“Forgetting something, are we, Cadet?”
Galen rendered a proper hand salute and said, “Ma’am, Cadet Raper reports.”
She returned the gesture. “Sit down.”
Galen dropped his salute, took one right-step, looked over his right shoulder then back to the front, took one step backward and sat in the visitor chair, heels together, palms flat on his thighs and back straight. He turned his head slightly to the left to face the academic advisor.
“Relax. You graduate this afternoon. Kick back and take it easy.”
Galen leaned back slightly. “Yes Ma’am.”
“Mello out. Look, Galen, you are aware of the fact you are two hundred and ten centimeters tall.”
“Yes Ma’am.”
“Then why did you pick armor?”
Galen spread his fingers and rubbed his thighs. “I’m tired of hearing that. For two years that’s all I’ve heard. ‘Why aren’t you in infantry?’ I’m tired of it. I like tanks.”
“You do realize, Cadet, that you still have demerits against you. But they’ve been waived so that you can graduate. We really didn’t want to keep you around this weekend working them off.” She studied Galen for a moment and gave a sly smile. “You’re a good looking man. I could make a lot of money pimping you out as a gigolo.”
“Really. Then how come I had to bring my mom to the Fall Ball? For the Sadie Hawkins dance, I was left alone all evening. Now you tell me I’m good looking. I don’t believe you.”
“I…I guess most women assume we’re not good looking enough for a man as fine as you.” She sat up straight. “But anyway, enough about that. Back to business.”
Galen leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, his right ankle resting on his left knee. “Okay.”
“Your scores. Some are good, a few are bad, and you excelled in business and mathematics and management. You have a real aptitude for executive leadership but your combat skills are average. Some, below average.”
“I shot a thousand on the tank range. This is an Armor Academy, after all.”
“You’ll do well in a tank, but try not to do a lot of walking if you can help it.”
“That’s my plan.”
She leaned forward and said, “I see.”
“Ma’am?”
She stood and handed him a folder. “Here’s your employment prospectus. It’s a list of units that will enlist you based on your qualification scores. Forget anything beyond a reserve commission; your grades weren’t good enough.”
Galen stood and reached out and took the folder. He stood at attention.
“Dismissed, Cadet Raper.”
He executed an about-face and walked out of the office and turned left and took about ten steps before he stopped and stood in the hallway reading the prospectus. He looked around for a chair or bench. There were none. This was the brightly lit, shiny-floored hallway of the administrative headquarters building of the Ostwind Armor Academy. He backed to the wall and leaned against it. This was the end of his two-year academy career, a rigorous program, training that included combat skills and academics necessary for a successful mercenary career. Two long years of pedagogic activity and military training crammed into eight accelerated trimesters that challenged and developed mental toughness and physical endurance. There was no half-assing and no shining brighter for a snapshot; they got a good hard look into the very essence of every cadet. Ambition meant nothing. A Cadet either had it or they didn’t. The program…
Galen felt weak and slid to the floor to sit leaning against the wall. Not good enough to take a commission with a unit. Maybe he should have defied his mother and attended a regular academy, a four-year academy, with weekends off and breaks and holidays and the summers off and three weeks home for Winter break. And time for Cadets to train and study on their own on the weekends, to bolster weak areas, an environment where dedication and hard work and desire could make a difference. But not here. There was no time left to the individual at this Academy.
“Hey Cadet, stop holding up the wall!”
Galen looked up. It was Tad, his classmate and friend. Short red hair and a pink face, tanned just a bit from field training, as tan as his complexion would allow. He extended his hand and helped Galen back to his feet.
Galen said, “Didn’t make the cut for commission.”
Tad shrugged. “So what? We made it. Half the guys who came in with us didn’t make it past phase one.”
“But…”
“But nothing. The guys who failed out of here and transferred to four-year schools are still going to be making hospital corners on their bunks for three more years, while we’ll be able to take commissions next year with whatever unit we join.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Galen, it’s like this: after serving a year as enlisted in a licensed and bonded unit, we can apply for commissions. We’re academy graduates.”
Tad pointed at a unit on the prospectus. “Right there. Spike already checked it out and we have an appointment with their hiring agent tomorrow afternoon. You, me and Spike. They’ll take all three of us together.”
Galen squinted at the name. “The Pansy Brigade?”
“Panzer Brigade. The Jasmine Panzer Brigade.”
“Jazz mines what?”
Tad balled his fists on his hips. “Jasmine. It’s a small, fragrant flower.”
Galen rolled his eyes. “So are pansies.”
“Let’s go. Spike is waiting outside.”
“All right.”
Galen followed Tad down the hall, down three flights of stairs and out the back entrance of the building. Tad was normal height, twenty centimeters shorter than Galen. Spike was ten centimeters shorter than Tad, with combed black hair that was at the very limit of the length allowed by the Academy. The three classmates lined up on the sidewalk, tallest in front and shortest in the rear and marched in step toward the chow hall. They joined the line of Cadets lined up at the position of parade rest, waiting to enter. A Cadet stood outside the door and watched. As four Cadets left the exit the Cadet working the entrance door called, “Give me four!”
All the lined-up cadets came to attention, took four steps forward in unison and the four Cadets at the front of the line continued to march while the rest came to a halt and went back to parade rest. Galen remembered the times he’d been tasked to work the door, all three meals for one day. The good thing was he got to leave class a half hour early and eat before everyone else. But he was on his feet, opening and closing the door for an hour and almost lost his voice yelling, “Give me four!” so many times. But afterward he was back inside the chow hall, getting a second meal, and could report back to class twenty minutes late. The extra calories helped a lot. Most Cadets got that tasking twice, but he’d done it three times. Luck of the draw.
After three more iterations, Tad, Spike, Galen and a fourth Cadet were inside the chow hall. They picked up pre-loaded trays from the serving line and moved to the one empty table. It was square, with a fixed bench on each side. They and the fourth cadet of the group slid in front of the benches and waited a moment, then sat at the same time. A quick, compulsory bow of the head for a slow three-count, then look up and eat. Eat whatever it was, all of it, a square meal. With the right hand, utensil held up to the mouth, moved straight out to directly above the food, straight down to snag the morsel, then straight back up and straight back to the mouth. Insert, chew five times, swallow, repeat. The left hand gripped the knife, held straight up, brought forward at table height, used to slice food as needed. Continue the process until all food had been eaten. Then lay the utensils on the plate, knife and fork crossed and the spoon up the center on top of them. Left hand flat on the table, grip the glass of water with the right hand and drink it in one continuous swallow.