counting out her assigned demerits. She was hungry, she was tired, and she didn’t want to be here. But she needed to be here, and she needed to play along with her superior’s demands. Whether or not it was fun.
Pity.
Three days later, the members of Class 7157 were ordered into the training gym for their first day of basic combat instruction. Their bodies still ached from the constant rounds of physical exercise, long marches, and demerit punishments, but not quite as much as they had at the start. The large, fan-cooled hall, with its padded mats and mirrored walls, was half-filled with other training classes. Sergeant Tae led them to one of the large, blue mats, marked with five white circles reminiscent of a wrestling mat, and turned over control of the class to Sergeant Linley with a flick of his baton.
Having learned to pay attention over the last three days—and the physically exhausting consequences that came from doing otherwise—the five squads formed their “teaching position.” A and B Squads dropped into cross-legged seats on the ground, C and D Squads knelt, and E Squad stood, allowing all forty-five class members plenty of room to see whatever was about to happen. Surveying the quiet, attentive group, their Regimen Trainer began.
“Today, you will begin your training in the primary job of any military: how to place your bodies, your weapons, and even your lives between the civilians and the government you are here to learn how to protect, and whatever may try to threaten them. This is your number one most important job of anything you may do in the Space Force. In the future, you may find yourself assigned permanently to Kitchen Duty, based on your abilities . . . or lack thereof,” Linley acknowledged wryly, “but if you pass Basic Instruction, you will be expected at any moment to be able to exchange your spatulas for stunner rifles, and defend the Terran United Planets and its lawfully assigned interests, and do so at a moment’s notice.
“If you get really good,” she added, displaying a rare sense of humor for them, “you may even learn how to kill someone with a spatula . . . and not just through food poisoning.”
A handful of the others laughed at that. Ia smiled a little, but the sergeant’s words had triggered the timestreams in the back of her mind. She struggled to suppress the visions of seeing someone actually slaughtering a fellow sentient with the thin, sharp edge of a metal spatula. Not in the military, and not on Earth, but in a mining colony dome several star systems and a couple decades from here.
The images weren’t nearly as funny as their Regimen Trainer had made it sound.
Linley addressed them again, giving Ia something to focus on. Mainly because it involved herself. Lifting her chin a little, the sergeant continued. “Now, some of you already come into the Service thinking they know how to fight. Recruit Ia! Front and center!”
Shoving awkwardly to her feet—weighted down by her tiled straps—Ia positioned herself so that she half faced the others as well as her instructor. “Sergeant, yes, Sergeant!”
“According to your file, you apparently have an Afaso Mastery rank. Is that so?” Linley asked her.
“Sergeant, yes, Sergeant,” Ia agreed. She knew what the other woman wanted from her, and provided it. “This Recruit is an unvowed Full Master of the Afaso martial arts system, Sergeant.”
“Indeed. The Afaso,” Linley informed the others, “are a militant order, as well as a religious one. Having been founded shortly before Terrans reached out into the stars, the Afaso absorbed and amalgamated all known forms of martial arts into a single training system. After the Second Human Empire joined the Alliance, they further expanded and merged their knowledge of weaponless and archaic weaponry based combat systems. They are the finest warriors outside of an actual military organization, and you do not want to take them on in hand-to-hand combat
Pity.
Three days later, the members of Class 7157 were ordered into the training gym for their first day of basic combat instruction. Their bodies still ached from the constant rounds of physical exercise, long marches, and demerit punishments, but not quite as much as they had at the start. The large, fan-cooled hall, with its padded mats and mirrored walls, was half-filled with other training classes. Sergeant Tae led them to one of the large, blue mats, marked with five white circles reminiscent of a wrestling mat, and turned over control of the class to Sergeant Linley with a flick of his baton.
Having learned to pay attention over the last three days—and the physically exhausting consequences that came from doing otherwise—the five squads formed their “teaching position.” A and B Squads dropped into cross-legged seats on the ground, C and D Squads knelt, and E Squad stood, allowing all forty-five class members plenty of room to see whatever was about to happen. Surveying the quiet, attentive group, their Regimen Trainer began.
“Today, you will begin your training in the primary job of any military: how to place your bodies, your weapons, and even your lives between the civilians and the government you are here to learn how to protect, and whatever may try to threaten them. This is your number one most important job of anything you may do in the Space Force. In the future, you may find yourself assigned permanently to Kitchen Duty, based on your abilities . . . or lack thereof,” Linley acknowledged wryly, “but if you pass Basic Instruction, you will be expected at any moment to be able to exchange your spatulas for stunner rifles, and defend the Terran United Planets and its lawfully assigned interests, and do so at a moment’s notice.
“If you get really good,” she added, displaying a rare sense of humor for them, “you may even learn how to kill someone with a spatula . . . and not just through food poisoning.”
A handful of the others laughed at that. Ia smiled a little, but the sergeant’s words had triggered the timestreams in the back of her mind. She struggled to suppress the visions of seeing someone actually slaughtering a fellow sentient with the thin, sharp edge of a metal spatula. Not in the military, and not on Earth, but in a mining colony dome several star systems and a couple decades from here.
The images weren’t nearly as funny as their Regimen Trainer had made it sound.
Linley addressed them again, giving Ia something to focus on. Mainly because it involved herself. Lifting her chin a little, the sergeant continued. “Now, some of you already come into the Service thinking they know how to fight. Recruit Ia! Front and center!”
Shoving awkwardly to her feet—weighted down by her tiled straps—Ia positioned herself so that she half faced the others as well as her instructor. “Sergeant, yes, Sergeant!”
“According to your file, you apparently have an Afaso Mastery rank. Is that so?” Linley asked her.
“Sergeant, yes, Sergeant,” Ia agreed. She knew what the other woman wanted from her, and provided it. “This Recruit is an unvowed Full Master of the Afaso martial arts system, Sergeant.”
“Indeed. The Afaso,” Linley informed the others, “are a militant order, as well as a religious one. Having been founded shortly before Terrans reached out into the stars, the Afaso absorbed and amalgamated all known forms of martial arts into a single training system. After the Second Human Empire joined the Alliance, they further expanded and merged their knowledge of weaponless and archaic weaponry based combat systems. They are the finest warriors outside of an actual military organization, and you do not want to take them on in hand-to-hand combat
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