《Terminal Fleet》


 Jump

    Blaring alarms; the metallic taste of blood and stomach acid.


    What¡ª


    A dull moaning, her own gurgling breath. A voice thunders in her skull.


    Navigator Lanis! Collect yourself!


    Lanis. Navigator. The words seem to refract off her shimmering mind, but they have their effect. She gasps, opening her eyes into red-rimmed darkness. Other sensations flood into her: Pain¡ª a splitting headache. Coolness, all around her. She¡¯s in an acceleration pod, ensconced in oxygenated gel, a deep part of her realizes.


    Navigator Lanis!


    She closes her eyes tightly and another world lights up, the bionics in her mind running a full systems check and selective reboots. A stream of data flashes through her mind¡¯s eye, absorbed by her subconscious and¡­ something else. Another thing, inside her mind.


    A name. Demeter.


    Where are we? What just happened? She asks, thickly stumbling over the words. Except they aren¡¯t words, but thoughts, conveyed as quickly as they arise to the ship¡¯s AI.


    Lanis. Navigator Lanis. That¡¯s me, she realizes.


    SYSTEM REBOOT COMPLETE


    Her eyes snap wide open for the second time against the cool acceleration gel: She¡¯s Lanis Osgell, Navigator Third Class, on her first warp jump. and something has gone truly, horribly, breathtakingly wrong.


    We¡¯ve been pulled off course, Navigator. Unclear etiology. Jump, stat. Jump, stat. Course: Terra. Powering jump, awaiting Navigator guidance.


    The voice that echoes massively in her skull is that of Demeter, the five kiloton Jupiter-class ship¡¯s AI. It¡¯s just a supply ship, but the ship and its mind are still more advanced than anything she had set foot upon until just a day ago. She¡¯s fresh out of Fleet training, not even a full Navigator; why is Demeter making her run the jump?


    Where is Navigator Sanoslav? She asks, knowing the answer as fast as the inquiry is made.


    Massive intracranial hemorrhage detected. Resuscitation efforts ongoing.


    Lanis tries to push down the tingling flood of fear as she absorbs this information. What about her own headache? She has to trust that her Fleet implants will do their job and keep her ICP within just allowable limits. Except they didn¡¯t, not for Sanoslav.


    What the hell happened?


    There¡¯s a heartbeat pause.


    Not alone, Demeter says, the bulk of its massive attention suddenly elsewhere, servitors scrambling.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    Lanis¡¯ entire body twitches within her pod. She feels¡­ it, not just with the Demeter¡¯s sensors but viscerally, like a long finger brushing along her neck.


    What in the fuck! she screams. This time she truly screams the words, her lungs'' air gurgling out into the dim ochre of acceleration gel.


    Focus, Demeter commands, haltingly. Get us back to Terra. Forming warp bubble. Awaiting!


    Lanis eyes roll and widen, but she also gets to work, a decade of Fleet training and implants overriding her bulging terror. She doesn¡¯t understand what¡¯s happening, but she feels the Demeter fighting for its life against whatever it is out there, in a space where nothing should be. Lanis instinctively makes herself smaller, allowing only a trickle of data into her mind feed. It¡¯s like doing a quantum physics assignment in the dark while hiding from a monster¡ª flicking a penlight on and off to see the assignment, then to scribble a note, all while moving to a different hiding place. Still, a part of her mind registers an ongoing conversation with the Demeter, the chatter of battle-speak and ship data flowing around her like a pebble caught in a flooding river.


    Captain Harris woken on emergency protocol. Specialist teams 5, 6, and 7 woken on emergency protocol. Weapons online. Countermeasures online. Weapons team AI integration complete. Countermeasure AI integration complete. Captain Harris at 70% function and rising.


    Somewhere too is the dawning realization that she¡¯s actually figuring it out, on her first jump. Still technically just a cadet; am I ever allowed? Finds that all the protocols have been overridden already. She was only brought along as a redundant observer on a routine resupply to Barrack, and now she¡¯s computing an emergency leap out of Warp space. God, oh god.


    Androvan ship detected. Weapon flares. Bracing.


    Lanis¡¯ pupils dilate again, her trance teetering. Where the fuck did that come from?


    She doesn¡¯t even get a reply from Demeter, merely a pressure in her mind that forces her back to her task, but not before she brushes against the impossibly rapid battle-chatter of Captain Harris and the weapons¡¯ teams. She sees the energy spikes, and even within her gel pod she feels a shudder as something hits the ship. A damage report pops up for a microsecond, but it¡¯s shoved aside as the weight of the Demeter¡¯s attention shifts back to her.


    Focus! Computation check complete. Warp bubble holding. Focus. Ship to crew¡ª emergency jump in 3, 2, 1.


    Lanis¡¯ psyche suddenly becomes one with the ship. She can feel oxygen and biological matter spilling out from the gaping tear in the Demeter¡¯s hull, bulkheads grinding down to staunch the bleeding. Across from the Demeter is the needle-like Androvan ship, shockingly close, less than a nano sec. Their enemy, but also, she suddenly realizes, a victim itself. It¡¯s being¡­ consumed. That¡¯s the only way she can describe it. She watches with Demeter''s sensors, nightmarishly better than any eyes, as the silver arches of the Androvan''s command bridges buckle, one after another, its mass-drivers and point defense lancers no longer directed at the Demeter, but at something else, something that has already killed the ship past hope.


    It¡¯s coming. Jump. Now.


    Lanis wonders briefly if she''s ready. Realizes it doesn''t matter if the ship is torn apart in the jump- any longer here and they''re all dead anyway. She gathers the ship in the palm of her mind, an act that the Demeter, no matter how huge and advanced, cannot comprehend, and plunges it into a ripped hole of Warp space, back to Terra. She''s heedless of the redlining energy consumption, or the bulging warp bubble, or the hemorrhagic warnings and blood in her mouth as she focuses her psyche beyond any capacity she thought possible. It''s like a child''s nightmare come to life on an impossible, unfathomable scale, her mind pushing the Demeter through the clinging mud of Warpspace while a terror reaches out its claws toward her, so close that she can feel its obscene breath hot against her back.


    Back. Oh god, oh god, oh god.


    The last thing she remembers: her body convulsing as they re-enter real space, screaming and bleeding into her acceleration gel, and the Demeter''s quiet words:


    You did well.


    Then the ship sedates her.

 Sweat

    The club is dark, humid with the sweat of crammed, dance-twisting bodies, the bass so deep that it squeezes Lanis¡¯ heart.


    Day three, is it? What week? She¡¯s made an effort to lose count, and her undertaken mission is to never be sober, coming up for air only to shoot back a drink or a protein packet, lingering in dark, tastefully graffitied bathrooms just long enough to find a vein or snort some substance. Sometimes, rarely, there are a few hours of sleep, and when she wakes up it¡¯s in a tangle with some stranger, model-thin with non-reactive pupils. She peels herself away from them, always the one to wake first, the others'' bodies still valiantly trying  to metabolize the alcohol and drugs out into Lanis¡¯ sweat stained sheets.


    Lanis doesn¡¯t truly need the drugs to keep going; at least not the uppers. Which hasn¡¯t stopped her from taking anything she can get her quick hands on. It¡¯s not just a matter of being young, or having the physical conditioning of a professional athlete. Plenty of people in the clubs are the same, and they can¡¯t match her. It¡¯s the off-market modifications that keep her going, night after night. It¡¯s the stamina that Fleet demanded, the modifications that they implanted. Faster. Stronger.


    If only they could see how she¡¯s using them now.


    Still, even Lanis gets tired. And on this, her third day without sleep, if she¡¯s being slightly honest with herself (an effort that she¡¯d really like to avoid), she might finally be running on fumes.


    But that would mean sleep.


    Ugh, no. She bounces and pivots, staring at the gritty club ceiling with bloodshot eyes, and pushes the thought of sleep right back into the hole where it belongs. Time for another drink, that¡¯s all. Maybe a stim. Anyway, it¡¯s only 2AM. The line outside is still growing in the drizzling neon rain, and the crowd inside is just starting to become well and truly fucked up.


    She dances and stumbles through the sea of bodies to her beacon, the long fluorescent expanse of the club¡¯s main bar. Hey! She mimes, pushing her body up into a position that, with the outfit she¡¯s wearing, snug and black, usually gets a quick response. She¡¯d never been to a club before two months ago, but she¡¯s a quick learner, and her tactic works, the only price being the annoyed exasperation of the other clubbers. A little yelling, a little miming, and she gets two shots of clear liquid that are near tasteless going down, though maybe that¡¯s more due to her overwrought nerves than the alcohol. She closes her eyes and feels a dull warmth spread throughout her body. Ok. I''m ok.


    They snap open to a hoarse yelling in her ear.


    ¡°Hey I like your¡ª" the words are cut off by a growing surge in the music and a manic cheer from the crowd. Lanis turns to meet the eyes of another grinning model-type (do they let in any others here?), tall, earlobes full of crystals, eyes milky white with retinal implants. She¡¯s already becoming slightly bored with the type, the avant-garde young and the maybe rich and the searching-for-muses, but she¡¯s feeling oddly generous after the two drinks, and she manages a grin and a shouted thanks.


    Of course that encourages him, and he leans in, tall broad shoulders stooping down a bit. Can I buy you a drink he asks, and why not she says, because she needs a bit more time until she gets back out there.


    They retreat to a sound-dampened corner where a dozen others are taking respite, their voices heard with mild yelling instead of the rattling screaming needed elsewhere as a ceiling funnel-fan gently wafts up the groups¡¯ chain smoking. The stranger introduces himself, talking quickly, as Lanis sips her drink. He points to his eyes; he¡¯s been doing some modeling for the new Vennici-iris models, which are actually amazing, he says, so he¡¯s getting this pair left in, not that they usually do that, but his cousin is a VP. All sort of scanning, fully adjustable color, dilations- he starts to rattle off the specs before awkwardly stopping, the way high people sometimes do when they suddenly realize they¡¯ve been acting very high, and compliments her again.


    ¡°But the best part is, they let me appreciate how beautiful you are." He gives her a satisfied small, all perfect teeth. "And your work is gorgeous... Where did you have it done?¡±


    Lanis has come to a vague understanding that she might be attractive. It''s not something people talked about at Fleet, where worth was measured in AI integrations and mental stamina. For what it''s worth though, she know that he¡¯s talking about her head. It is, she has to admit, fairly striking. If only he could see her bald, like she was before. Alas, her hair has grown out in the three months since she was removed from active duty, but one can see the lines of dull silver and gold that branch out from under her shirt from the back of her neck, spilling across her head and to her temples.


    ¡°Fleet service,¡± Lanis says. She watches, curious, as the model¡¯s perfect, wide smile, falters, confused, then spreads wider.


    ¡°Ok, haha, but seriously. It''s super cool. Is it functional too? Or decorative?¡±


    ¡°Hm. Not as functional as it used to be. But not decorative. I¡¯m serious though. I was de-listed about... I don''t know, a couple months back. You can look if you like: Neural shunts still intact." She taps a flat little emerald looking jewel on her temple which slides open to reveal a metallic implant node." He leans in, eyes narrowing. Lanis flits her eyes and the node retracts. "A little fried now, but...¡± she trails off, scanning into the crowded darkness. She laughs instead of finishing, and it has a maniacal edge to it.


    ¡°Whoa,¡± the eye model says, looking concerned and taken aback, pupils dilating rapidly. ¡°I like, actually don¡¯t know if you¡¯re joking now.¡±


    Lanis shrugs.


    ¡°I¡¯m not, but whatever. Look, I¡¯m not going to fuck you, but if you want to dance I¡¯m headed back out. Thanks for the drink.¡± The eye-model grins lopsidedly, concern now overridden by a newfound disappointment and intrigue.


    They end up dancing together for a while, the model gamely trying to change Lanis¡¯ mind. She even lets him make out with her for a while, lets him slide his hands over her body and tells her how beautiful she is. It''s nice to be touched, she has to admit, but she keeps laughing when he does it, in on some joke that he''s not privy to, and eventually he drifts back off to the bar to maybe try again with someone who isn¡¯t going to tease him with a bunch of nonsense. Lanis smiles when he goes. She loses herself again in the beat, feet bouncing, eyes closed, anesthetizing loss.Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    One hour. Two. Three. Club Onset will run for 72 hours straight. Lanis¡¯ talk with the model marked hour thirty five of her current long night. Her hyper conditioned body has already long outlasted the original occupants of the dance floor, but at hour thirty eight it needs another break. She suddenly realizes that she¡¯s hungry. When did I even last eat? she wonders. Alcohol has sugar. Do I actually ever need to eat again? Her body groans in protest, and Lanis sighs.


    She pushes through the crowd again, studiously avoiding any eye contact that could be mistaken as encouraging talk, and aims for the dimly lit stairs at the back. Three flights up, past couples or trios drinking or making out, and then onto the club¡¯s covered rooftop. A heady rush of fresh air. Lanis takes a deep breath early morning air, her body steaming. There are fewer people here, hanging in clumps and clusters of form-fitting lovers and tattooed smokers. Sunrise is still a couple hours away, and the rain is still coming down, soft and sweet, patting on the industrial metal overhang.


    She walks carefully, swaying only slightly, to a long row of bright-blinking vending machines. Some serve full hot meals, or coffee, or steamed pork buns, or changes of underwear, but she¡¯s only interested in the utilitarian Murkata-Heisin Co branded protein-gel packets. Murkata-Heisin, makers of industrial heavy machinery, AI security logistics, DJ implants, and protein gel-pack vending machines. Maybe I can get a job with them, Lanis thinks idly, as she punches in an order. Damn, it''s good. She punches in an order for a second, the a third.


    ¡°You are ex-fleet, aren¡¯t you?¡± A woman¡¯s voice says from behind her.


    Lanis turns, the third gel pack dangling from her mouth. The woman who spoke to her leans against another vending machine, the one selling pre-worn underwear, her face illuminated by its pixelated animations. She has a stronger face than Lanis¡¯ elfen one, a bit older and a bit less model-like than most of the others here, which Lanis finds immediately appealing, and her curly hair is discerningly disheveled, tousled in just the right way to show up the highlights of layered bright blue. And god, what is she wearing? Her outfit is outrageous even by the standards of Origin, as if a business suit had been ripped apart by a pack of art-school wolves, who then raggedly replaced some of the tatters with transparent, glowing plastic. It accentuates the woman¡¯s curves in a way that Lanis finds distressingly distracting.


    ¡°That¡¯s ah, quite an outfit,¡± Lands says, smiling oddly, unable to help herself.


    ¡°It¡¯s bespoke. Very expensive.¡± The woman flashes a grin, then cocks her head. ¡°Sorry for eavesdropping earlier. Well, I actually love eavesdropping, but some people find it rude. I¡¯m Mirem.¡± Here she holds out a hand which Lanis takes sotfly, her hand still holding the third gel pack.


    ¡°A pleasure, Mirem. I¡¯m Lanis. And yes, I am. Ex-fleet, that is. I was a navigator. Well, a cadet. Had a bit of an incident though. Turns out Fleet doesn''t like broken things. But I guess, who does?"


    A moment of silence passes between them, rain echoing on the echoing on the overhang, dull bass and laughter laughter in the distance.


    ¡°Well. First, I would say that we''re all broken, in one way or another,¡± said Mirem slowly. ¡°Fleet''s loss, in my opinion. Second..." Here Mirem pauses again, her face unreadable. "You said you were a navigator? That''s... intriguing."


    Lanis runs a hand through her short hair. She feels the coolness of the implants and the implant cover. She shudders. Maybe it¡¯s just the cold. "I don''t blame you for not believing me. It''s funny, you know? Fleet told me not to go around advertising it. But I found that it doesn''t really matter, because no one believes me. Not that I mind."


    "Well, can you really blame people? That would make you... ah, how do I say this? Quite unique."


    "If Terra has about twenty billion, then I''d be about one in about two hundred million," Lanis says, dramatically ticking off the statistics using her right hand''s fingers. She purses her lips, and raises her eyes to the obscured sky before meeting Mirem''s eyes again. "Very roughly, of course. No one knows how many navigators there are outside of Fleet Command. But of course, I''m not one, at least not anymore. But... if I was."


    She can see that Mirem doesn''t really know what to make of her, but also that she hides it well. Some sort of training? Or maybe just practice. "Well, at minimum I would love to buy you a drink. And, if you find yourself available, I have a proposition. Contact sent,¡± Mirem says.


    A subtle blink tugs at the periphery of Lanis¡¯ vision. She accepts the packet, gives it a scan.


    ¡°Huh. Versk Energy Corp. And you¡¯re a¡­ talent agent? Hah.¡±


    Mirem¡¯s constant small smile turns into a laugh. ¡°I guess you could put it like that. I¡¯m a liaison between their engineering teams and various pilot associations, mainly pre corp-sponsorship in the second and third Arena tiers, but also planetary Service and corporate security. We have a few ex-Service member pilots, but I don¡¯t think there¡¯s ever been anyone from Fleet before. Could be fascinating.¡± Mirem readjusts herself, crossing her arms across her chest; it pushes her body out of her suit in new, unexpected ways.


    Lanis has only the vaguest notion of what the Arena entails. She had no interest in the games when she was younger, and Fleet training didn¡¯t exactly leave much time for extracurriculars.


    There''s time for that later. The one thing she''s decided on is that Mirem is stunning. Lanis holds Mirem¡¯s gaze as she brings her gel packet to her mouth and squeezes it onto her tongue. She swallows, feeling the gummy, nutrient-rich acidity slide down her throat. Fleet training hammered in certain instincts. One is that boldness is rewarded more often than not.


    ¡°I¡¯d be open to a pitch, if you came back to mine.¡±


    Mirem laughs again, but it¡¯s not unkind. She tilts her head, as if she¡¯s considering it, but Lanis feels she has her.


    ¡°You¡¯re too drunk, or high. I¡¯d feel bad.¡± Mirem says softly, brushing a stand of curly hair from her face. Lanis sighs. She gestures to a Murkata-Heisin BAC reader sitting like an afterthought at the end of the vending machine row.


    ¡°Right. My blood alcohol is a little high, I suppose, 0.12 by my readout. My Fleet implants, the ones they couldn''t remove, include some high end detox modules. So, if you¡¯re really so concerned,¡± she rolls her eyes dramatically, ¡°I¡¯ll take it to .085. But not any less, I won¡¯t let you be a total buzz kill. Give me ten seconds. Ugh.¡± She walks to the BAC reader and frowns as she initiates the detox protocols. She''s done it before when someone tried to spike her drink, another time with a bad batch of injectables, but never with alcohol. What a waste. She waits a few moments, then puts a finger into the BAC reader. A green 0.085 flashes across the screen. She watches Merris¡¯ face as she does so, sees a subtle change, the idea of Lanis lying about her ex-Fleet status slightly diminishing. Her smile takes on a new meaning.


    ¡°Well. Ok then. But not your place. You¡¯re, what, only a few weeks out, from what I overheard? You¡¯re probably renting some crappy week-let. I wonder if it¡¯s even been cleaned since you started on whatever little rampage you¡¯re on.¡± Lanis opens her mouth to defend herself ¡ª except that it¡¯s all true ¡ª but Merris  waves her off and continues. ¡°No. If you¡¯re serious, then you¡¯re coming back to mine,¡± she says, a mischievous look playing on her face.


    Lanis thinks about the few, vague rules she had set out for herself six weeks earlier. One, don¡¯t take drugs from strangers. Two, don¡¯t advertise that you¡¯re ex-fleet. And three, don¡¯t go back to anyone else¡¯s place. The first two have long since been broken, with increasing self-destructive recklessness. Why not go for all three?

 Mirem

    She luxuriates on the bed afterward, body sheened with sweat, eyes half closed. There¡¯s been a certain numbness since her breaking. The incident, she calls it. Often it feels like she is viewing herself outside of her own body, a puppet performing actions, her mind half-heartedly pulling the strings. Lying next to Mirem she feels more fully present than she has since¡­ it. She smiles, and realizes that it¡¯s the first actual, non-artificial smile she¡¯s made in months, and softly hums as she stares at the dim, orange glow of Mirem¡¯s high-ceilinged globe light.


    ¡°That sounds reassuring. There were moments there where I wasn¡¯t sure if you were fully enjoying yourself,¡± says Mirem, stroking Lanis¡¯ arm. She¡¯s propped on an elbow, hair billowing over her glistening neck. Lanis feels her heart lurch, despite herself.


    ¡°Oh, I enjoyed every moment. It¡¯s just that, sometimes, I disassociate a bit. Well, more than a bit., More than sometimes. The doctors said it¡¯s a natural response, after¡­ what I went through,¡± Mirem waits a moment, but Lanis doesn¡¯t expand.


    ¡°Just so you know, I don¡¯t sleep with every prospective client,¡± Mirem says. Lanis barks a laugh. ¡°Is that what I am? I¡¯d almost forgotten about that.¡± Lanis says. She shakes her head. ¡°I¡¯m afraid I might have just humored you to get you into bed.¡±


    Mirem gives a look of false outrage. ¡°Or maybe I used the pitch as you for an excuse to get you into bed,¡± she says, smiling back. Lanis traces the curve of Miren¡¯s thigh, sighing.


    ¡°Ok, but¡­ really,¡± says Mirem, affecting a tone of seriousness. ¡°I¡¯m so curious about you, it¡¯s honestly a bit embarrassing. Is that rude? That I really want to know what Fleet training was like? Sorry if you¡¯ve been asked that a hundred times. And, you can tell me you don¡¯t want to talk about it,¡± she adds, holding up a hand.


    ¡°No, actually, it¡¯s fine. Maybe even good to talk about,¡± Lanis says, leaning back again, staring at the orange-lit ceiling again. ¡°That¡¯s what the psychologists said. It was, uh, intense. I came into it at fourteen. I was good in school, but not exceptional. Everyone was shocked when I was chosen after mandatories.¡± Mirem raises her eyebrows. The mandatory exams were just that; nearly every Terra child was tested at yearly intervals for fleet compatibility through a battery of tests. Some were generic problem solving exams, others cognitive compatibility appraisals with advanced AI systems.


    ¡°I thought thirteen was the cutoff?¡± Mirem asks, softly. She sits up in the bed, her legs crossed, watching Lanis.


    Lanis continues, opening herself up to this stranger, reckless in the afterglow of the bed. ¡°Oh, they make a few exceptions. I guess I was a late bloomer? Anyway, then it¡¯s studying, god, so much studying, then more tests, modifications, more studying, more tests. There were a few thousand in my cohort at first. Some washed out, but most made it to second year where we were reshuffled into service tracks. I,¡± Lanis smiles lightly again, but with a sourness too, and she can feel her eyes stinging despite herself, ¡°I was put on command track. Navigator class, starting year three. Fleet doesn¡¯t advertise this, but the problem with the ship AIs, with the integrations, with their massive egos, and especially the warp jumping¡­  It breaks people. Just the training. People go a bit mad all the time. And I did too, in the end, I suppose, even after all the training, and after all the modifications. I wonder if I¡¯m even really human anymore. How much can you replace, and still be human?¡± She hears herself, hears her voice starting to rise, and takes a few deep breaths. Mirem¡¯s hand is on her head, just resting there. She shuts her eyes tightly and feels the tears spilling out at the edges.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    She says ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± and then Mirem is softly stroking her, saying it¡¯s ok, that she doesn¡¯t have to keep going, but she wants to, and so she does.


    ¡°It was my first warp jump. The ships, despite what they are, still can¡¯t do what we do. Something with the interdimensionally of the biological imagination, quantum mechanics, all that. I¡¯ll spare you, since I can¡¯t do any justice to the explanation. But.. on my first jump, something was there. An anomaly.¡± She takes a rattling breath. ¡°I managed to pull us out, but it almost killed me. I haven¡¯t been the same since. I spent a month in the hospital, another in psychiatric rehab, then a couple weeks at a convalescent retreat for societal re-integration. And now¡­ here I am. Trying not to think about it.¡±


    She leaves out all the details of course: the heady first touch with the Jupiter-class ship during pre-jump trials, the Demeter¡¯s all encompassing presence, the horror of warp-jump training, the weightlessness of the psychotic break, the screaming, the blood pouring so heavily that she choked and nearly died. Whatever it was, in the Warp, eating the Androvan ship, hungry for the Demeter, for Her. It¡¯s as if she can still feel it, a shadow that lingers at the edge of her own. An Anomaly, they called it in the extensive debriefs, unable or unwilling to expand further.


    ¡°Shit,¡± Mirem says, quietly. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I knew it was intense. But like you said, Fleet doesn¡¯t exactly advertise how bad it can get Terra-side. I can¡¯t believe¡­¡± Mirem stops herself. Can¡¯t believe what? The thing is, she does believe Lanis. But to be here, next to a Navigator, it doesn¡¯t quite feel real. What did Lanis say - one in two hundred million? But it¡¯s more than that. It¡¯s the mystique of Fleet. Most information from Fleet is relayed through propaganda and colonial recruitment drives, and most of its veterans resettle on the colonial worlds.Technically, there are no secrets. They all know that humanity isn¡¯t alone, and, while it¡¯s unclear how crowded it is out there, according to Fleet it¡¯s a fucking mess. So, even though they¡¯re all on the same side, the fewer questions the better. No need to freak everyone out unnecessarily, is there? This has naturally raised some hackles over the years, but the apparatus of power is such that no one makes too much of a fuss. The massive industrial base of Terra and its glittering orbital shipyards keep churning out ships and supplies, the mega-corporations reaping the benefits, while Planetary Administration referees the competing players, trying to keep a lid on the inevitable fratricidic squabbles. Of course, maybe it¡¯s all busywork, Mirem has sometimes thought. Endless math worksheets to keep the students from rebelling against the teacher.


    ¡°Yeah, thanks. It¡¯s ok, I think. They wanted me to stay at the retreat for another few weeks, but I¡¯d already been medically discharged. Told too many people to go fuck themselves when I regained my sanity. Once the doctors declared me copus mentis they couldn¡¯t hold me. Didn¡¯t want to send me off-world because of certain risks.¡±


    Mirem is quiet, just stroking Lanis¡¯ hair, feeling the cold silver lines that run across her head. Lanis exhales noisily.


    ¡°Anyway, enough about that. It¡¯s a mess. Your turn. What about you? And what are the Arena Games? I remember hearing about them before I went to Fleet, but I¡¯ve never actually seen a game.¡±


    Mirem looks stunned for a moment, and then barks a laugh.


    ¡°Are you kidding me? First of all, how do you not know about the Arena Games? Second, you just got out of the hospital. I mean, I¡¯m still not even sure what you went through, but it sounds like hell. I had no idea. I¡¯m sorry I even brought it up. I was drunk, and recruiting someone from Fleet seemed like an outrageously good idea at the time.¡±


    ¡°No, I¡¯m fine. Really,¡± Lanis says. She slides out of the bed, stretching, joints popping, turning fluidly with her hands on her hips. ¡°The doctors said that I made a ¡®remarkable recovery, motor-sensory systems fully intact only two weeks post-intubation ¡¯¡± she says, switching to an affected, clipped accent. ¡°Look, how about this¡ª I take a shower, and you come with me and tell me all about the Games.¡±

 Touch

    Despite Lanis¡¯ disbelief, Mirem assures her that the shower has no cutoff timer. Absurd, Lanis thinks. She thinks about the hostel cubicle she¡¯s been renting, and its thirty seconds of daily shower water allocation. This might be the most impressive thing about Mirem¡¯s apartment so far, and idly wonders what exactly Mirem¡¯s job entails. Also, maybe she can just live here now? She turns up the heat and the pressure, steam quickly filling the tiled, tastefully lit bathroom, then steps delicately in, tugging Mirem behind her.


    ¡°You know, the Arena is only the most popular sport on Terra,¡± says Mirem. ¡°Probably the colonies too.¡± She leans against the warming tile wall, watching the water run in rivulets down Lanis¡¯ naked body through the steam.


    ¡°You¡¯ve really never seen a match?¡±


    Lanis shakes her as she lets the water run over her short hair.


    ¡°I mean look, I have heard of them. And I may have seen parts of matches, despite my best efforts. Remember, I was thirteen before I went into Fleet. It¡¯s Armor fighting, isn¡¯t it? Slugging it out? Always seemed a bit crude, even to a thirteen year old.¡±


    Mirem sighs theatrically. ¡°It is a competition between two Armored Suits, but it¡¯s only crude on a superficial level.¡± She waves her hand. ¡°Without getting into all the subgenres, the three to five ton weight classes are the most popular, and most Suits are pretty similar to what planetary Authority uses as heavy insertion units, or local Admin SARRPs. You¡¯re familiar?¡±


    ¡°Right. Yeah, we trained on insertion units. What does Sarp stand for?¡±


    ¡°Suit armored rapid response police.¡± Mirem cocks her head, eyes narrowing. ¡°You trained on insertion units? In Fleet?¡±


    ¡°Of course. Just a five week course though, so it was pretty superficial, but some people found that they were suited for that sort of thing and went into the planetary assault force leadership.¡± Mostly quick-fingered lugheads, in Lanis¡¯ opinion, but she didn¡¯t say that.


    ¡°Huh. Makes sense, I guess. Well, the Arena Suits are different of course, not quite as lethal, but lethal enough. Pretty much all the top mechs are corp sponsored, so the tech is there. It¡¯s a never ending source of drama too, industrial espionage and even the occasional sabotage, though no one would ever admit to it. But I¡¯m getting ahead of myself,¡± Mirem says.


    ¡°Besides the Armor, the onboard AI system is the major differentiator, and how well the pilot and computer work together. In most matches the audience even gets a cast of the interaction, the thought-patterns projected into imagery. Again, I could go on, but let¡¯s just say that there¡¯s a massive subculture around the best AI-pairings. That¡¯s honestly what got me thinking, when I first overheard you.The Arena has some ex-Fleet personnel, and they¡¯re always some of the best, but they¡¯re all ex-assault unit members who never actually shipped out for whatever reason. But, that¡¯s a lot of what fleet training is all about, right? The AI integration?¡±


    Mirem isn¡¯t wrong, Lanis thinks. She opens her mouth, letting the warm shower water pool over her tongue, over her teeth, slowly spitting. Actual sentient-autonomous AI systems are highly controlled and rare, ever since the runaway singularities of the early days and the following crackdowns, and the most advanced systems now required strict human oversight. But, with enough training, a human and artificial mind pairing can produce a certain output that is greater than the theoretical sum of their parts. A pairing with one of the massive egos of a capital ship AI was every fleet cadet¡¯s dream, but just as important was the oversight of the plethora of lesser systems, not only on ships, but planet-side too, like the Planetary Authority and Administration AIs.This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    ¡°Yes. That¡¯s the main thrust,¡± Lanis answers, simply. She goes on. ¡°Do people get hurt in the games?¡±


    ¡°Not usually. Off the sanctioned circuits, sure. But in the sponsored leagues the cockpits are Theragel-cushioned and Adamite shielded. None of the allowed arsenals can cut through that,¡± Mirem says with confidence.


    Lanis nods. She turns to face Miriam, actually rinsing off now, not quite as in thrall to the hot water. A game, a sport. It¡¯s a far cry from space, from Fleet. But maybe it would be a good distraction while she recovers, while she figures out whatever she¡¯s supposed to¡­ do, down here.


    ¡°Well, I¡¯m interested. And before you say anything about it being too soon after my medical discharge, you let me be the judge of that.¡± There¡¯s a steeliness in Lanis¡¯ voice that brooks no argument. ¡°And what about you? This apartment, this water? Recruitment for, what was it¡­¡± She brings up the ping she received earlier. ¡°Versk Energy? I haven¡¯t heard of them.¡± Which didn¡¯t mean they weren¡¯t a massive entity, just not one of the true Zaibatsu, the true mega-corporations that ran the entire world alongside Planetary Admin and Authority.


    Mirem hesitates a moment. ¡°No. Not quite, though they¡¯re on their way well enough. I¡¯m more of¡­ a consultant. Helping to get things up and running for their pilot program. I used to work for a megacorp though. Kaisho-Renalis,¡± Mirem murmurs.


    Lanis snorts. Kaisho-Renalis, or KR Industries as they¡¯re also known, are notorious even among the Zaibatsu. None of the mega-corps have their hands clean, but Kaisho-Renalis is especially known for shoving its squirming tendrils into every semi-legal hole it can find, usually co-opting local organized crime along the way. They make Murkata-Heisin¡¯s heavy weapons division look like choir boys.


    ¡°They¡¯re kind of bastards, aren¡¯t they? I mean, even we heard about the Galtan mining disaster at Fleet, and not much Terra politics makes it there. Didn¡¯t Admin try to break them up?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I know,¡± Mirem says. She sighs, and slides next to Lanis, running the water over her chest, though consciously avoiding getting her curly hair wet, as though cleaning more than her body. ¡°They are. Bastards, that is. Oh, some minor heads rolled, and some divisions were separated, but, you know, Admin doesn¡¯t really like to stir things up. Not in a meaningful way, if industrial quotas aren¡¯t involved. Anyway, I needed a change.¡±


    ¡°And they let you leave?¡± Lanis snorts in disbelief. She knows that walking away from a corp is like walking away from Fleet, except probably more dangerous considering the industrial espionage and occasional shadow war.


    ¡°Yeah. Well uh, my uncle, he¡¯s sort of high-up. So, yeah.¡±


    Ah, Lanis thinks.


    Mirem washed off more quickly than Lanis, the magic of endless water long since having worn off. Lanis, lost in thought, scarcely appreciates Mire¡¯s plush towels or the soft fabric of the overlarge joggers that Mirem tosses her way when she comes back into her bedroom, Lanis¡¯ own clothes too sticky with club-sweat and smoke to even be considered.


    They sit on the living room window-facing couch, idly nibbling on Mirem¡¯s takeout from the night before. The city lights blink in the darkness outside, and they talk about the games, about the Versk subdivision that Mirem is consulting with, the corp just recently branching into Suit sponsorship. Why not, Lanis thinks, as she yawns. She hasn¡¯t tried any AI-coupling since her incident, and despite the tests and doctors¡¯ reassurances she isn¡¯t sure there isn¡¯t permanent psychiatric damage. She¡¯s curious what planetary AI systems are like. A surly bunch, if Fleet was any guide.


    Mirem can pinpoint almost the exact moment Lanis falls to sleep. Her eyes were closed, but she was still listening as Mirem spoke of the rivalries, the poaching, the way games could be a testing ground for industrial procurements. A subtle change in breathing; and then, the slow roll of Lanis¡¯ head into the couch-corner¡¯s cushioned caress. A soft snore floats out of her. She mumbles only the faintest protest when Mirem lifts her up and carries her strangely heavy body to bed.

 Dreams

    Dreams. Fuck dreams.


    Lanis is inside the Demeter, again. She¡¯s bereft of her implants- no joint articulations, no neural net jacks: just herself, naked and squirming, unable to hide. She¡¯s led into the navigation plughole by a trio of hardware-masked ship tech, their faces abloom with hissing metal implants and green-lettered micro screen readouts.


    ¡°Let go!¡± She screams, but no words escape her, just a panting groan. I¡¯m not ready; no implants, no prep, what the hell are they doing? She struggles, but it¡¯s like swimming in honey, and then she¡¯s being shoved into the pink wet acceleration gel, her hands scrabbling futility against the closing hatch.


    A shock of cool wetness. She¡¯s in. She holds her breath, eyes wide open into the darkness. Red lights blink on around her. She hears massive groaning, like an ancient animal stirring, and recognizes the A-matter drives powering up. No, not ready, no, no, no. She sees a neural jack burst from the plughole¡¯s wall, gurgles a drowning scream as it bores its way into her brain where her implant should be. A voice booms through her skull:


    UCS DEMETER TO CREW: WARP JUMP IN THREE, TWO, ONE-


    Even in her hysterical panic, the training jumps in, drilled in through thousands of hours of instruction and jump-meditation. She opens her mind to the dimensional possibilities that even the Jupiter Class ship¡¯s AI cannot comprehend, ready to fold its ten-thousand ton carcass through the warp jump and into a new spatial possibility.


    Nothing could prepare her though, nothing could prepare her that there would be something else waiting for her there, something from every nightmare, from every darkness, from every bleeding cancerous rotting gnashing bitingsquirmingcuttin¡ª


    <hr>


    She thrashes, gasping for air, her scream escaping from her lungs as a rasping, high-pitched groan. It takes several seconds to register that the hand squeezing her shoulder doesn¡¯t belong to one of the Demeters¡¯ savants, that instead she¡¯s in some strange bed with some woman she barely knows. Mirem. That¡¯s her name. And the bed- she clutches at the linen comforter, feeling its reassuring texture- well, they¡¯ve all been strange for some time, haven¡¯t they?


    Just an echo.


    ¡°God, are you ok?¡± Mirem asks, eyes wide in concern. The room¡¯s lights come on, a faint glow that reminds Lanis involuntarily of the Demeter¡¯s Nav capsule.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    She realizes that she¡¯s soaked in sweat, and slowly releases her death-grasp on the bed¡¯s sheets.


    ¡°I- I¡¯m fine. Thanks,¡± she mumbles.


    She squeezes Mirem¡¯s hand and slips out of the bed, pulling off the sweats that Mirem gave her and padding quickly to the bathroom. Mirem hears the bathroom faucet turn on, the splashing of water to a face, coughing, a glass being filled.


    Lanis returns with a glass of water and leans heavily against the doorway, one arm crossed over her small breasts as she takes a long sip. Her naked form is backlit by the dim nightlight of the hallway, and she seems strangely fragile to Mirem in a way that wasn¡¯t apparent last night, like a fawn that might bolt at any sound. She finishes her water, seems to think for a long moment, and then walks tentatively back to the bed.


    ¡°Sorry about that. I should have known¡­¡± She shakes her head. ¡°I¡¯ve been drinking enough that I haven¡¯t been having dreams. I guess I better just get used to them. Again.¡± She sits at the edge of the bed, one leg folded beneath her, the other dangling.


    Mirem considers the young woman. She corrects herself. Navigator. Perhaps a client? Despite herself, it¡¯s difficult to think in those terms.


    ¡°Ever since what happened?¡±


    Lanis nods. She stands up again, slowly, eyes searching for her clothes. ¡°I should go,¡± she says, but with a softness that suggests uncertainty, and a sadness at having outworn a brief welcome. Mirem reaches out her hand and rests it on her hip.


    ¡°You should stay. If you want to.¡±


    There¡¯s a delay, as if Lanis is probing a wound of an uncertain depth. She turns her head, looking down, her eyes meeting Mirem¡¯s again, but for the first time, in a way. I wonder if those are her real eyes, Mirem thinks.


    ¡°Are you sure?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Miriam says. She slides out of bed and stands in front of Lanis, slowly. Again, the involuntary thought of her as some sprite or forest creature, ready to bolt at the first unusual noise. She takes her hand and runs it gently across the shortness of Lanis¡¯ hair. Then she leans in and kisses her; a long, slow kiss that Lanis returns, at first tentatively, but then deeply, like a second, even more grateful drink of water. She can¡¯t remember the last time she kissed someone sober.


    She withdraws, looking into Mirem¡¯s eyes. Mirem feels a tightness in her chest. It¡¯s a bit like being starstruck, the way she hasn¡¯t been since she first started at Kaisho-Renalis a decade ago. Though, to be fair, Lanis might actually be one of the rarest people on the planet. Dammit. She strokes her head again, her other hand moving to Lanis¡¯ slim waist. How on brand, Mirem thinks, inwardly groaning, to be so instantly attracted to someone who is so clearly and thoroughly broken.


    They come together again.

 Check-in

    Lanis moves in two days later.


    It was Mirem who suggested it, the next morning. "If you want. I enjoyed your company. At least until you figure things out," she said, sipping her coffee in silky black pajamas while Lanis was slumped on her couch, eyes still sticky from the night before.


    Mirem felt flushed as she said it, a hot feeling of impropriety and rashness coming over her as the words spilled out. She had had those attitudes hammered out of her during Kaisho-Renalis corporate training a decade out, but she wasn''t a KR employee anymore, and the truth was, she didn''t care. The offer felt right, and she knew that if a month from now she read in a news feed about some girl from ex-fleet found dead from an overdose, she wouldn''t forgive herself.


    Lanis took a moment to digest the offer, letting the words settle in the perfectly air-conditioned air like a wayward gust of dust.


    She said, "Thanks. I''ll think about it?" and Mirem nodded, raising the coffee mug up to cover her blush.


    <hr>


    "Mirem Seto. Clean background. Eight years at KR. No links to any of the crime syndicates or KR shadow holdings. Though, you know, even Fleet can''t get past all the KR firewalls, not without causing an incident." Lieutenant Tran squinted his eyes, scanning something Lanis couldn''t see. "Here''s something interesting though; her uncle is vice-president of Corporate Security. Very impressive, from a hierarchical perspective. Peter Seto. Not someone to be taken lightly. I imagine he keeps tabs on his niece."


    Lanis suppressed a grimace. She had made a special trip for this call to one of the city''s many red-light districts. One nice thing about a place where discretion was paramount was that the privacy tech was very good. She sat in an Uplink cubicle, trying to touch as little as possible. Projected in front of her, instead of what she imagined were the usual fetishistic experiences, was Lieutenant Tran''s kindly face and the top of his Fleet-blue uniform. It wasn''t yet time for her bi-weekly check-in; Fleet had assured her that she didn''t have any tracking implants (not they would have needed any; they could probably just slide into the local Civic Authority surveillance systems), but she still needed to keep them abreast of her plans and well being. Technically it was for her own health. Right. In actuality it was probably because she was far too strange of an asset to be left unmonitored.Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    "And her other family?" Lanis asked, chewing on the inside of her cheek.


    "Sister, three years older, still at KR. A manager in acquisitions, chemical industry division. Competent looking, slightly faster promotions that one would expect, but nothing wildly out of the ordinary. Father in Admin, shipyard compliance officer. Mother is stationed at the docks as well, also admin, logistics officer. Both have efficiency commendations. Quite a family." Tran''s eyes refocused back to Lanis'' face. "Is there anything else you want to know about her?"


    "No," Lanis said quickly, "that''s fine." She stopped chewing on her cheek. "Thanks, Lieutenant." A flicker of amusement. Despite his best efforts to simply call him Tran, Lanis always called him by his rank. He was technically a Fleet psychologist, but Lanis also thought of him as something akin to a probation officer. The truth was probably much more than that, and she wondered how much of these interactions were over-analyzed; whether, if she was in danger or showed some sign of breakdown, some Fleet extraction team rappel in through the ceiling. She didn¡¯t know which answer would unnerve her more.


    "Of course. We''re glad you got in touch, and we''re here whenever you need anything. I know this isn''t our scheduled session, but would you like to talk about how you''re doing? About any dreams you''ve been having?"


    "I''m ok," Lanis answers simply. "The dreams are the same. But... I spent the night with Mirem. And they weren''t quite as bad." Tran nodded, his face coming together in a model of therapeutic encouragement. "Anyway. I have to go," Lanis says abruptly. "Don''t want to give away too much before our next meeting anyway. Thanks again."


    "Of course, Navigator. Any time."

 Research

    Lanis has so little it¡¯s almost embarrassing: A few toiletries, a collection of antidepressants foisted on her by Fleet, two sets of streetwear, and several club-going outfits that she purchased at random from discount net sites, all stuffed into an overly large duffel. She flushes her cache of illicit drugs down the fluorescent-lit toilet before leaving, thankful for the foresight she had in purchasing the hostel''s security and privacy package, if little else. She''s also ruefully grateful that Fleet didn¡¯t give her an additional lump sum of discharge credits, seeing as how she probably would have drank, snorted, or injected it. As it is, she has a two-year discharge stipend, longer if she has another psychotic break and qualifies for permanent disability. No thanks please, she thinks. The pension sounds grand in theory, but is in fact barely enough to rebuild the fragile beginnings of a life. I guess Fleet has better things to do with their money than make an ex Nav¡¯s life comfortable, she thinks, though she imagines a single accelerator round from the Demeter¡¯s mass driver gun would probably pay for a comfortable beach house somewhere. She tries again to not feel bitter. Anyway, what do I know about beach houses? What she needs is purpose, and a beginning. Lieutenant Tran would agree. Why not start the search at Mirem''s; just for a while?


    She calls Mirem just before she dumps the drugs, double checking that the whole experience wasn''t some hallucination, hanging the bag over the toilet like an executioner. "You¡¯re sure you haven''t changed your mind? You can at any time, seriously. I have a discharge pension. I''m not destitute, you know" she says, a little too quickly.


    She can almost hear Mirem¡¯s smile on the other end of the call. ¡°I know you can take perfectly good care of yourself. Here: I¡¯ve pinged you the access code. Make yourself at home! There¡¯s a gym on the thirty-second floor if you¡¯re interested. Take a bath, help yourself to the kitchen. I¡¯ll be back at six.¡± The call ends, and the drugs drop with a small splash.


    <hr>


    They quickly settle into a routine that each would have found implausibly scarcely three days ago. There¡¯s love-making, of course; the delirious, ravenous kind that Lanis has never known and that Mirem can scarcely remember. Then, breakfast. It doesn¡¯t take long for Lanis to realize that, despite her love of Murkata-Heinsin protein packets, the world of actual food holds perhaps even more pleasure than Mirem¡¯s body. Mirem, for her part, can scarcely believe what Lanis¡¯ has been subsisting on since her discharge. ¡°The food at the hospital and rehab center was apparently pretty good, but I was on tube feedings for the first two weeks and anhedonic for most of the rest. I feel like my taste buds are finally coming back online,¡± she says. She savors each bite of fresh fruit and oatmeal and each sip of coffee.


    Mirem stays present for about half the meal, but then her eyes unfocus as she scans the news feeds. ¡°Work,¡± she says, ruefully, but Lanis doesn¡¯t mind so much; the covert glances at Mirem are now able linger, tracing down her neck to a perfect clavicle, artfully exposed by Mirem¡¯s thin black robe.


    Mirem talks as she reads the feeds, multitasking like a Fleet tactics officer. She tells her about the various Zaibatsu rivalries and Lanis learns more about inter-corp feuding and administration politics in a few days than she has in the past twenty years.: An explosion at a HarlonCore refinery, artfully disguised as a gas leak; nothing so blatant that Authority would investigate, but enough to embarrass the rival Corp and decrease Admin¡¯s trust in their research and development. Anyway, what¡¯s the difference between being open to industrial sabotage and being just plain careless? Mirem says, ¡°It''s just weakness of a different kind.¡±


    ¡°And here I thought we were on the same side,¡± Lanis says. Mirem makes a non-committal noise. ¡°Admin and Fleet decided a long time ago that industrial quotas were best met through capitalist rivalry. Of course, for that to work there has to be healthy competition. Authority tends to block the more egregious mergers, but they find it difficult to sacrifice the efficiencies of vertical integration. One day a conglomerate will become too powerful for them to take on. Arguably it¡¯s already happened with KR,¡± Mirem says, taking another unseeing bite of oatmeal and yoghurt.


    For the first few days Lanis is mostly left alone though, as Mirem travels to Versk Energy¡¯s corporate structures at the edge of the city. She first meditates for an hour or two after Mirem leaves. A meditation practice was a core component of Fleet¡¯s command track, especially for the Navigators. It helps magnificently with AI pairing, and the ability for a near transcendental awareness is essential for retaining one¡¯s sanity during warp jumping. She hasn¡¯t wanted to be alone with her thoughts, not since the jump, but she finds, to her annoyance, that the Leituent Tran was right when he brought it up at the rehab facility: It helps, now that she¡¯s past the acute phase. It is still there, of course, the echo of whatever she touched during the jump, but her walls are holding, and each morning she feels like a little piece of her is, if not made whole, then at least glued firmly back together.This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    Lanis visits the gym too, on the second day. It doesn¡¯t rival Fleet¡¯s training complexes, as nothing can, but it is still absurdly nice, enough to make her grin when she first steps inside its gleaming, soft-lit ambience. Well done again, Mirem. She underwent certain modifications during Command track at Fleet, and her unassuming body can now withstand gravity pulls multiple times beyond what any normal person could. A version of this modification course is legally only reserved for Authority Special Security Forces planet-side: The sum of it is, she¡¯s stronger than she has any right to be. She catches a fellow gym-goer watching her, open-mouthed, at the end of a weighted pull-up set, and she remembers that it¡¯s probably better to not advertise this too blatantly. The gym is usually empty around midday anyway, so avoiding eyes doesn¡¯t prove difficult. The movement, and the resulting soreness, help nearly as much as the meditation.


    Then there¡¯s her research. Talk of the Arena Games has gone by the wayside after the first heady night, but Lanis hasn¡¯t forgotten, and she knows Mirem hasn¡¯t either, though she hasn¡¯t brought it up. Connecting to Mirem¡¯s net, she confirms her suspicion that being an Game pilot isn¡¯t just a matter of being able to integrate well with the Suit¡¯s onboard AI. These are people who have trained since they were kids, tinkerers and fighters and gifted AI drifters one and all, all put through a pressure cooker of competition and corporate sponsorship. Then again, that sounds a whole lot like Fleet training, she thinks, grimacing at the memories of the ultra-competitive classes, each genius-level cadet jockeying for a place in Command track.


    She watches a string of Games, starting with the five-ton world championships qualifiers.


    In retrospect, maybe starting with world qualifiers wasn¡¯t the wisest decision: She can barely follow the action during her first watch-through. The bout has unrestricted armaments, which means it takes place on a semi-remote island with the opposing staging grounds set miles apart. I didn¡¯t even know that was a thing, Lanis thinks. One suit, a sky blue mech with Torrusin Industries splashed its abdomen in red blocky letters, resembles a squat spider; it seems to try to keep its distance, unloading barrages of needle-like rockets that spit upward in rumbling and crash down in plumes of flame and metal. The other suit is sponsored by Kaisho-Renalis. It¡¯s faster, a bipedal design with a plume-array of thrusters fanning out from its back. It sprints forward, its thrusters white-hot, then back, unloading what Lanis assumes are drone countermeasures against the Torrusin¡¯s barrage, and occasionally spitting out a black, bullet-like drone that can never quite reach the Torrusin suit before disintegrating in a shockwave explosion.


    There¡¯s a stream of excited commentary, all couched in Game-technical terms that she mentally notes to look up later, and she toggles to a vid link of inside the respective cockpits. The Torrusin pilot looks shockingly young, not much older than a kid, his face pale with a shock of short, sweat-matted black hair. His eyes are open, unnervingly bulged out, but are focused somewhere far off. The bipedal suit¡¯s pilot is the inverse of what she imagined. His head is shaved to a gleam, and he looks middle-aged, old acne scars partially covered by a neatly kept beard. One look at him and Lanis immediately thinks ex-Rapid Response, or even a Heavy Insertion veteran. His eyes are open too, but he seems relaxed, not frantic like the kid, and he even chuckles once, like his AI has made a particularly funny joke. She wonders how long it can go on before one of them runs out of ammo.


    She gets her answer soon. The KR bipedal¡¯s mass driver detaches and thumps to the ground as it unloads a flurry of chaff cover. Simultaneously it fully opens up its thruster array, white hot jets exploding behind it, and its right arm explodes open into a crackling, ten foot blade. The Torrusin mech lurches, seemingly frozen and confused: A separate screen zooms in on its targeting optics, the commentators excitedly yelling as the spider-like clusters furiously dilate and circle as they attempt to recalibrate the Torrusin mech¡¯s targeting matrix.


    What happens next is over so stunningly fast that Lanis has to slow down the replay to quarter speed. At a hundred meters, blade raised, the charging KR mech has a sudden, small deviation in its flight fath. In the replay, as pointed out by the commentators, Lanis sees that one of its thruster clusters has sputters out, the doing of a tiny tick-like drone that managed to burrow itself into a chink in the thruster fan.


    The Torrusin industries mech springs up faster than Lanis had imagined it could move, evading the blade and catching the off-balance KR suit in a kind of spider hug, then tumbling together, ten tons of Mechanized Armor cleaving a massive furrow of earth. Through the settling dust, Lanis sees the mech¡¯s six legs flex; the bipedal mech¡¯s armor crumples in a hiss, the light of its targeting optics fading slowly black. A view inside the cockpit shows the KR pilot slamming his fist repeatedly into the pilot terminals, cursing, while inside the Torrusin mech the young pilot gives a tentative, boyish smile.


    Lanis disconnects from the terminal for a moment and walks around Mirem¡¯s apartment, aimless for a minute. She stops at the ceiling length windows, staring out at the city¡¯s vast expanse of concrete, metal and glass. A shuttle blinks up in the sky, orbital docks beyond. She reconnects to the terminal, and, in-between watching Arena Game matches, puts together a resume for an actual job.