The city was nearly empty.
The day after the Testing is a national holiday. It's the one day a year the Federation slows to a crawl. For civilians and Citizens, it means nursing hangovers. For the military, though, it means a storm of bureaucracy.
Shops were shuttered, and most factories were silent. The streets yesterday had been crowded to breaking point, and today, the only things I could find in the empty space were service drones cleaning up confetti and the trickle of new cadets heading for recruitment centres.
A holoscreen flickered on a street corner—one of the few still cycling through broadcasts. Testing results from other systems scrolled past. Tau Ceti, Proxima, Sirius, Earth. The same pattern everywhere. Higher grades, more awakenings. The ticker mentioned three S-Grades in the outer colonies alone. Not just us then...
I kept walking, hands in my pockets. I sidestepped piles of confetti as the drones worked to sweep them away. The quiet made yesterday feel even further away.
Processing Centre Seven was at the end of Industrial Row. Grey. Plain. No windows. Just reinforced walls and double doors with a line outside.
I moved to the back of the queue without a word. My filthy uniform drew a few glances, but I kept my eyes on the ground and stepped forward whenever the line inched up, ignoring the occasional sound of someone quietly crying.
I saw a girl ahead who had been at the same recruitment office as me just a day before. She was ahead of me then, too. Her hands still shook. Some things stayed the same.
-
The door took us one at a time.
The air inside the centre was stale. An aftertaste of ozone hung on the edge of my tongue. Recycled air. Overhead fluorescent lights buzzed with electricity; I could almost feel the static on my skin. Officials in grey uniforms directed us one by one, with a calm, bureaucratic efficiency. Even as they moved us along, they didn't look at us, eyes glued to datapads. Eventually, it was my turn. I walked up to the central booth.
"Name."
"Marcus Tiernan." I almost stuttered.
For the first time today, someone looked at me. The pity in the clerk's eyes was evident. I bit the inside of my lip as she typed on the screen, her eyes not leaving me.
"Date of birth."
"Twelfth of February, thirty-one seventy-three."
More typing. The terminal beeped.
"Grade?"
I looked at her. She paused, then nodded and kept typing.
"Awakening status?" She was already typing as if anticipating my answer.
"Awakened."
She paused longer this time. Then she tapped the terminal.
"Enlistment type."
"Mech Corps." She stared at the screen for a long moment. I could see her working through it: F-Grade, awakened, Mech Corps...
The terminal beeped. I could hear the mechanical clicking and whirring of a printer as it deposited my life onto a single sheet. Soon, she pressed a piece of paper in front of me.
"Medical is through the left corridor. Follow the blue line." That was it. No questions. No curiosity. Just a form and a direction.
-
The medical centre moved like a production line. People stepped forward one by one.
The wait was short. I stepped up to a box-like machine and waited. Eventually, a green light flashed, and I entered. The inside of the machine was small, leaving just enough room for me to raise my arms forward. Red lasers passed over my body from top to bottom, measuring my exact dimensions, height and weight simultaneously. A servo arm raised, offering a tiny needle-like spike. I pressed my finger to it, applying just enough pressure for it to draw a drop of blood. More blood— as if yesterday's measurement hadn't been enough.
The machine beeped, and I passed through. In the infirmary, five desks spanned the room, each with a doctor behind. I walked to a free station. The doctor looked me over.
"Any pre-existing conditions?"
"No."
"History of mental illness in the family?"
"No."
"Sign here."
I signed.
Another document. Another corridor. Another line.
-
The uniform station was a long counter staffed by two bored attendants. Folded grey fabric lined the shelves—each piece the same utilitarian cut.
As I stepped up, the attendant didn't even look at me—eyes on the terminal. A moment later, they grabbed a bundle from the shelves and placed it before me: trousers, shirt, jacket, boots. The fabric was thin and coarse. Nothing like the tailored clothes I'd worn yesterday.
"Changing rooms are on the left. Put your civilian clothes in the disposal."
I walked over to the changing room and entered. It wasn't what I expected. It was one large room filled with twenty other kids. Feeling exposed, I pulled the filthy clothes from my body. As I drew on the grey uniform, the fabric hung awkwardly on my frame, its rough texture scraping at my skin. Moving on, I tossed Marcus Tiernan's costume into a large metal bin, not looking back.
I moved on through the opposite door, entering yet another room. Up to another counter. Up to another clerk.
"Empty your pockets."
" I have nothing," I said as I pulled my pockets inside out.
"Processing complete. Proceed to Transport Bay Three."
-
Transport Bay Three was a large concrete hangar at the back of the facility. Industrial. Cold. A massive shuttle sat in the centre with a line of hundreds of recruits, all in the same grey uniform, all shuffling toward its open doors. I joined the back and watched the bodies ahead of me disappear.
Soon it was my turn to enter. The shuttle had no seats or windows, only overhead bars for us to hold. We stood packed together, shoulder to shoulder, like a tin of sardines. My nose curled up as it filled with the stench of sweat and morning breath.
I forced myself into the shuttle, someone's elbow digging into my ribs as I did. After rummaging around, I found a slightly less densely packed spot and held onto the bar overhead. I could feel someone else's breath hot on the back of my neck. A few more packed inside, I was so squished in that I could barely breathe.
The doors sealed shut with a pneumatic hiss, and darkness enveloped the shuttle. Then the dull red glow of an emergency light lit the chamber, just bright enough that I could see the outlines of faces pressed up against one another.
The walls of the shuttle began to shake, sending vibrations through me that made my teeth chatter. A few gasped as it jolted. If not for being so tightly packed, I would have been thrown from my feet. Recentring myself, the best I could, I gripped the bar above.
No one spoke; there wasn't enough air for it. We all stood in abject silence, swaying and jolting with every movement. We were treated exactly like what we were, cargo.
"Heh, at least that's an upgrade to trash," I muttered to myself.
I closed my eyes and tried to breathe shallow. The air, while recycled, was still revolting; too many people had the diffusion unit working overtime, and I could taste it. The shuttle banked hard, and bodies lurched.
Someone swore. Someone retched. The smell got worse.
Hours of torture passed. My legs ached from standing, my ribs were sore from the elbow still wedged against them my lungs burned from the lack of oxygen. Eventually, the engines shifted pitch. I could feel my stomach in my chest. We were finally descending.
I could feel the collective exhale from the entire shuttle, relief permeating the air. I felt a CLUNK below my feet, and the whirring of servos echoing throughout the chamber. A few moments later, the entire shuttle came to a sudden stop. Everyone jolted as we squished into each other once again.
An agonising moment of silence passed as we all prayed for the doors to open. Our prayers were answered as the familiar hiss sang the song of our freedom. Light flooded into the shuttle, and I drank in the fresh air like a man who was dying of thirst.
"Move! Single file! Keep the line moving!"
The line ripped me from my bliss as bodies began to unstick from my own. We shuffled forwards out of the vehicle, the tiredness and aching in my legs forgotten. I gripped the doorframe as I lowered myself out of the craft, resisting the urge to kiss the ground.
A large base sprawled out before me; it was massive. An industrial-like complex of concrete buildings arranged themselves in strict blocks, connected by open roads and pathways. Guard towers sat on all four corners of the base, large grey walls propping them up, keeping us contained. In the distance, I could see other shuttles coming in from above to land. There were several shuttles next to ours, grey lines of neat teenagers poured out of them across coloured lines that tracked off further into the compound.
"Line up by shuttle number! Bay Three, you're on the yellow line!"
I followed our group's yellow line, joining the stream of bodies flowing toward a large central building. The walk was long and gave me plenty of time to observe the surroundings. To our east, a cluster of windowed buildings rose from the ground. A smaller group of recruits walked towards them, less of a shuffle and more of a march.
"C -Grades," someone muttered behind me. "That's their block."
"Huh?"
I turned to look for the source of the voice. A lanky kid with deep bags under his eyes waved at me. His uniform was slightly too small; his wrists and ankles were clearly visible in the morning sun. Keeping up with the group, I spoke with.
"C-Grade block? How do you—" I was cut off before I could finish.
"My cousin was a C-Grade. Told me about it before he shipped out." He glanced at the nicer buildings and nodded towards them. "Better food. Actual instructors. Equipment that isn't held together with tape and prayers."
I knew that the higher Grades got preferential treatment, but wasn't this a bit too much? I felt the atmosphere grow awkward as I settled into my own thoughts. I tried to keep the conversation going.
"What about you?" your grade, I mean," I asked, stumbling over my words slightly.
"D-Grade." He said it like admitting to a disease. "You?"
"F-Grade" I spoke with confidence, wearing it like a badge of honour. Marcus Tiernan might have hesitated saying that.
His eyebrows shot up. "F-Grade? And you're here?" He looked me over with new eyes. "You awakened?"
"I did," I remarked, a playful twinge in my voice.
"Shit." He let out a low whistle. "You know you didn't have to be here, right? F-Grades who awaken can defer for admin work or safer postings."
"I do."
He waited for an explanation, searching my face. I didn't give one; a small smile tugged at my lips.
"Well." He stuck out his hand. "Tomás Reyes. Figured if we're both walking into the grinder, might as well know who's next to me."
I twisted my body and shook it, continuing the pace. "Marcus."
"Just Marcus?"
"Just Marcus."
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 few months are 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.
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.
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, and 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 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; it 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, 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 the 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.