World 1-1
Three months earlier
The warmth of the sun was close to unbearable for someone not used to it, like Bren. But it certainly was something different from the endless black space, the bland artificially generated skies of the Starport, or the sterile fluorescent light of the military Academy's classrooms.
Bren opened his eyes to take in the beach and the green ocean before him. There was just a small voice nagging at the back of his head that it was not real, but he did not let it bother him too much. At least the UV radiation from the ceiling light panels was real enough, actually resulting in a tan if used long enough.
Not needing to get up from the deck chair he had unfolded in the middle of his dormitory room, Bren brought up the Link interface with a tap of his finger, and ordered another cold beer.
The dispenser slot opened, and that was an unavoidable breach of the illusion, but Bren could tolerate it. At least the sound of the beer can opening was still a hundred percent real. That was something mankind had not yet managed to mess up in the five hundred years of post-Earth existence. Even if the beverage itself was already synthetic.
Bren was certain his consumption would be tracked, and assessed by someone (or probably by just a computer) in the vast systems of the United Planets Freedom Forces.
Well, screw them. He had received confirmation of being accepted in the Turrican special forces training program, which would begin tomorrow, and that was enough cause for celebration and relaxation.
Bren was now at the rank of Lieutenant. The UPFF had done away with strict division into branches of service – everything it was doing was various forms of space warfare anyway. He had started in the ground forces, but soon transferred to piloting a Katakis class all-directional fighter. Now he would be sort of going back to where he started.
During the training, it would matter little that he was already a commissioned officer. He would be sweating and grinding along with the enlisted personnel, and barked at by the instructors just like all of them.
Bren sunk back to the illusion before his eyes.
Of course it did not allow him to actually go swimming in the ocean. But for now, the vista was enough. The only thing missing still was music to fit the mood.
Bren brought the interface up for a second time. Every citizen had the Link, whose display was implanted directly in the retina for unprecedented image sharpness and realism, plus secondary implants in the ears and throat for audio input and output. The miniature processor it required would typically be installed in the wrist, to allow later upgrades.
The whole system operated directly on the body's own bio-electricity, allowing one to receive and transmit data anywhere on UPFF-governed planets or facilities. More advanced versions of the Link were also in development, interfacing directly with the user's brain. That was something Bren was not ready for personally, though many apparently were.
There was of course the concern that when you used the Link, the government knew each second where you were, as the system could not ever be switched off, but as far as Bren was concerned, it was a force for good. If you did not break laws, where was the harm? There had been cases where operators had been found digging user data that they were not supposed to, but the hammer of justice had struck quickly.
Space pirates, raiders and secessionists would naturally choose to exist outside the Link, but their threat was at this point rather minimal, and Bren thought the UPFF almost just let them be. Most of the illicit activity would not even get reported to the general public, to keep it causing undue distress or escalating unrest.
But in that case, what was the threat they would be training for? Using the Turrican suits' overpowering weaponry against the disorganized criminals and rebels seemed unfair. Even the missions he had flown in Katakis squadrons against the pirate outposts had been a demonstration of definite power imbalance. But this would be taking it onto whole another level.
Well, tomorrow he would possibly know better. And enough of musing over anything unpleasant. The music had to be chosen.
Bren navigated the list to G.
There were some artists who had stood the test of time, even after a thousand years. And this was Bren's personal favorite, one he had found completely by chance. Their output was very much inspirational, hinting of great adventures against mysterious forces, like the aliens or the Illuminati, neither of which had materialized in reality even after all this time, but that did not make the songs any less worthy.
Artist: Gamma Ray
Album: The Land of the Free
Track: Rebellion in Dreamland
The song began with a relaxing guitar line, soon joined by the singer, building into a crescendo. Bren sunk back in the deck chair and took a long sip of the beer.
For a moment he was amused as he thought of the lyrics. They were from the perspective of a rebel opposed by a vast faceless government. Like a dark version of the UPFF. Listening to this song might not exactly look good on a military psychological report. But Bren knew his side, and would not have chosen anything else.
Bren was running late. It was a shame for a Lieutenant of the UPFF to be lost inside the Academy's corridors, but Bren had to admit that was the case now. The Turrican program was to begin in a lecture hall he had never been to before.
Bren had the Link's map display superimposed on his view as he almost ran, but in the heat of the confusion, it did not help much.
He should have woken up earlier. It was not exactly a hangover, but the beer certainly had contributed. He wondered to what degree he would be chewed out, and somewhat cynically, if a biochemical analysis provided by the Link (if it could actually provide that – that was not in the current version official feature list) would be used to back that up.
He rounded a corner, aiming for the nearest staircase leading upward. The hall was to be on the third floor, and Bren was sure he could not be that far off.
Suddenly he nearly collided with another UPFF officer.
He too wore the insignia of Lieutenant on his shoulders. But In contrast to Bren's wavy purple hair, he was strictly up to an old-school military standard, with his black hair in a perfect crew cut. Bren was sure he had seen this guy before somewhere, but did not know him by name.
"Sorry," Bren said, sure his face was going flushed from the combined shame of both the near-miss, and not being prepared enough to navigate correctly.
"You going to the Turrican training kickoff?" the guy asked in reply.
His expression was friendly enough, but behind it Bren thought he saw a hard edge, measuring him up. Still, Bren thought this was going to be his sudden lucky break.
"Yeah. I'm Bren McGuire."
"Kris Escher."
They shook hands quickly, and Bren started following.
Just in time, Kris and Bren took seats near the back of the medium-sized lecture hall, which was well over half-full. Bren recognized the man on the podium, an older Colonel with a graying mullet. He was Manfred Trench, head of the Turrican program himself. To be in his audience right now was an honor Bren had not strictly speaking been prepared for. Conversely, being late would have been extra-mortifying.
As the clock struck precisely 0800 hours, the Colonel began to speak.
"Personnel of the UPFF. You are here to take part in our most advanced special forces training, the Turrican program. You have made a good choice. Possibly the best choice of your lives. But I'm not going to bullshit you: not everyone is going to make it through. I could go through the program structure in minute detail, of everything that will be expected of you, of the Turrican suit features and weapon systems, of the simulations we will be running as well as live-fire exercises, but I thought I'd start with something more interesting. Of why we are ramping up the program exactly now."
Manfred paused, and a near-silence descended. Bren remembered his questions yesterday.
It seemed he would get the answers right away.
"What you're about to hear is classified information. It is not to be repeated to anyone outside this hall or outside the Turrican program."
That was to be expected; often the UPFF classified even completely mundane information. But yet Bren felt his excitement rise, almost to a childish degree. He looked to his side and saw Kris betray no especial emotion. That was certainly the manner more fitting at his exact moment.
"I will give the podium to Captain Rayna Becker from the Intelligence division. She will go through the … sightings that have necessitated the acceleration of the Turrican program."
Bren thought there was a sudden unsureness in Manfred' voice, unexpected for the father of Turrican. Unless this was something truly unsettling. Like aliens. Or the Illuminati. Bren's mind already fast-forwarded to several scenarios.
Just a few moments ago he had been concerned only of his chances of making it through the program, now he thought of UPFF and the whole mankind potentially being on the verge of some unexpected discovery. An epic adventure. Or even a grave danger threatening all of its existence.
Bren looked to Kris again, and saw his mouth curl into a smile. It seemed out of place. But then Bren understood. A woman almost as tall as the Colonel, wearing the light-blue Intelligence uniform, rose up from the front seat and walked swiftly up to the podium. She could certainly be described as attractive, but Bren was glad he could keep his mind strictly in a military frame. After all, he was seeing someone.
The Captain appeared all-business too, but in a slightly odd way, like she was not paying much attention to the class at all, and would have preferred to be elsewhere. She had her head bowed so that the short but not-exactly-up-to-standard blonde hair almost covered her eyes, apparently preparing now.
The Link gave a slight vibration in his ear and notified Bren of an externally transmitted presentation about to begin. Within the hall, it would not be possible to dismiss.
"Right," Rayna began to speak in a hurried voice. "Two months ago our automated probes captured the first images that we couldn't explain. These cannot be natural formations, neither they are man-made. We have no colonies, neither UPFF or secessionist, in that region."
An image showing the vast blackness of space overrode Bren's field of view. At first he did not understand. What was there to see?
Then he understood there was a regular lattice, appearing very dark but yet distinguishable, seemingly suspended in the void and obscuring the stars. It had to be some kind of metal. Again, Bren's mind raced. Who had built that? In the middle of space?
More images followed, depicting more of these metal formations, some of them actual larger solid pieces, ragged from their edges. All drifting in the emptiness.
"We consulted with our scientists. Their explanation did not make much sense to us then. They said it's debris from an artificial planet reconstructing itself."
Rayna paused to let the information sink in. But only for a few seconds, then she continued just as breathlessly.
"We directed the probes into the direction opposite of the formations' average drift vector, to find the source. The probes were lost, but before that they captured this."
A short video clip played. It showed more blackness, more stars. Then bright flashes of light, and the image cutting to white noise and freezing. The Captain rewound the video just a few seconds and paused.
Against the stars, Bren could see the shape of an insect-like small craft. A fighter, certainly, that had fired at the probe and destroyed it.
"Again, we verified that this craft design does not originate from us."
A hand rose from the audience. Bren found his mind racing too much and into too many directions simultaneously to even have contemplated doing the same, but if someone else could, good for them.
"Yes?"
"Is this proof of an alien contact?" a man asked.
"Yes and no. Not in the classic sense, meaning an another race of advanced biological entities. After this incident, we launched combat probes with stealth capability, and observed. We found these are machines, highly sentient and organized. No actual signs of life were detected."
Another video clip played. In the light of a distant sun, a formation of the insect-shaped ships crossed the camera field of view.
"And that's not all. In the weeks that followed the initial sightings, similar encounters have happened closer. Deep-space mining ships have already been attacked. Just two days ago, a small colony went dark. There have not been any communications from the machines, no demands or declarations, but we must interpret these as acts of war. Because of the potential for mass panic, preparedness is being ramped up on made up pretenses. I hate that. But we certainly have to prepare. I'd hope all of you would graduate, but that's out of my hands."
Rayna stepped down from the podium, and the Colonel resumed, to speak of the program itself.
But Bren could not really pay attention to most of what he was saying, besides the three-phase basic structure of the program: 1) Lectures and suit operation training 2) Simulator battle exercises 3) Large-scale outdoor live battle exercises.
Instead, he found his thoughts still circling restlessly over the unexpected outer space sightings, and to add further insult, in terms of Gamma Ray's lyrics. There were supersonic killers in the sky. And it could be the abyss of the void opening up before him.
Bren had not quite imagined the training to begin this way. After a few lectures familiarizing them with the basic parts, systems and operation of the Turrican bipedal exoskeleton fighting suit, and an introduction to the simulators to which they would return in the second phase of the training, the fifty of them had descended to a spacious armory on the academy's sublevel, to begin using the suits in practice –
The catch was that the suit was not powered up at first. The point was to first learn the emergency operating procedures, how to get in and out of the suit even in the case of total power failure. So there Bren was panting heavily, behind the closed helmet visor, feeling sweat running down his back.
"Reach for the emergency release handles on both sides where the upper and lower exoskeleton connect!" the instructor's voice on Bren's side of the armory boomed.
He was Captain Damon Thorne, and the name was fitting. He was like a thorn in their asses, Bren thought. The class had been divided in two, and Captain Achim Schmidt was working on the other twenty-five potential future Turricans.
"Then pull back and twist!"
For some agonizing seconds Bren thought the handles weren't where they were supposed to be. Maybe he had already twisted the exoskeleton into some impossible position. At last, he found something that resembled the handles, and yanked with both hands.
The suit opened and collapsed in a heap, and Bren got out in potentially the most ungraceful manner possible. He caught sight of Kris to his side, grinning and apparently out of his suit much sooner and much more elegantly.
Then, the next step would be getting back in without power, and it would be practiced over and over until Damon would be satisfied.
Still sweating and breathing quickly, Bren cursed.
Thankfully it was going to get better. And Bren could understand the motivation, because one had to be able to do the same while under enemy fire.
Also, a part of him craved the masochism, did not want an easy way out in life, but to be tested and toughened. That was possibly a large part of why he had wanted to join the military in the first place.
That, and to be provided meaning.
Bren had not been sure he was going to find it on his own, remembered how he had feared the potential other directions he could have ended up in. Like becoming a VR junkie. Or even getting involved in crime. Though post-Earth society had managed to create an existence where most suffering and violence had been eliminated, in return it was notoriously harsh on those that did not fit in the blueprint and did not find their place properly.
Bren began collecting the exoskeleton parts, propping them back up on their small support legs, to remain upright until the operator finished getting back in. When powered up, the suit would adjust to the user's height and weight, but now it was in the default setting, which was a bit too large for Bren.
That was still better than too small; Bren could see some of the trainees struggling with that too. There were more concealed handles on the inside of the suit for doing size adjustments manually in the non-powered state, but using them required much strength.
"So, this Intelligence officer. She was hot in a nervous way," Kris remarked next to Bren while preparing his suit similarly.
Standard military banter. Sometimes it would simply get old, Bren thought. And he had been too enthralled by the space metal formations themselves to pay attention. Could an officer just be an officer, even if she was the opposite sex?
"Yeah, and I could see your leering from a mile away. Don't get your hopes up," Bren replied.
"That's harsh from you," Kris laughed. "I thought you were all smiles and positivity."
"Not when I'm trying to assemble this piece of shit."
Bren knew saying that in Damon's hearing range would have been unwise. But the instructor was concentrated on another group some twenty meters away.
Until his head suddenly turned and he walked closer. "That's not the correct designation, Lieutenant," he snapped.
Bren cursed inwardly. Of course, in here the instructors could listen to all of their Link throat microphones as necessary. No hiding.
Finally all of the suit parts were connected and upright for climbing back in. Bren was already near exhaustion, and let his mind drift.
Iron Savior was another of his favorites, similar to Gamma Ray. Their songs were built on the concept of a human mind being trapped forever inside a huge spaceship. Sort of like a more extreme version of the Turrican suit. Actually that was an unsettling concept, but Bren liked the singer's voice, very rough and powerful, invoking the feeling of endless battles in space.
After all the exhaustion and noise, the spartan, now dimly-lit dormitory room felt like paradise. Outside the window, the Starport sky was in night mode already. Bren ached all over and took a long shower. Then he just collapsed on his bed, but he knew sleep would not come easily, as his mind was still circling in overdrive.
At the end of the day they finally had received permission to power up the suits, and practice moving. Tomorrow they would resume from where they left off. By now Bren thought he was going to do OK. Not the best, not the worst. It was not the training itself that worried him now. But what lay out there waiting, and what would rest on his shoulders if he passed the program.
As a Turrican operator, he would potentially be in the last line of defense against the insect-spaceship-robots, or whatever they were. Though mankind had not managed to find another planet quite as habitable as the beyond-salvage Earth – as most they had colonized were hellholes of various degree that required protective suits to be worn at all times – their existence had been well-off so far in retrospect.
Now it was possible it would all come to a crashing fiery halt. UPFF better start alerting people, at least in some controlled manner, Bren thought.
Otherwise it could come as a deadly surprise when the machines would ramp up hostilities, and then the mass panic they had tried to prevent would erupt anyway. Since the attacks had already targeted living people, not just autonomous mining ships, rumors had to be flying already.
Captain Rayna Becker felt a creeping sense of … something, as she sat at her terminal in the Intelligence office which she shared with four others. She had been sifting through the probe logs and footage and human-made reports, which had already been preprocessed and filtered by computers.
It was possibly anxiety, or the feeling that she wasn't doing exactly the right things, or doing them efficiently enough. Somehow the game had changed, and she didn't feel like she was on top of it any more.
She remembered earlier days in her career, optimizing distributed intelligence report collection systems, and the pleasure when they worked just right, while using just the necessary computing resources.
This was a quieter day. Today there had been nothing yet to act on, besides making sure the probes and droids were covering their sectors with maximum efficiency.
Though the official word was still silence and denial, Rayna could see that the rumors had already started pervading in the outer UPFF sectors. There was a steady stream of false positive sightings already. Many thought they had seen these insect-craft machines, while the explanation was something perfectly man-made.
She got up and out to the corridor, toward the coffee vending machine. Too many cups already consumed today.
For a moment Rayna laughed to herself as she was sure she did not look as sharp as an Intelligence officer was supposed to, but she thought, screw that. If there was a war coming, and particularly a war against machines, it would not be won with sharp looks, but by knowing the enemy, and knowing yourself, and striking decisively and fearlessly until the enemy was no more.
Some wisdoms had prevailed thousands of years. Rayna had a copy of the Art of War on her desk which she had just printed out by herself. Use of paper would be frowned upon and carefully tracked, and by now it would mostly be available only on the black market, but she had possessed a stockpile from earlier less strict days, and that had certainly been a worthwhile use of the limited supply.
She reached the lobby. There was a dispenser unit at each desk too, and the lobby's vending machine connected just to the same universal food / drink synthesizer system and produced exactly the same result, but like her printed book, the Intelligence officers had the machine just for the sake of tradition, and to get some exercise each day.
Kurt Petrov, another intelligence analyst of the dark and lanky variety, was at the machine already. Right now Rayna would have preferred no extra encounters, but he was tolerable enough, with his sometimes cynical and sometimes humorous attitude.
"The shit reports are picking up. You've surely noticed. Like, military shitposting. It should be forbidden," Kurt said.
"People are concerned. Then they over-imagine things. Nothing malicious, at least in most of it."
"Yeah. To get rid of it completely, would just have to replace people. I know, bad joke."
Rayna chuckled just a bit to herself. For an officer spending possibly more time on a terminal than was healthy, it was a line of thinking that was not entirely unfamiliar, at least on worse days. A machine would not make a mistake…
Or maybe it would. Trick it into making a mistake.
If Rayna thought seriously, humans were still supremely adaptable. Though in a purely mechanical sense a machine could think faster than a human ever could. So if it was adapting its thinking itself in the right way, and not making mistakes in that process, eventually it could be an accelerated, improved version of human consciousness, that no biological brains could hope to match.
That was the concept of singularity. Somehow, though technology had otherwise advanced well beyond the Earth era, human-designed AIs had not quite reached that level, that one could build an accurate knowledge model of the whole world and direct its thinking and learning on their own. Of course, in more limited problems they would excel.
Well, if humans had not built machines capable of that yet, maybe someone else had? Rayna felt a little cold thinking that, and was glad the coffee was almost intolerably warm.
Kurt left the lobby without saying more, and it was also time for Rayna to return to her office and the queue of reports.
Four days into the program, and they were finally ready to start practicing use of the Turrican suit's offensive systems.
Moving around at a greatly accelerated speed while being shielded from physical harm, for example if falling a great distance (tested in practice by everyone on the course) was already exhilarating in its own way. Less exhilarating, but of course just as necessary, had been to drill over the excessive maintenance and diagnosis information that both the suit and its powering-up cradle would produce.
Kris had managed to get into the suit's developer debug mode, which produced machine code scrolling down the visor's display. This reminded Bren of some old movie whose name he had forgotten. But it was more than a thousand years old.
They both had been amused by the discovery. Damon, less so. Kris had been chewed out quite severely, as doing too much with the developer mode could have caused permanent damage, which would have been deducted from his pay.
But now, at last, it was time to get serious, as the trainees swarmed onto the firing range.
The basic weapons systems of the suit were the following:
A rapid-fire multiple blaster that could be configured for spread shots up to five simultaneous.
A plasma cannon, whose spherical projectiles could bounce from most surfaces.
A laser beam, which again could be configured for size, the larger form igniting the air around it and forming an almost grotesque crescent shaped shot.
The powerline, a high laser wall fired simultaneously both from the back and the front, causing tremendous damage to multiple enemies at once.
The flamethrower, which actually was another form of laser, but its continuous beam could be rotated 360 degrees.
The wheel; the suit (with the operator inside) would curl into a nearly indestructible metal ball that would spin rapidly and travel forward. In this mode, mines that exploded in a few seconds could be laid on the ground.
The superweapon, which could be activated in case the operator was completely overwhelmed. It would utilize the laser and wheel modes all at once, also giving the wheel a limited and barely controllable flight capability. Friendly fire was a concern, so using it would be prohibited when operating in a team or near targets that could not allowed to be destroyed indiscriminately. This had been a last-minute addition from Manfred' engineering team before going into production, and later models would possibly omit it altogether.
The projectile weapon systems all fired from a sturdy rifle-like gun which was attached with a power cable to the suit, and would be held in a holding rack on the suit's back when not in use.
Earlier iterations of the suit had also fired a heavy spherical round from the holes in the suit's shoulders, but that was not included in the version Bren was wearing now.
"We will not take chances with safety here," Damon spoke, now in a powered-up suit as well. The helmet distorted the voice and made it just a touch inhuman.
"These weapons have enough power to cut through most materials known to man! Each of you will only fire forward in your assigned firing lane, and only when you are cleared to do so! We have safety switches to cut power to your suits and weapons, and in the worst case we do not hesitate to use our weapons to ensure the safety of the class. Do not let it come to that! That would also be an automatic expulsion from the program!"
In case you're still breathing, Bren thought, as he settled into firing position at his booth.
"We will start with the Multiple in lowest power setting! Single shots only! Do not think you'll be going to hit anything in full automatic at first! In the outer colonies they don't have enough energy even for proper lighting, so imagine how pissed off they'd be at some hotheads wasting precious kilojoules here in the comfort of this academy, spraying energy projectiles into thin air!"
During the lectures, they had watched demonstration videos where advanced Turrican operators were leaping around while firing full auto at moving targets, and hitting with almost perfect accuracy, but of course one had to start with the basics.
The instructor pressed a button on his remote, and a standard circular target whirred into view at the halfway of the lane.
"Three shots at the target! Aim down your sights properly! Commence - fire!"
Bren had to pause for a moment to make sure the weapon was in fact in the proper mode. Then he understood it had been made easy for him; the other systems were still locked out. There also was not enough power to even switch to the heaviest modes; for that the suit needed to be charged further.
He peered down the integrated scope, which adjusted automatically thanks to the suit's on-board computer. This was something else compared to the primitive projectile or energy rifles Bren had fired in the infantry, which felt like ages ago already.
From the lanes next to him he already heard the distorted rattle of the blaster shots, but Bren wanted to take his time now, to do it properly.
Finally, he was sure the aim was dead center, and squeezed the trigger. The yellow-red muzzle flash filled his field of view for a moment; the kickback was minimal.
Bren thought that the Turrican suits would make war almost too easy. He confirmed a hole almost in the center of the target.
"Lieutenant McGuire. Remember that in war, the enemies will not wait," Damon barked from behind.
"Noted, sir!"
From the justified but still unwelcome intrusion, Bren worked himself into a controlled rage, and fired the remaining shots faster. They too, were satisfyingly close –
Suddenly he saw a beam lance through the firing lane divider walls, just a meter in front of him.
"Cease fire, god damn it!" Damon's voice boomed.
Still in a degree of shock, Bren could hear the distinct sound of the unfortunate (or crazy) classmate's suit powering down by remote control. The beam could have cut into Bren's suit, in which case he would have received a little too realistic demonstration of the suit's defense capabilities. Or even got himself injured, and out of the program in the worst case.
"Sergeant Major Siebold, was that intentional? Or an accident? Either way, you will contemplate your lack of observing weapon safety while you give me twenty!"
In this case, twenty would mean the times getting in and out of the suit in non-powered state. The Sergeant would certainly learn to treat the Turrican weapon systems with more care, that was if he would not be kicked out.
Sometimes first impressions were deceiving. Sergeant Major Vadim Siebold did not have loose screws, he had just slipped in the firing booth, causing the weapon to go into flamethrower mode, and his finger jam down on the trigger.
Vadim was still breathing fast, but his face had a smile of mischief already, as he sat on a bench next to Bren. He was not a model soldier either in the looks department, with brown hair almost to shoulder-level and a heavy stubble.
"Way to start. But still in, still kicking," Vadim said.
"Got my adrenaline going," Bren replied.
For a moment he thought of the paranoid possibility of this incident having been planned by the instructors. But no, it would have been an irresponsible risk. In retrospect it was better to have it happened than not, since it reminded Bren of how in real war anything could happen, at any moment. And Vadim seemed quite like an OK guy. Maybe they would now have a band of three toughing it out through the training – him, Bren and Kris.
Later, once they would get into the proper exercises and scenarios, there would be a ranking list, with the best trainees continuing in the program. The instructors or even the Colonel had not been exactly clear on how many were going to continue. Bren did not like that, to be honest.
Was the UPFF unsure of how many new Turricans it needed? Was it even sure of the true scope of the machine threat?
Bren had trusted the military for so many years of his life, and of course he had seen various degrees of incompetence in action, on all levels of the hierarchy. But so far it had all been just – Bren did not even know. Just games? Practice exercises or low-level peace-keeping without a true enemy?
Now, when there was a real threat, any indecision or incompetence would burn much worse, and to Bren it would matter little who would get the best score. The only thing that mattered was that they would have to be ready enough to fight the machines, and hopefully those above him would be up to their task, so that lives would not be unnecessarily wasted.
Bren was sure Vadim was not thinking in such complicated or negative terms, at least right now. He was just glad to have survived his twenty, and to be back in the game.
"Break's over!" Damon shouted.
Back to mastering the weapon modes. It was best to not worry of things outside your control, Bren reminded himself. Just make sure you are as prepared as possible.
After five hours of firing the Turrican weapons systems, with just a lunch break in between, Bren again felt creeping exhaustion. Yet the day was not even over, there was still the wheel mode introduction remaining. The weapon exercises would continue tomorrow, with higher powered modes yet to be explored. As well as burst and full auto firing.
Thankfully it would be the weekend then, with two full days off.
Bren and Kris walked the Academy sublevel corridor in their suits toward the already familiar exercise and obstacle course section, with Vadim tagging behind.
"So, what do you like best so far?" Kris asked.
For the most part Kris had possessed no trouble in using any of the weapons. Bren could not say exactly the same, though he was still doing OK too.
Bren thought for a moment.
"All have their uses. I thought at first that the suit makes it too easy. That it's just too easy to hit anything. But then, we have to assume the enemy is just as powered-up, and nothing we use is too excessive. But if you had a gun to my head … the powerline."
"Right."
The powerline had so high destructive capacity, each of the trainees had gone into a reinforced steel bunker one by one to test its use. One shot only, against four harmless spherical practice droids. There practically had been no way to miss. After the shot, the whole bunker smelled of ozone and fried electronics. Bren had felt almost bad for the mangled and blackened spheres.
"Hmm. I'd still prefer the flamethrower, though I nearly booted myself out with it. If I can't blow shit up in a controlled manner, the next best thing would be to roast something ... like some mechanical spiders. Or any other small stupid enemies that come at you in a pack," Vadim said.
The first time his suit transformed into wheel mode, and he moved forward just a few meters, Bren was ready to throw up. Seriously, who had come up with this? It was not natural for a human to curl into a ball and roll forward!
Yet Bren understood the problem was in his mind, as the suit itself had an acceleration-countering mechanism that worked by rotating the operator in the opposite direction if the G-forces would exceed a threshold. Furthermore, the operator did not actually spin around the whole time; only the outer surface of the "wheel" did.
He knew he just had to force himself to master this method of transportation too, to overcome the urge to vomit and accept what was happening. Otherwise he would be unfit as a Turrican operator.
Gradually, it started to become easier, and at last Bren trusted himself to not vomit even while making sharp turns. Cameras on the outside surface would give a nearly stabilized image feed of the forward direction, though there were occasional glitches and jittering.
Bumping into the other trainees was also a potential source of humor.
"Keep your dirty wheel off me!" a high-pitched voice shouted over the suit's communications system. It was yet another collision on the wheel obstacle course.
The voice turned out to belong to a short blue-haired Second Lieutenant, Juko Ishikawa. On her the Turrican suit would adjust to the near-smallest size, and therefore she would navigate turns faster as a wheel, or even fit into openings the larger Turricans could not get into.
She also had enough sense of humor to fit into their existing band of three. So now it seemed it was going to be a band of four.
That was large enough to start worrying of whether they would have to compete against each other at some point. In group exercises they would be unlikely to end up in the same team. Instead, the most probable scenario was that they all would get a team to command. It would possibly suck, but what still mattered most was that the best Turricans would make it, Bren mused.
And yet was not even time for the ranking; the first phase of the training was still ongoing. And just now, the weekend!