An Exercise of Wills

Five rapid clicks went off in Cadet Nate Morales’ ear, and he straightened in response in spite of himself. The ambush point was a bit of a ways off from the cave he was sitting in, but as the team COM faded back into radio silence, he recalled that there were six bogies unaccounted for the last he checked, and resisted the urge to advise Palatini Squad to proceed cautiously. This was the part where Morales had to put his faith in them, and it wouldn’t do for him to compromise their hard-earned element of surprise.
He turned his attention to Lieutenant Cadet Kennedy Mehaffy, Varangian Squad’s leader and the designated “hostage” in today’s field exercise. She hadn’t been issued a helmet, so there was no way she knew what was going on, and yet Morales couldn’t shake the suspicion that she could sense his restlessness. There wasn’t anyone in her squad that he was afraid of going toe-to-toe with, but the waiting — that was the part he was never good at. Double checking that his COM was switched off, he spoke, albeit more to temper his own heightened anticipation than to make conversation. “Guess you’re about to lose our bet, Mehaffy. Your squad is walking right into the killzone.”
“Don’t start counting your chickens just yet,” scoffed Mehaffy. “Wareck’s IFF trick is a double-edged sword and he knows it. Besides, your top asset’s not even down there, he’s stuck on babysitting duty with you.” She jerked her head in the direction of Cadet Hector Thornhill, who was keeping watch nearby in disciplined silence.
Thornhill adjusted his grip on his MA3, scanning the forest below intently. “Cut the chatter, Morales. Wareck counted six hostiles before ordering radio silence, and that was five clicks we heard just now. Odds are Varangian is up to something.”
Morales contemplated this for a moment. “Stay with the package. I’ll get eyes on the killzone.” He motioned to Thornhill, silently signalling his intent to use himself as bait for anyone lying in wait outside the cave. His teammate nodded wordlessly in response.
Something was amiss, Morales could feel it in his gut the moment he stepped out onto the ridge overlooking the forest, deliberately walking away from the cave entrance and out of Thornhill’s line of sight. The clearing that Oliver Wareck, his squad leader, had designated as the ambush point was easily visible from his position, and yet there was no sign of engagement even though Palatini Squad would have made contact with Varangian by now. Mehaffy was right, they had to know it was a trap. But can they outmanoeuvre us, that’s the qu—
Just then he felt the barrel of an MA3 press against his back, and the subtle tightening of metallic fingers around the rifle’s grip told him who it was even before he heard Cadet Felix Martel murmur in his ear, “Helmet off, Morales. Toss it into the trees — quietly.”
Slowly, Morales set down his own gun before reaching up to unfasten the straps around his helmet. He abruptly thumbed his COM switch and shouted, “Package is compromised! Engage, repeat, engage!” He was thrown to the ground before he even finished the sentence, but nimbly rolled aside as paintballs splattered and ricocheted against the stony surface next to him.
Fumbling to grab his MA3, Morales cursed as Martel kicked it over the edge before adjusting his aim, and without hesitation, Morales rolled off the ridge as well, making a short if undignified tumble into the trees below. He scrambled to get clear as more paintballs whizzed through the air around him, though he noticed that Martel was not wearing his training gear for some reason. He did not have time to ponder this, however, as Thornhill rushed outside right as Morales’ vision was obscured by leaves. He managed to drop to the ground feet-first, quickly checking himself for any sign that he had been hit; aside from a few specks of paint spatter, he was relatively unmarked.
Tempting as it was to climb his way back up, Morales could now hear the telltale sound of gunfire from the nearby clearing. He drew his M6 and expediently slinked toward the commotion, confident that Thornhill was more than a match for an unarmoured Martel. Resourceful as Varangian might be, victory would belong to Palatini today.
•••
Felix saw Hector coming out of the corner of his eye, but it wasn’t enough time for him to fully turn before the rifle was knocked out of his hands. He barely managed to block the flurry of blows that ensued, quickly realizing that he was backpedalling toward the edge of the ridge toward the spot where Morales had fallen. Felix caught Hector’s fist between his prosthetic fingers and planted his weight against the stone surface, fighting to prevent his opponent from pushing him any further back while his other hand fended off the jabs aimed at his torso and abdomen. It came as no surprise that Hector was still faster and stronger than him, and he had learned just how much in the mere ten days since they had arrived at Corbulo Academy. Felix lowered his stance and charged forward, still gripping tightly to Hector’s fist, using his concentrated momentum to send them both rolling to the ground.
A deft strike to Felix’s unprotected stomach caused him to gasp, and his hand unclenched from Hector’s involuntarily. Now with the older boy sitting on top of him to hold him in place, Felix thrashed and punched up at him in an effort to free himself. His prosthetic hand struck Hector’s visor at full force, shattering it and sending a shower of glass raining down around them, but the brief moment of shock quickly abated as Hector swiftly drew his sidearm. Reacting on instinct, Felix blocked the first shot with his prosthetic, splattering them both and causing Hector to blink furiously in surprise. Felix managed to close his metallic fingers around the barrel of the gun, pointing it downward between their chests as it discharged several times; paint seeped out from between his fingers but he held fast, squeezing the barrel as hard as he could in an effort to render the weapon useless. He kneed Hector twice in the gut, hard enough to send him staggering back a few paces and relinquishing the handgun at last.
That was when he saw it — a fresh M6 in his opponent’s left hand, and only then did Felix notice that his own sidearm had been snatched from his hip during their scuffle. He rushed to close the distance with a yell of defiance and desperation as Hector raised the gun. His clenched prosthetic fist made contact with the side of the older boy’s face a moment before the first round erupted against Felix’s side at point-blank range, sending paint all over his unarmoured fatigues even as blood sprayed from Hector’s mouth at the same time. Both of them staggered away from each other, and Felix knew then and there that it was over. For Hector locked eyes with him just then, teeth stubbornly clenched as he took aim once more, seemingly heedless of the gash in his cheek running red. The pistol flashed twice, sending Felix flying back-first onto the ground, the wind knocked out of him as the paint hardened around his bruised ribs.
“Exercise complete,” announced Orlin from the forest below. “Varangian wins. All cadets, cease fire and link up for extraction.”
At this, Hector’s laser-focused gaze finally diverted from Felix, lowering the handgun as he peered back toward the cave. Felix managed to sit up stiffly, wheezing a little but managing a smirk as he saw that Mehaffy was nowhere to be seen. The older boy’s attention returned to him almost immediately. “It was a double feint,” he realized. “You let us believe you were the only one up here, but there was someone else. Cecil?”
“Cecil,” affirmed Felix, wincing as his friend helped him stand. “We put two of your guys into our gear after Gilly strung them up with some vines. It was amazing, she said she just improvised but you should’ve seen her.”
“Yeah? Why do I get the feeling this was your idea?” Hector muttered, switching on the M6’s safety before slipping it back into Felix’s holster. The two of them hobbled off the side of the ridge to rejoin their squads, both covered in paint and blood. “You know Forsberg’s going to give you hell for running the exercise without your gear, right? Never mind the earful you’re about to get from Doc Spini when he takes a look at your ribs.”
Felix laughed, and immediately regretted it as his ribs flared up in response. “Then don’t steal my gun next time, asshole.”
“You were the one who decided to fight me with no armour,” responded Hector with a half-shrug, wiping the blood from his cheek with his forearm. “Your choice, your consequences. I don’t expect you to pull any punches on me either.”
“You got that right.”
As Felix stumbled his way toward the sound of the clearing where Varangian and Palatini were gathering, he took another sidelong glance at Hector. It had been a month since the two of them had accepted ONI’s deal to attend OCS at Corbulo, after everything had fallen apart for them on Eridanus II; only a month since Colonel Michael Thornhill had destroyed their lives, and whatever justice Felix hoped for had died with the Colonel when Hector drove a knife through his eye in retribution. He swallowed at the memory of his own father’s death — a good man, unlike Hector’s father. And whatever life that his mother had wanted for him, it was long gone now. Burned to ash with the farm he and his family had once called home.
What kind of life would you have wanted, Hector? Who would you want to be, if none of this had happened? Felix pushed the thought away, knowing deep down that ONI would never allow them to have it. They put us here for a reason. Probably watching us day and night. That’s why I can’t pull my punches, not if I want to see mom or Astor or Tom ever again. That’s all I can still hope for, some part of myself that belongs to me and no one else.
Still, the question lingered in his mind. What keeps you going now, Hector? What is it that you want to call yours and yours alone?
Category:The Weekly Winners
Category:The Weekly