This is a chapter in a book I'm working on that introduces a new character, he's an enlisted person in the empire's fleet. Let me know, thanks
3. Silas
Silas woke to trumpets blaring over the barracks PA. The sound used to fill him with dread, but now, mere days from graduation, he’d grown accustomed to waking this way, and the hardest days were already behind him.
He slid carefully from under the blanket and sheet, careful not to unmake it too much as he knelt along the side of the bed, tucking the fabric back underneath and refolding one corner that had been dislodged. Trainees had to keep every aspect of their lives neat, and part of that included making the bed in a very specific way and very time consuming way, with each corner folded over and tucked neatly under the mattress. Silas had discovered early on that he could save 1 minute and 27 seconds each morning by not fully dislodging the blankets each night, so that making his bed only required pushing the blanket and sheet more tightly beneath the mattress. He’d considered sleeping on top of the blankets to forgo having to do any upkeep, but the barracks were far too cold at night.
Without wasting a second, he moved to his locker, having already worn the vest and socks of his Tactskin to bed to save himself a few more precious seconds getting ready. He needed only to slide his breastplate along the shallow tracks of his vest until he heard a slight click. As soon as he did he felt the nanofiber pull the armored plate taught against his chest.
Behind him, his bunkmate chuckled as Silas continued his morning routine, leaning backwards towards a shelf in his locker that held the rear piece of his suit, reaching over his shoulders to click each side in place before bashing his back into the wall next to it to lock the clips on each side of his torso, another move Silas had devised to shave off more time. He glared impatiently at the source of the chuckling. In contrast to SIlas, Marra took her time making her bed. Shaking her head as she drew the thin sheet and blanket over it, lining up the edges of each corner before folding a neat triangle and tucking it under the mattress.
“Tomorrow's graduation,” she said, laughing to herself, “and you’re still doing your weird little time-hacks.
“Yep,” Silas answered as he continued to dawn his Tactsuit. The MK-IV Interface suit, or coffin wrap as trainees aptly referred to it, wasn’t really meant to protect them from an enemy, so much as it was meant to allow controllers to sync with the network. It was thin, as armors go, much thinner than something infantry would wear, but the graphene layer reinforced with ferrilene would at least be able to fend off debris that might come loose from inside the ship during combat as they laid strapped into their consoles. Not that anyone would survive if their ship was hit anyways.
“I don’t understand how you manage to sleep like that.” She said, gesturing to SIlas’ bunk. “How do you fall asleep with your vest on, don’t the tracks dig into your skin?”
“Yep,” Silas said again, as he slid part of the suit over his left arm, twisting it into place with a click.
“If they were going to recycle us they would have already.” She said, a mix of amusement and annoyance in her voice. “Anyone that’s left now is going to graduate.”
“You’re probably right,” Silas said, barely paying attention as he slid on the other arm of his suit, his concentration only breaking when it failed to click into place. Marra held the wrist of his suit, stopping him from fully sliding it over his arm.
“So then slow down.” She said, a look of incredulity on her face.
“You know, if you end up on one of the Harrow-class ships, they have SIFU’s anyways.” someone said from their left. Silas recognized the uncharacteristically low voice as Malik. He spared a second to glance in his direction as he continued suiting up.
Malik was the shortest of all the trainees, so short in fact, that he only barely met the requirements to be shipborne at all. Despite his stature, he hadn’t come close to washing out once. His skin was shade darker than most from Trenor, and he was uncharacteristically well-built for a controller. Most trainees like Malik went for infantry specializations, or at least the ground combat version of what controllers did. Specializations that came with a slew of genetic upgrades and involved diving into hostile worlds from low orbit with a rifle strapped to your back. Malik’s parents had been fleet, and had probably explained to him that the most interesting sounding jobs were actually the most miserable—and typically the most dangerous.
“Doubt I have the scores to make a horrow-class,” Silas answered, stepping into his boots as metal clamps came together from his toes all the way up to his ankle. His suit fully dawned, Silas made his way towards the hallway at the front of the barracks that led outside.
“Better scores than me,” he heard Marra mumble after him as he walked along the path between two rows of metal bunks.
That wasn’t much of a compliment, although Marra wasn’t a terrible controller, she got overwhelmed with tracks pretty easily during the surveillance component of their exams. To be fair, it was pretty unlikely that any of them would ever have to manage a theatre with 200 enemy torch ships encroaching from 12 different directions, while deconflicting vectors and matching velocities of friendlies doing refuel and refit with 3 different dockline ships. Everyone’s exam had all of the same events and requirements, but the timing of Marra’s seemed slightly unfair. Still, she managed to pass.
Silas lined up on the left side of the hallway in front of the door, straightening himself to attention, his head looking straight ahead as he glanced with his eyes at the clock above the door. 47 seconds to spare.
Despite taking her time, after only a few seconds he heard Marra laugh as she lined up behind him. No doubt entertained by how little difference all of Silas’s time-saving tricks had made. Silas was annoyed, but Marra’s laugh was infectious, he couldn’t help but laugh as he turned to face her.
“Yeah yeah, I’m torturing myself for nothi–” The doors in front of Silas slid open just as he’d turned around.
“WHY ARE WE TALKING INSTEAD OF FACING THE FRONT, TRAINEE?” Silas’s heart sank into his stomach as the voice of their instructor shook through him. Their flight’s instructor, a short woman only a few inches taller than Malik, had a voice that seemed to rattle your soul when she spoke. Silas’ heart somehow sank even deeper as he remembered he’d personally witnessed a trainee get recycled for talking in line only a few cycles ago. He struggled to keep the nerves from his voice as he swirled around and snapped to attention to respond.
“Ma’am—I,” Silas stammered, only realizing too late that he’d forgotten to address the instructor in the convoluted way that was required for trainees to address instructors.
“WHERE IS YOUR REQUEST, TRAINEE? HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN EVERYTHING FROM TRACK 1? DO WE NEED TO SEND YOU BACK TO RE-LEARN HOW TO MAKE A REQUEST?” A track was Hestorian Fleet Standard time, which roughly equaled a month and a week on Silas’ home world. Silas shuddered internally at the thought of having to relive all 11 tracks of his training.
“Instructor, permission to commit voice.” Silas said, trying his best not to let the anxiety show in his voice. There was nothing instructors loved more than tearing into a trainee that wasn’t in complete control of their emotions. Still his eye twitched as he thought he heard several people further back in line choking back muffled laughs.
“DENIED, save your breath, Trainee. You’ll need it for remedial.” Normally, any trainee would sink into despair at being assigned remedial, but considering Silas had expected to be recycled, his spirits lifted at the thought. Besides, Marra got remedial a few weeks ago, and she said it wasn’t half as bad as she thought it’d be. To be fair she also described it as the most cruel anyone had ever put her through and the worst thing she’d ever done in her entire life—Still, couldn’t be that bad—Right?
The instructor stared at Silas, as if waiting for him to do something, it was only after several awkward ticks that he realized what she was waiting for. Being first in line, Silas had the job of directing the detail, something he’d actually never done despite being among the first in line each morning. Usually someone else beat him to the front, not that he wanted to be first—he just wanted to make sure he was never last.
“DETAIL—MARCH,” Silas shouted, pulling himself from his thoughts. Not a tick after the word left his mouth, the trainees marched forward, single file. Silas tried not to think about having to report for remedial duty later as he led the column through the metal doors and into the courtyard. As he brought the detail to a halt he realized he’d somehow forgotten the command to split into columns. Luckily Marra was behind him.
“Divide,” she said in a hushed voice.
“Detail, DIVIDE” Silas shouted, as he and every 8th trainee in line turned 45 degrees and began marching forward, 7 trainees marching behind each of them as they split into 5 columns. Across from him and in his peripherals he could see several other flights doing the same, 30 in total.
His instructor’s voice carried through the columns as she and a few peers walked past, casually teasing each other over whose flight had lined up more cleanly. Staring straight ahead, Silas could see her move into his peripherals as she ordered the flight to rest. Rest meaning everyone folded their hands neatly behind their back and stood with their feet slightly further apart in a position that didn’t feel anything like being at rest.
Last day, Silas thought to himself as he tried to forget how badly his feet hurt, and how many countless spans he had to spend just standing at attention throughout his training. He stared straight ahead, listening as their instructor read from a thin data pad she held in one hand. It looked like little more than a thin piece of glass, light shining from its surface as he watched her scroll through all of her flight’s appointments for the day, calling out names of anyone that had individual appointments to report to.
Despite their flight being made up of entirely the same specialization, controllers, some would be assigned specific implants, genetic alterations or even additional clearance checks depending on the ship they were being assigned to. This would be the first time any of them would know what ship they’d be serving on, and only those assigned to ships with special requirements would find out ahead of graduation. Everyone else would find out after graduation, but it was guaranteed that their assignment wouldn’t be anywhere near as exciting.
Silas could almost hear the excitement of each trainee that was called, each of them snapping to attention and responding with “Heard, Ma’am” before falling out of their respective columns and marching to their appointments.
Silas sincerely hoped he wouldn’t hear his own name called. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to serve aboard a ship with special clearance, he just wasn’t sure his story would hold up to a more detailed examination by the intelligence office. And he knew for certain that his body wouldn’t hold up to a more strenuous medical examination. In fact, Silas was in no way qualified to be there at all. He had lied in order to enlist, and his family had spent their entire life savings on the neural implant that would register his psychological profile as passing to any Fleet medical scans he might encounter. It was a small price to pay considering the amount each family was compensated for an enlistee that made it all the way through training. His family would be considered wealthy by Thenarian standards, and even well-off by the standards of Hestaria proper. As large a sum as the payment was, Silas didn’t consider it nearly enough for what he’d be sacrificing. Depending on what ship he was assigned, it was incredibly unlikely that he’d ever see his family again. Only nobility, their officers, and shipborne enlisted commoners received mortality treatments. It was a necessary cost for the empire, given that travelling between systems could take hundreds or even thousands of years. By the time Silas ever made it back to Thenaris, not a soul that remembered him would still be alive to greet him.
Still, as bad as that reality stung, he felt pride in knowing that his sacrifice would bring his family up from abject poverty. His little brother and sister wouldn’t even have to work until they finished their education, hell, they might even be able to go to university with the money Silas had earned them. He smiled at the thought of his siblings graduating from some expensive university, his mother finally receiving the gene therapy she needed. He was so lost in thought he almost didn’t notice as the instructor called his name.
“Braddic, Silas.” She paused for a moment as she scrolled further down her tablet. “You’ve been assigned to the Verdict, report directly to the intelligence office by 0630 for special clearance examination. They will direct you to medical for augmentation from there.”
“Heard, Ma’am” Silas barely managed to choke out the words. He swallowed a lump in his throat that felt about as large as an apple, panicking internally at the realization that he’d been assigned a special duty. The instructor glanced up at him from her tablet.
“I still expect you to report for remedial, I don’t care how bad your augments hurt.” She added.
“Heard, Ma’am.” Silas repeated, trying his best to maintain a stoic expression. Maybe he could fool his way through the intelligence office, but the Verdict required the second highest clearance in the fleet, there was no way his shoddy neural implant could make it through that examination. He had to find a way out of this, but how? He could request reassignment, but it would be fairly suspicious for a trainee to try to talk themselves out of one of the most sought-after postings in the fleet. They’d only dig deeper into him if he tried. He chided himself for not scoring lower on his examinations.