Chapter 22: Practical Experience
Roy had every intention of taking the Victory Day holiday to travel to East City to visit Riza at the Academy there. But then three weeks before the break, it was announced that there were spaces available in the annual elite endurance program. Typically offered only to a select few first-class cadets, the program entailed ten days spent incommunicado at an undisclosed location. It furnished these students with an opportunity to practice some of the more clandestine skills that an officer required. It was a chance to put to work theories that every soldier prayed he would never have to use.
Roy was a model cadet, well-liked by the faculty and well-respected by his peers. He had no trouble making the grade, and he wrote a brief letter of apology to Riza. It was true that he missed her, but this was an excellent opportunity – an opportunity that, if all went well, he would never have again. For though neither his classmates nor his instructors knew it, Cadet Mustang had absolutely no intention of attending the Academy next year.
He hadn't told anyone – not even Maes, who was now a junior officer training with West City's police regiments, but in October it had finally happened. He had counted the bank notes carefully hoarded in his foot locker, and the total had come to fifteen thousand three hundred sens. At last, after more than four years of scrimping and hoarding, he had enough money to take the State Alchemist's exam.
What had pushed him over the threshold was a gift from Riza. She had sent him sixteen hundred sens – her first two months' per diem – and with it a note. It had read:
Dear Mr. Mustang,
Please accept this small token of my Esteem. While
there can be no repayment for the Kindness you have
shown me, I hope that this may serve to offset something
of the Very Great expense that I have been two you
these last years. I will sent more as I am Able.
Please do not think of Refusing this. You must think
first of your Goals, and of the State Alchemist certification that
will allow you to achieve them.
I remain yours faithfully,
Riza Hawkeye.
Despite her words, Roy wanted to return the money. What in the end induced him to keep it was the realization that though he did not feel Riza was in his debt, she did. He knew all too well how corrosive a feeling of helpless obligation could be. He had written back to thank her, and to tell her that no further repayment was needed. Once his application was accepted, he planned to send her another letter explaining why.
discidium
Roy missed Maes Hughes. It wasn't just that Maes was his best friend and the only person on the planet, besides Riza Hawkeye, whom the cadet could trust. It wasn't just that Maes was funny, and charismatic, and eternally optimistic. It wasn't just that without him there were no enthusiastic conversations about the beautiful future that awaited the pair of them once they embarked on their careers. It wasn't even the fact that without Maes to attract unwanted girls as a pot of honey attracts flies, Roy had to work much harder on his Friday night excursions into town. Though these were all good reasons for missing Maes Hughes, there was another one. Named Mark Zlotsky.
Cadet Zlotsky was in second year. Since the rest of the second-class were all paired off, Mark had been assigned to Roy as a roommate. He was twenty-one going on nine: a puerile, obnoxious, nosy scion of some rich mercantile dynasty. He was by nature a toady, one of those parasites who latched onto persons perceived to possess power and influence.
He was naturally thrilled to be rooming with Cadet Mustang, whose popularity among the faculty was well known. A lieutenant of the honour guard, a student with impeccable grades both in the military courses and in the alchemy classes that he took at the university (for easy credit, naturally), and now a hand-picked candidate for one of the most jealously guarded programs at the Academy... Roy was exactly the kind of person on whom Zlotsky loved to feed. Mark incessantly questioned him about his coursework. He grilled him about instructors' preferences, and was constantly trying to curry favours in exchange for dubious quid pro quos involving his diverse network of second-rate officers, ambitious businessmen, and family acquaintances.
So Roy was really not surprised to be interrogated regarding the endurance program as he tried to revise for his Tactics exam.
"Is it true you'll be training with Special Ops?" Mark asked in his usual nasal voice, flopping onto his bed and peeling off his socks to reveal thick, bony toes.
"I can't discuss that," Roy said, more because he wanted to drive the jerk crazy than because the statement was true. As a matter of fact, he had no idea if he'd be training with Special Ops or not. Probably not. The syllabus that he had been given described the excursion as "an intensive course in specialized command and defensive techniques of particular value to those who will serve in a front line capacity". Beyond that and the extremely short list of personal belongings that he was allowed to bring with him, he knew nothing.
"Aw, you can trust me!" wheedled Mark. He took out a pair of scissors and began to clip his toenails, sending shards flying in every direction. "After all, we're friends."
"No, we're roommates," Roy said in annoyance. "And not particularly compatible ones, either."
Among Zlotsky's many flaws was a complete inability to pick up upon the normal social cues. "I was thinking that you really oughtta meet my father," he went on. "He's got a lot of influence with the Parliament, you know, and that can be handy for a young officer. Then I could meet your parents, and..."
"Trust me, you don't need to meet my parents," Roy said sourly. "We're not bunking together voluntarily, you know: this isn't going to end in a wedding."
"Well, I know that!" Mark chuckled, completely undaunted. "But you never know what our families could do for each other. Your father's an entrepreneur like mine, isn't he?"
"Actually, no," Roy said sarcastically. "My mother's the entrepreneur, and my father's an eccentric who plays with matches. Now shut up and let me study!"
"I'm just saying that there could be such a thing as a quid pro quo in all of this..."
Roy moaned softly under his breath. God, how he missed Maes!
discidium
By the time the holiday rolled around, Roy was just relieved at the prospect of ten days without Mark Zlotsky. When he and the forty-nine others assembled by the two canvas-covered troop transport trucks that would take them to the location of the training exercises, he could feel the excitement in the air, but he shared little of it. He was already having second thoughts about his choice to attend. After all, he wanted to be a State Alchemist. He wouldn't be anywhere near the front lines, and he probably didn't need specialized training for that eventuality. He could've been on a train speeding towards East City right now, on his way to see Riza. Instead, he was being loaded into a stuffy transport on his way to who knows where.
The drive was not a long one, but the cadets could not see where they were being taken. A couple of the seniors whispered speculations to each other as the vehicle lurched to a halt. Roy's curiosity was piqued: they were obviously still in Central, or at the very least in the immediate vicinity. Then the driver came around and opened the back of the truck, revealing the inside of a large warehouse rent in twain by a plywood divider.
"Step lively, cadets!" he ordered. "Muster for inspection!"
There was a brief shuffling, accompanied by swift adjustment of uniforms and hasty button-fastening. Someone shouted for attention, and the fifty young men snapped into the rigid, formal stance as a small group of officers came towards them. Roy recognized one of their number at once: the thin, saturnine man second from the left was General Haman, the Twisted Jade Alchemist. Roy had seen him only once before, almost four years ago, when in juvenile ignorance he had gone to Military Headquarters to apply to write the State Alchemist's exam. Now, versed as he was in military etiquette, he had to wonder what such a high-ranking officer was doing greeting a group of cadets.
As he took in the visage of the man to Harman's left, his astonishment heightened. He had never seen him in person before, but there could be no mistaking the chiselled jaw, the neatly trimmed moustache and the black eye patch.
It was Fuhrer President King Bradley.
He stopped, surveyed the line, and then saluted crisply. "At ease, cadets," he said. Though they all obeyed, moving their feet shoulder-width apart and clasping their hands behind their backs, not one of them looked even remotely relaxed. Roy wasn't the only one who was having a hard time believing that the Fuhrer himself – the leader of all of Amestris and the supreme general of the military – was here (wherever here was!) to greet them.
"I'll spare you the motivational speech," the Fuhrer said, his lone eye travelling up and down the line. "Obviously you are the finest that Amestris has to offer, or you wouldn't be here. I'll save your time and mine, because you have a busy ten days ahead of you. I have only this piece of advice to offer you. It wasn't so long ago that I stood where you stand now, and I can say with authority that you will get out of this experience what you put into it. Treat it like a game, and you'll come away the same green kids you are now. Take it seriously – put yourself into the situation and behave like soldiers – and by the end you'll be as ready for combat as it is in our power to make you. That is all. Good luck."
Roy half hoped that the other members of his entourage would speak – General Haman in particular. But the Fuhrer strode away past the partition, and the others followed him. Then a captain with a pointed goatee came forward and told the cadets just what it was that they had all so eagerly signed up for.
It was a reality of military service in war time that officers ran the risk of being captured by the enemy. Although Creda with its republic and its rights "for the people" was renowned, even in Amestris, for its humane treatment of prisoners, the armies of Aerugo employed techniques of interrogation that had broken more than one high-ranking captive with disastrous consequences. Thus it was decided that a number of the most promising cadets should be given a chance to apply some of the rudimentary resistance strategies that all officer candidates heard about in lecture. That was the purpose of this endurance test.
The fifty cadets, the captain explained, had been "taken captive" by the Aerugans. They would be held and interrogated, and it was their duty to refrain from disclosing any of the information with which they had been trusted. Over the course of the ten days, they would have opportunities to practice the techniques that they had read about – passive resistance, compartmentalization, equivocation. Grades would be assigned for creativity, consistency and above all reticence. All care would be taken to ensure that no one came to any permanent harm, but that did not mean that no one would get hurt. If they failed to take it seriously...
He didn't say it, but they all understood. If they didn't take it seriously they would return to the Academy in disgrace. If they deported themselves well, they would emerge with a good grade, the respect of the instructors, and invaluable firsthand experience in resisting hostile inquisitors.
The "interrogators" were a group of men whose average age was four or five years older than the fourth-year cadets. They wore nondescript civilian clothes and attempted to act (and certainly to swear) like barbarians, but if anyone was fooled Roy was not. They were Amestrian officers, and he suspected that they were Special Ops after all. Or at least Special Ops trainees. It occurred to him more than once during the bleary days that followed that this might be as much of an exercise for them as it was for the cadets. He hoped it wasn't. He didn't want to believe that Amestris employed such torture tactics against its enemies.
The primary component of the program was deprivation. The cadets were not allowed to sleep, and were fed only sporadically. This, the captain told them repeatedly, was a simple but effective way to wear down a soldier's psychological fortitude while weakening the body. It was a classic brainwashing technique, and they must not succumb.
The cadets met that challenge admirably. Divided into smaller groups and locked in small plywood "cells", they passed the time with jokes and lewd stories. When one was taken out for questioning, he could always expect to return to comrades putting on a cheerful face. Any initial tendency to compete was quickly replaced by stubborn camaraderie. Had this been an Aerugan prisoner-of-war camp and not a warehouse somewhere in Central, Amestris would have been very proud of her boys in blue.
The "interrogation" sessions were more challenging. These were typically individual exercises: one "prisoner" and one "captor", one cadet and one Special Op. Some simply resembled police questioning: a hard wooden chair, bright lights, the occasional blow to the head. Others were more involved. On one occasion, Roy was shackled to a table leg for ten hours before the interrogator came in, tempting him with water and promises of sleep. Once the "Aerugan" bound his arms behind his back from the wrists to the elbows, and then strung him up so that his toes barely grazed the floor. By the time that session was over, it was very hard to remember that it was all just a game, a test... and when he was finally returned to his group, Roy was convinced that this was, in fact, an exercise for the Special Ops.
On the eighth day, the "prison" was dismantled, and the two groups sat down for a collective debriefing. The cadets had a chance to share their experiences and the strategies that had served them well. The plainclothes soldiers (for now that it was over Roy was once again doubting his conviction that they were members of some secret, elite regiment) offered constructive criticism where it was needed, and praise where it was due. The captain and his staff had their input, and the grades were given out. Roy was proud to be included in the ninety-fifth percentile.
On the ninth night, a truck full of liquor came in, and everyone got roaring drunk together. It was one hell of a party, and it reinforced for Roy all the reasons that he loved the military. They had all been through a harrowing (albeit contrived) experience, and it had brought them closer together.
It was a haggard but self-satisfied crowd of cadets who returned to the Academy at the end of the ten days. Proud of himself and of his comrades, Roy was even able to ignore the perpetual chattering of his nepotistic roommate as he soaked in a hot shower, brushed his teeth for the first time in over a week, and folded himself into the comfort of his narrow bed. He slept for thirteen uninterrupted hours.
discidium
The time came for the third-year cadets to apply for their administrative practicum. Each was given a booklet with rubrics of the different placements. They were allowed to name their top three preferences, which would be taken into consideration when the duty assignments were given.
Remembering Maes' experience with the education office, Roy was careful to steer clear of any such domestic placement. The medical administration office, the public works division, the parliamentary details – all these he ruled out. He wasn't particularly interested in policing, either. But there was one such practicum that did catch his eye.
One of the new State Alchemists wanted to take a student. He was directing a committee out of the Railroad Bureau that was, according to the brief, responsible for a new line that had to cut through the most south-western spur of the Briggs Mountains.
The Alchemist had a team of four engineers, and sought a "dedicated, hard-working cadet with an active interest in alchemy". Letters of intent were required for pupils hoping to be chosen for that assignment.
Roy wrote his with care. Perhaps a State Alchemist would have some pointers on preparing for the exam. Perhaps the man would be willing to give him time to practice. At the very least, it would be a welcome change to have someone skilled to talk to. The professors at the university were intelligent, but not accessible, and Roy found most of his classmates in the alchemy courses to be considerably below his standard. He ached for a challenge, for a chance to improve his skills. Though he had to keep his flame alchemy tightly under wraps, he still would love to mess around with rocks and rails under the supervision of a State Alchemist.
It would bring him one step nearer to his dreams. He wrote the letter, submitted it, and prayed that he would be chosen while winter descended over Central and the weeks slipped swiftly by.
