A Question of Success
Had he been wrong? Should he have obeyed orders, followed the scenario to the letter, trusted in the fail-safes of the training exercise? Intelligence training was dangerous. People did die, though not often. And they did get injured.
Obviously. Kyrian's face throbbed at the reminder, a nasty counterpoint to his other aches.
He stared out across the jungle below. Climbing onto the barracks roof had hurt, but there were few places in the training base where one could get privacy, and none of the others were outside. The air was misty, but for once it wasn't actually raining. His uniform was – limitedly – waterproof, anyway. It had to be on Dromund Kaas.
I didn't put anyone else at risk, and I didn't disregard orders, not really; I just found another way. And it had worked. Mostly. His injuries weren't serious, just painful, and he had succeeded. Wasn't that what mattered? Didn't Intelligence want creativity?
Not from trainees.
It was arrogance. He'd acted as if he knew better than the Instructors. If he had a military background, like some of the older trainees, that might have been forgivable. Not from an orphanage recruit who asked too many questions.
What was the point of half their classes if they weren't supposed to use what they learned? Stealth and persuasion and infiltration. That wasn't the point of this exercise. Practicing straightforward methods, however brutal at times, was just as important.
But it worked.
If it hadn't, it would have been the end of his career, before it had even started. That much had been clear. If he screwed up again, he was finished. If his chances of becoming a field agent weren't finished anyway.
The cut on his face would scar, as would the ones on his arm and shoulder. That was the point – or half the point – of barring him from all but the most basic (and archaic) of medical treatment for them. He could hardly forget the importance of following orders and sticking to the mission as outlined when the results of not doing so stared him in the face every time he looked in a mirror.
The reasoning seemed somewhat over-dramatic for a simple cut. It wasn't as if he were disfigured, just … marked. Not ideal in a field agent.
Was that it, then? An unspoken punishment – consigning him to a career at Headquarters, analyzing data and watching other people travel the galaxy on exciting missions. No. He shook his head. There was no point in yelling at him about following orders, or about the uncertainty of medical care in the field, if he were going to be reassigned to Fixer training.
He put a hand to his bandaged cheek. He would be the most obedient and diligent trainee. No awkward questions, no unapproved creativity, nothing that would jeopardize his career. Once he was out of training, he could do things his way.
It did work. A training exercise wasn't reality. He knew that. Still, success couldn't be entirely wrong.