Chapter 24: No Way Out

The weather pressed reset. Bright sunlight replaced the gradual darkness of the thick clouds above. All the recruits lined up for the pods. The second combat exercise demanded the same ritual as the first.

Iadarola stood in the lineup ahead.

“Hey.” Dozer called out. “You still up for being our forth?”

“If you guys can get me over the line to Level 1,” Iadarola massaged the back of his neck, “sure.”

“Good to hear.” The guy wasn’t the tallest recruit but he was plenty wide. Dozer bet he’d get roughhead. The fireteam needed one.

Iadarola gave up his place in line and got back in front of Dozer. “What’s the plan?” He spoke over his shoulder.

“Plan?” Dozer shrugged. “We haven’t even gotten the briefing yet. Shoot up the baddies until we get a pass, I suppose.”

“I heard if you don’t get a pass today, you’re going for the death mission?”

Dozer shot an accusing look backward. Coldcase shook his head, and Model put up his hands.

“Where did you hear that?”

Iadarola tugged on his ear. “The barracks aren’t private, are they?”

“Fair enough.” Dozer raised his eyebrows. “Yeah. I get that mission and—boom—Level 3. One plot mission and I can carry the rest of the fireteam to the end of boot.”

Coldcase leaned out from behind Model. “He’s got this idea in his head. Won’t listen to reason.”

“Serious?” Iadarola’s voice went up in pitch. “How do you plan to do it?”

Dozer John extended two fingers under his chin and fired the imaginary gun with his thumb hammer. “Pop.”

“Um.” Iadarola swallowed. “But I need a pass today.”

“Man.” Model slid his eyes to the side. “I don’t know about this whole idea.” He spoke to dozer and ignored Iadarola.

“It’s a game.” John turned his back to the Iadarola. “No one dies in games, and if I don’t snag that mission, someone else will. Today might be the day.”

“Because of those pods in there?” Coldcase pointed down the line.

“We’re saving our games.”

“Private Dozer!” The second-class’s voice came from behind. John shuddered. “Quit your gum flapping! You’re next.”

Iadarola pressed his lips into a grimace before he lay in his pod.

“Try to think about nothing.” The DI pulled the lid down.

The pod beside Iadarola opened, and the recruit hopped out. Dozer slipped in as soon as he could. Better to be on the ball than to eat any more of the DI’s shit.

“Try to think about nothing.”

For a second, Dozer found himself alone. In the last two weeks, he could count the times without the pressure of others around him on one hand. In this womb—

***

John sucked in a hard breath through the rebreather. The particulates adrift on the air in the casteless level stung his eyes.

The rank body odor of the crowd around filled the space inside his rebreather. Even if they reeked, they got to choose the clothes they stank up. John had to wear a blue Labor jumpsuit. Not burgundy or black. The damned blue. He’d rather stink.

Auburn hair, shaved on the sides, pulled into an elaborate braid on the back, caught John’s eye. Reynold Bauer stood a full head above the crowd. He wore the burgundy of Leadership, a lord striding through the peasantry. No one dared to get within arm’s length. He could reach out and snap the neck of any casteless who wronged him. The rest of Leadership would accept the barest of excuses, the boldest of lies, as gospel.

“That’s our target.” The old man’s voice didn’t come in through John’s ears. Rather, the audio routed through the hunk of metal on the back of his neck and along his auditory neurons. “You won’t ever get a tail as easy as this one, I’ll tell you that. Keep your distance but keep him in sight.”

“Roger.” John subvocalized the word. The cybernetic implant sent his communication.

John followed. Bauer kept his head up but fixed forward. Leadership slumming the casteless level would take in the sights and explore around them. This guy had somewhere to go.

Through the crowd, between the sea of stranger’s faces, John caught sight of a jawline he recognized, black hair lifted into a bun. Frantzisca spoke to a casteless merchant by the far wall. She held up a terminal and showed the screen to the merchant.

John's heart seemed to take in twice as much blood and pushed it all out in one pained beat. A warmth radiated through his chest, arms, and cheeks. Did she still search for him?

“You know the deal.” The old man’s voice intruded. “If she knows you’re alive, she gets recycled. Make sure she doesn’t see you—for her sake.”

***

Dozer woke to the hiss of the pod’s hydraulics. A silence replaced the rushed sounds and conversations of the recruits.

What the hell was that?

That thing on Hadfield with Frantzisca… Dozer couldn’t call it a dream. It had no dream logic. It stuck Reynold more like a realistic memory that never happened.

The first-class leaned over Dozer. “Too fucking bad you already got a nickname. Otherwise, I’d name you ‘Dumbass!’”

Dozer got in a pod near the entrance. Somehow, he had transferred to another pod in the other end of the room, under the window. Purple twilight had already fallen over Hollow Mountain outside.

“What happened?” Dozer caressed his scalp. Someone must have shaved off the stubble he grew over the last few weeks.

“Holy shit.” Model leaned on the end. “You’re back. Like walking, talking back!”

His fatigues didn’t cover his arm like when he went in. Only bare skin showed. Dozer didn’t wear a stitch of clothing.

“You found out what happens when you die.” Coldcase leaned in. “Wasn’t pretty.”

Dozer searched for the mission in the WarFace. He discovered it filled in grey. It said, “Fulfilled by PVT. Dozer.”

Nice. I got it!

He went into his profile and selected the experience option. The experience bar hadn’t moved, not one bit. A clawed hand clenched his stomach and squeezed. The bar should have had five times the experience. Dozer had made zero progress. None.

“Some other dumbass called Private Dozer got the mission,” The DI pressed a thick finger into Dozer’s chest, “but you’re not that dumbass. You are a copy of that dumbass.” He tossed fatigues onto Dozer’s lap. “Get dressed.”

Dozer’s particular brand of funk wafted off of the fatigues, and something else. A patch of blood—about the size of his hand—had hardened on the back of his collar. He slipped the blouse on. The coagulated patch cracked and flaked.

“You aren’t the first dumbass to get your hand caught in that honeypot.”

He jumped out of the pod and into his boxers, trousers, and boots.

The DI held a mop handle with the mop submerged in a wheeled bucket. “If you want to keep your progress, don’t die.” He gave the handle to Dozer. “Bring that and come with me. Your teammates can fill you in on the way.”

I was right. The pods are a save point, but I did the exercise. My real body didn’t die. Why did I “remember” Hadfield and not the exercise itself?

While the DI led, Dozer pushed the bucket in front of him. “The exercise. What did I do?”

Coldcase plodded beside. “Before we say, do you remember anything?”

“Something.” He spoke under his breath. “I’ll tell you about that later.”

The DI cocked his head and pretended not to listen. They turned the corner and marched along the side of the parade deck.

“But about the exercise? I should, right? My body didn’t die. I still did it, didn’t I?”

“Yeah.” Model slid up on the other side. “We went to the next level up in Hollow. The place had a similar layout, but there were no lights. We only had lights on our helmets and rifles. Iadarola got his leg paralyzed almost right away.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t think he’ll work with us.” Model put a hand on Dozer’s shoulder. “He’s not happy how the exercise turned out. Anyway, you went to get him out of the line of fire, and you got hit in the chest.”

A shiver ran up Dozer’s spine.

“Long story short,” Coldcase scratched his nose, “we got swarmed by a couple of bot fireteams, one on each side. We were the first casualties of the exercise.”

“How many kills?”

“A fat zero.”

Dozer slumped his shoulders. “Fucking dog shit.”

“You remember any of this?” Coldcase tapped his temple.

“Nope.” Dozer shook his head. “Like, there’s something there, but when I try to remember, It’s—”

“On the tip of your tongue?”

“Yeah.”

Our Elroy knows something about the game.

“Had you done yourself in on the parade deck,” the DI spoke over his shoulder, “I would have brought you back from death to throttle you to the brink. Lucky for you, you dirtied up the landing pad.”

They came to a brown stain on the concrete. Chunks of grey matter still rotted out in the open. A few bits of scalp, blond stubble on them, sat in the solidified pool. The air held a coppery taste. He tasted it. It churned his stomach. At least the medics took the body away.

“I want all of this so clean, I can eat chow off of it.” The DI stood with his arms on his hips. “And next time you’re tempted to blow your brains out, use them first.”