scene slowly charges up. I crouch down quickly, remembering that I’m supposed to adopt a protective stance at all times. I reach for my built-in thigh holster, clasping for the familiar feel of the blade handle. Empty. Right. Must ‘neutralize threats’ in the most efficient way possible, using only my body and brain.
It’s still really dark. Okay . Makes sense . The test brief mentioned the rescue would take place during the Nights of Niian (its solar star rises only every two days).
Good, Cassiel. You’re holding it together!
My eyes have almost adjusted. I make out my mission members, also crouched. Well, I did that right.
Quickly I take in my surroundings. We’re huddled closely in a circle, at the foot of what appears to be a steep crag, a half a mile NE of the makeshift space outpost where Sgt. Henderson is being held (I know this from the test brief). Because of the outpost’s remote location on Niian, we assume (correction, I assume) the complex will be pretty basic, a few rooms, max. Less trouble for us to have to ‘infiltrate and clear’ in our search for the target.
My breaths are rapid and short in the glow of Stoddard’s UPS (Universe Positioning System), which he wears on his wrist. Niian is very cold when its solar star’s absent, and my gear offers very little protection, in more ways than one. I expect Stoddard to be staring at my headlights. Instead, our “commander” is acting totally professional.
“All right, team,” says Stoddard.
Team?
Whoa . Bukin and I glance at each other. The word team is not in Stoddard’s vocabulary. The guy’s all for one and one for all. Some programmer’s getting a kick out of making Stoddard into the pro he should be. (For a second, I’m deeply disturbed by the fact that the real Stoddard won’t see the irony. Watching this replicam of himself will only inflate his already huge ego).
Stoddard continues. “Looks like the transporter fucked up. We’re approximately one mile north of the outpost.”
Crud . Curve ball No. 1. This little Command ploy means we’ll be doing a flat out run for at least 10 minutes, leaving me out of breath and shaky. Metatabulous .
“Our ride’s slated for a return pick up in”—Stoddard checks his UPS—“30 minutes, giving us just enough time to get out of here before the next Gogol security sweep if we really crack it.”
“We’ll have no more than 12 minutes to locate the target in the outpost,” he continues. “And just eight minutes, tops, to return to the rendezvous coordinates.”
“I’ll lead,” Stoddard says. “Winters, you bring up the rear.”
Stoddard, who has already determined the route, shoots out into a hunched run, like a professional athlete. The other replicam, Jackson, follows, next goes Bukin, and then I give it my best effort, stumbling just a
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