ONE
YELLOW PRINTS
A ROUGH VIBRATION rippled through the transport, sending a shock through Lance’s bones. Clenching his jaw, he grimaced from the sharp jolt to his joints. He checked his watch; they’d been in flight for nearly two hours now. Grunts of discomfort rose from the others sitting around him. The soft whirring of engines rattled the craft.
A young man, sitting across from Lance, leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees. Being nearly seven-foot tall and built like a tank, he invaded the personal space of everyone around him. A stomach-churning groan left the teen, followed by a belch that filled the stale air with an acidic stench.
“Not one for flying?” a soft voice teased to Lance’s left.
“Shut up, dwarf,” their airsick companion replied.
“Actually I’m a midget, and clearly my compact size makes me a more suitable candidate to be an officer over you as I do not get airsick,” the four-foot-five man countered.
“Justin, lay off the big guy; not everyone resists motion sickness like you do,” Lance muttered as he tossed an elbow into his childhood friend’s arm.
“Are you mocking me?” the giant snarled before letting out another acidic burp.
“Calm down, big guy, he’s just trying to keep the peace,” the young woman sitting next to their nauseous companion countered
as she rubbed his back. “Please forgive him; he gets testy when he’s not feeling well. I’m Stephany Briggs; this is Dexter Conners.”
She offered out her free hand to Lance, who took it, giving her delicate yet firm hand shake.
“I’m Lance Warder; this is Justin Cooper. Please forgive him; he’s just nervous,” Lance replied before tossing a stern glance at the midget.
“Wait, Warder, like…” Stephanie started.
“Yep,” Lance interrupted with a nod. “Like THAT Warder.”
“Well, you’ve got some big shoes to fill,” she countered before locking eyes with Lance.
A dedicated fury raged under the surface of her violet-hazel eyes. Lance ran his hand over his newly shaved head, the soft bristles of what was left tickling his palm as an unsteadiness settled in his gut.
“Please, don’t remind me,” he muttered.
“And I mean no offense, but aren’t you a little short to be a pilot?” she asked Justin.
“That’s what they said to Robert Geyer,” Justin countered. “But he went and flew in three wars as well as saved countless lives when he flew air ambulance missions at the end of World War Two. He was five foot two and a half inches tall, which is nearly five inches taller than the height requirement now.”
“You’re stretching if you’re going for something from that long ago,” Dexter muttered before flashing a sneer at Justin.
The transport shuddered again, causing him to duck his head once more. Lance reached into the pocket of an old leather flight jacket he’d been gifted and held out a small chewable tablet encased in plastic.
“I’ve got some Damextrapine,” he muttered as he handed the pill to Dexter. “It should help.”
Dexter took the packet, ripped it open, and devoured the pill. Within seconds, his symptoms subsided as he sat up straight. Next to him, Stephanie’s petite frame made her look like a toothpick.
“First time in a TT-33A?” Justin asked as he sat back in his seat.
“While it’s flying, yes,” Dexter replied. “What about you, short stack?”
“No, I would like to fly one, though,” Justin countered.
“That’s a tall order,” Dexter teased.
Stephanie elbowed the giant in the ribs. Lance shot Justin a pleading glance. Several other of the sixteen candidates all stared at them, anticipating a fight to break out. With some quick thinking, the short-haired young man leaned forward, putting his weight to one side and partially blocking Justin from Dexter.
“What postings are you hoping for?” he asked to change the subject.
“Electric engineer and communications officer,” Stephanie replied with a cheery bounce in her voice. “I think being part of the Perseus Observatory Station would be a fun posting.”
“I’m hoping to be put with the I.M.G.,” Dexter added. “And any place that isn’t Mars. What about you?”
The transport turned left, giving off a violent shudder. A deep, distant rumble added to the course vibrations of the craft, sending a blend of numbing vibrations and pins and needles jostling through Lance’s lower body. A crackle emanated through the windowless box.
“We apologize about the rough ride. Due to a headwind, we were a little behind schedule,” the tinny voice said. “Today’s shuttle launch is taking place two klicks south of our location with last month’s graduates aboard. We will begin our descent shortly. In the meantime, stay buckled in, and if you don’t D.O.R., you may get to see next month’s launch.”
Lance’s heart raced at the mention of a shuttle launch. He’d watched them on TV and seen them from miles away, but never from as close as boot camp was to the launch site. Closing his eyes, he leaned back against his chair, pressing his back into the uncomfortable leather layer that stood between him and a sheet of metal.
The deep vibrations and rumble of the distant engine overpowered that of their transport. Adrenaline surged as he closed his eyes and flashes of exploration, discovering new star systems, planets and maybe even meeting an alien species flashed through his mind.
A peace washed over him as he opened his eyes. The shuttle’s vibrations dissipated after several seconds, leaving only the trembling transport to continue its rough flight to base. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees.
“Well?” Dexter asked impatiently, waiting for an answer to his question.
“Put me on a ship,” Lance replied. “Send me to Perseus, Carina, Norma; I don’t care, just get me out there.”
“You sure you want to go that far out?” Stephanie asked. “Cryo’s good and all, but you’ll be an old man before you even get to see them.”
“Not if we had faster-than-light travel,” Justin muttered as he picked at his fingernails.
“FTL?” Stephanie scoffed. “That kind of technology can’t exist; textbook Newtonian physics.”
“Can’t exist from our point of view,” Lance countered with a shrug.
“Exactly,” Justin added, pointing at the young man. “It’s all about having a different perspective than those around you. Isn’t that how we still speak of Newton even almost a thousand years later?”
“I don’t think having a clear view of the bottom of most tables counts as a proper different perspective,” Dexter taunted.
“That may be true, but it’s better than having brain damage from slamming my head into every doorway I walk through,” Justin countered. “Is that why you’re so aggressive? All that trauma?”
Dexter snarled, unstrapped his restraint, causing a red light to flash, and stood up. A soft hiss came from the front of the craft.
“SIT DOWN, BOY!” a voice boomed from the cockpit.
Sitting halfway back Lance’s ear still rang as the others winced and held their hands to the sides of their head. Everyone followed the source to see a man of average size sitting in the third co-pilot seat. He wore a grey jumpsuit with a pointed logo that held a small star in its center and a set of wings spreading behind it.
“You will sit back down and fasten your seatbelt or you will be dismissed to hitchhike back home to mommy and daddy like the worm you are!” the officer barked.
His voice rattled the dropship almost as much as the engines did. Dexter let out a frustrated snarl and sat back down before strapping himself back in. The light stopped blinking.
“Do not, I repeat, do NOT remove your harness again. Next person that does will be removed from the program before it even begins,” the pilot barked.
Through the cockpit, Lance caught a glimpse of an exhaust trail stretching from the ground to the sky, the outside light nearly blinding compared to the dark internal transport. With a hiss, a door slid sideways, sealing off the pilots from their cargo.
Lance blinked as his eyes tried to readjust to the dark. Leaning back in his chair, he glanced from Dexter to Justin then back. Both late teens glared at each other. The larger of them crossed his arms like a pouty child while the smaller picked his fingernails with a familiar look in his eye. One that calculated twenty steps ahead and planned for countless eventualities.
“Eh, it doesn’t matter,” Dexter huffed. “It’s not like you’re going to get over the wall anyway.”
“If you say so,” Justin muttered back.
“Okay, guys, that’s enough,” Lance and Stephanie said in unison.
A high-pitched whine whirred from the engines as their forward momentum slowed. Excitement mounted within the young man as he and the others all turned their attention to the outer hull of their transport. Like a rough elevator ride, the transport rattled faster as it entered a vertical descent. The overhead speaker crackled once more.
“We’ve begun our descent; prepare your packets and wait for the bay doors to completely open before exiting,” the voice commanded. “Once you’ve left the craft, fall in line and your drill instructor will take you from there.”
Lance reached under his seat and pulled the manila envelope he’d slid under after he’d sat down. Several others grabbed similar containers as others pulled up their information on their watches to double check their validity.
Opening his envelope, Lance checked his birth certificate, his hemisphere I.D., and civilian class ranking. Closing it back up, he
held the papers against his chest. His heart raced and throat tightened as his nerves finally got to him. What if he was cut from the program, or worse, D.O.R.ed? What if something prevented him from being able to proceed with the rest of his class and he had to redo basic?
NO! Lance thought to himself. Don’t think like that; keep your mindclear. You’ve beentrainingfor thisyour entire life. You have a plan,sticktoit.You’vegotthis!
After his little internal pep-talk, he looked around. The others looked just as nervous as he felt. All except for Stephanie, who brimmed with excitement, and Dexter, who tapped his foot in eager anticipation.
A shudder shook the transport as the whirring of the engines died, leaving only the creaking hull and phantom engine blasts ringing in Lance’s ears. Everyone fell into a tense silence. The air was so thick, if someone managed to sneak a knife on board, they’d be able to cut the tension.
The young man held his breath. His eyes locked on the door near the bow of the craft, as did everyone else’s. Several clicks and metallic thuds echoed through the flying metal can. A hiss followed with a seam giving way.
Light poured in as a portion of the craft lifted up and away. The chants and rhythmic foot-falls of those outside poured in. A series of snaps clattered throughout the hull as everyone unclasped their restraints. With a flick of his fingers on the metal, Lance freed himself as well.
One by one, everyone rose to their feet. In silence, they shuffled out of the craft. Lance’s nervousness transitioned once more to excitement as he reached the door and emerged onto the black tarmac. Humidity hit him like a hammer. Accompanied with the heat, he felt beads of sweat form on his back almost instantly.
As his eyes adjusted, he followed his group, guided by yellow lines, almost a hundred feet from the dropship. Its engines kicked on once again. Lance looked back. The boxy dropship’s door shut. It lifted off by four bulbous thrusters on its bottom. Once it reached
building clearance height, the thrusters on the back kicked in and it flew away.
The group slowed to a stop. Each individual jostled and found a position to stand. With Stephanie and Dexter to his right and Justin to his left, Lance looked down. A half a step ahead of him were two yellow footprints painted into the ground. His heart raced; all he ever wanted to be, everything he’d focused on doing for most of his short life led to this moment, his first steps.
Eagerness overwhelmed him as he positioned his feet onto those legendary spots where countless heroes stood before him. His heart pounded like a war drum as pride swelled within him.
MAGGOTS
“NOW WHAT DO WE HAVE HERE?!” a voice bellowed from their right.
A chill ran down Lance’s spine. Out of habit, his body stiffened, shoulders rolled back and chest puffed out.
“New recruits, sir!” an eager young man’s voice replied from the front of the line.
“That would be a mistake,” Justin whispered.
“DID I SAY YOU COULD SPEAK, BOY?!” the drill instructor roared as he stepped next to the young man, pressing the brim of his campaign hat into the side of his victim’s head. “I DO NOT THINK I SAID YOU COULD SPEAK. GET ON THE GROUND AND PUSH THE EARTH!”
“How many would you like me to do, sir?” the young man asked. Justin released the same groan Lance held him.
“UNTIL I SAY STOP. DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?!” the drill instructor yelled.
He dropped to the ground and started doing pushups.
“Look at you. Your face in the ground; I think I’m going to call you Worm,” their commander sneered. “I am Sergeant Foltur. For the next twelve weeks, I’m going to be your mommy, your daddy, or whatever parental figure saw it fit to unload you degenerates onto me. When I speak to you, the only words I want to hear out of your mouths is yes drill sergeant. Do I make myself clear?”
“YES DRILL SERGEANT!” the entire class screamed as one.
“I’M GOING TO TELL YOU WHAT THERE, CADETS. YOU WILL NOT SPEAK TO ME UNLESS YOU’RE AT THE POSITION OF ATTENTION,” Foltur screamed as he marched up and down the line. “YOUR HEELS ARE TOGETHER, YOUR FEET ARE AT A FORTY-FIVE DEGREE-ANGLE, YOUR THUMBS ARE ON YOUR TROUSER SEAMS, YOUR FINGERS ARE CURLED, YOU SHOULDERS ARE ROLLED BACK, AND YOUR EYEBALLS ARE STRAIGHT TO THE FRONT! AND WHEN YOU ADDRESS ME IT WILL BE AS YES DRILL SERGEANT! DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?!”
“YES DRILL SERGEANT!” Lance roared with the class once again.
Several grunts came from the cadet on the ground as he struggled to push himself up. Reaching the apex of his exercise, he paused to take a breath. Lance stood like a statue as his eyes darted to Worm.
Sergeant Foltur placed a foot between Worm’s shoulders, causing him to slowly descend back to the ground. He scanned the group before perking up, his eyes locked on Lance, Dexter, and Stephanie.
“Now what do we have here?!” he asked as he marched down the class.
He stepped between the rows and turned his attention to Justin before scoffing.
“Not only do I have a group of bright eyes in my class, but a little man as well. This has got to be a first,” the drill instructor mused.
“Midget,” Justin replied before wincing at his own mistake.
“Midget?” Sergeant Foltur scoffed. “Here, you are what I say you are, and I say you are a half-man, a littleling, a D.O.R. in the first week if I’ve ever seen one.”
“Midget is the medical term; all others are derogatory,” Lance chimed in to take the heat from his friend.
“What was that, Bright Eyes?!” Foltur asked as he turned his attention to the cadet.
There wasn’t a wrinkle in his commanding officer’s uniform. Every crease, crisp and perfect with the base of his hat hiding what little hair wasn’t shaved off his head.
“Sir, can I please stop?” Worm called out from the front.
“How many pushups have you done?” Foltur asked.
“Fifty-three,” Worm replied between labored huffs.
“That is not all of them; you may not stop,” Foltur barked before turning his attention back to Lance. “What is your name, boy?”
“Lance Warder, sir,” he replied in a pointed tone.
“A Warder, impressive,” Foltur sneered before rubbing Lance’s shaved head. “And I see we’ve already taken liberties with our hair. That’s good, gives us more time to get to know each other later.”
Lance’s heart raced in his chest. The challenge in Sergeant Foltur’s voice was something he looked forward to. The CO turned and walked to the front of the group.
“You will all follow me to be processed then shown to the barracks,” Foltur ordered.
“Ninety-nine, one hundred, one hundred one,” Worm muttered as their CO passed him.
“Keep your eyes forward, and Worm, get off the ground. I expect you to follow my orders better next time,” Foltur muttered before marching toward the nearest building.
Papers gripped tightly, they brushed against Lance’s jeans as the cadets approached a large, spiraled building of glass.
“Think that’s where the barracks are?” Dexter whispered.
“We aren’t even true cadets yet,” Stephanie replied in just as hushed a tone. “That’s likely where they monitor shuttle launches. What I wouldn’t give to get into that command center.”
Her voice trembled in excitement as she eyed the shiny spire that twirled nearly fifty stories above them. A group of O.C.S. candidates ran by being led by their CO, who yelled in rhymes only for those who followed to repeat after him.
Approaching the building, several men and women, all with shaved heads, in civilian clothes, trudged from the building accompanied by Military Police. Lance watched as the dropouts were escorted to a bus on one of the through streets. Dozens of people stood in defeat as they loaded up.
“THAT will be some of you within the next few weeks,” Foltur said, pointing at those climbing on the bus. “Do you know what those are?”
“D.O.R.’s,” Worm replied.
Several initiates groaned. Lance rolled his eyes.
“Those are, Worm,” Foltur said, shooting the cadet a sharp glare. “And it is my job to make sure each and every one of you want to D.O.R. and only the STRONG will make it through.”
Foltur locked eyes with Lance as he emphasized strength in his speech. He approached the doors that slid open, revealing a sterile building of white Illuminated flooring that matched the walls. A receptionist sat behind a desk directly ahead of them. To her right, a green line marked the ground through a doorway; to her left a red.
“Lance Warder, report to the front!” Foltur ordered.
Taking a deep breath, Lance shot a wink at his nervous childhood friend. Stepping out of line, he approached the drill instructor, who nodded to the receptionist.
“Give her your papers,” the CO said. “And she will give you your serial number.”
Without skipping a beat, Lance handed his envelope over. The receptionist took it, opened it, and pulled his paperwork out before starting to type on her computer.
“Cadet Warder, your number is two, four, six, zero, one,” the receptionist said.
“And since you’ve taken it upon yourself to remove your hair for us, I think I’ll have you help me with a problem we’ve been having,” Foltur said as he crossed his arms over his broad chest and nodded over at the wall next to the red line. “That wall has been a bit wobbly recently. I think it should be up to someone as strapping as you to hold it up.”
“You want me to push on the wall, sir?” Lance asked with a tinge of confusion in his voice.
“I do not,” Foltur countered. “I want you to take a seat.”
Lance’s stomach dropped. He hid his reaction, nodding to his commanding officer. He walked over to the wall, turned around, pushed his back up against the wall, and slid part of the way down until his knees were at a ninety-degree angle.
“Now that’s a sturdy wall support. I’m feeling safer already!” Foltur taunted before turning back to the class. “First row, approach
the desk, surrender your papers, and follow the green line!”
“Yes, sir!” the front row belted.
“That yes is the meat of the bologna sandwich I had for lunch this afternoon, and I can tell you right now it was not open-faced,” Foltur barked. “I said you may approach the desk and surrender your papers.”
“YES DRILL SERGEANT!” they replied before approaching the desk, handing over their papers and entering the room.
Seconds after they entered, a series of electric buzzes echoed from the back room. Lance kept his eyes forward, his stomach tight, and feet planted firmly under his knees. Foltur stepped in front of him, hands behind his back. His chestnut eyes locked on the young man so intently, it was like the CO was staring holes in him.
“How your legs feeling, Bright Eyes?” Foltur asked, his tone just as harsh as ever.
“Like I could do this all day, sir!” Lance replied.
The first row of cadets emerged, following the red line with their hair cut nearly to the scalp. As they passed, Lance noticed several small red spots around their ears.
“Next line, move out!” the drill instructor ordered.
With that, the next line of cadets surrendered their paperwork and followed the green line, only to be greeted by the buzzing of shears. As that group emerged, a slight burning flickered to life in Lance’s calves and thighs. He pushed the discomfort out of his mind, keeping his eyes locked on the basalt stone statue of a man before him.
Mumbles of discomfort and complaints about the shave being too rough drifted from the next group as they emerged from the back room. Their complaints drew Sergeant Foltur’s attention to them. Lance let out a soft sigh; the constant glaring gave him the sensation of ants under his skin.
“Did I hear you maggots right?!” Foltur snarled. “Are you complaining about a little snip here, a little cut there from a pair of hair trimmers? How do you expect to make it through O.C.S., let alone an enemy interrogation if you can’t handle a nick on the ear?!”
He flicked one of the cadet’s bleeding ears, causing him to whimper and recoil.
“Son, I genuinely do NOT think you can handle what we’re about to put you through,” Foltur said, his harsh tone breaking for a moment. “Should you want to drop on request right now, before all the unpleasantries begin, just walk right back over to that nice lady, take your paperwork back, and report to the bus stop.”
The burning in Lance’s legs spread as the next group entered. He took a sharp breath, clenched his jaw, and kept his eyes locked on the poor soul their CO singled out. Buzzing echoed through the lobby once more.
“You just wanted to play soldier, didn’t you?” Foltur said in a whisper so soft, Lance leaned in to hear better. “You wanted to leave your small town to show everyone how big of a hot shot you really are. Well, guess what? THIS IS NOT FOR LITTLE BOYS WHO WANT TO PLAY SOLDIER; THIS IS FOR SOLDIERS NOW EITHER BUCK UP OR GET OUT!”
Foltur pointed toward the door as his whisper erupted into a scream. Lance turned his attention back to the glass wall in front of him. Stephanie, Dexter, and Justin entered as the previous group exited.
Lance let out an uneven exhale as his legs trembled. Every muscle in his appendages burned as his wall sit stretched into the three-minute mark. Stephanie, Dexter, and Justin emerged from the room, all with their heads shaved. Stephanie rubbed where her golden hair once was. The next group moved up.
“I just wanted to be…” the cadet started.
“NOTHING!” Foltur interrupted. “You wanted to be treated as a hero by position alone. Are you going to earn it or are you going to D.O.R. like the little maggot you are?”
A sniffle accompanied the buzzing of the last group getting their hair cut. After several seconds, a series of angry stomps moved away from Lance. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the young man approach the receptionist, take his papers, and storm out of the facility.
“Second fastest one I’ve gotten to D.O.R. yet,” Foltur announced as he turned back to the now hairless class. “If you are not tough, you will not make it here. Do I make myself clear, maggots?!”
“YES DRILL SERGEANT!” they all yelled in unison.
“Good! Now what about you, Bright Eyes; how’re those legs feeling?” Foltur asked with a hint of pleasure in his tone.
“Like I just woke up from a nice long nap, sir!” Lance replied as his body trembled uncontrollably, the burning in his muscles causing beads of sweat to form on his brow.
“Well, ain’t that a peach; looks like we may have a tough one after all! Fall in line, Bright Eyes. We’re taking you to your barracks,” Foltur ordered.
Lance pushed off the wall. The muscles in his legs tightened, screaming to cramp as he shuffled to his class. He fell in line with Stephany, Justin, and Dexter before following the drill instructor out of the building.
