AREMIS POST: DAY 256: A DAY OF CANDIDACY

DAY 256: A DAY OF CANDIDACY
2946.12.06 SET
By Sean Nazawa
Part Two of an ongoing series following a class of recruits moving through the Navy’s boot camp (known in the service as Forges).

FORGE QUINTUS, KILIAN – “Aw hell, did Weaver die?” The group of recruits slowed to a halt and looked at DO Hardigan, unsure if this was some kind of test.

We were eight kilometers into a sixteen kilometer run. A standard way to spend a Saturday afternoon in the hottest season on MacArthur, at least it was in Hardigan’s Forge. As a civilian outsider, I had been offered (and declined) a personal HOV. It had been a running joke between Hardigan and me, but after five months living with these recruits, of hearing not only their histories, but also their plans for the future, I’d decided that I wasn’t going to be an outsider. That was three months ago, and I’ll admit, today I was kinda regretting it.

From the look on Hardigan’s face, this wasn’t a test. We all turned back to see Recruit Callum Weaver face down in the dirt. A scrawny kid raised in Plantock River on Aremis, Weaver always struggled with the intensely physical requirements in basic training.

“I keep hoping that there’ll be a point where I push through,” Weaver confided in me one day after three hours of vigorous combat drilling. “And yeah, while it gets a little easier each time, it never feels like my body gets used to it.”

Recruit Teagen was the first to react. She rushed over and pulled off the heavy pack loaded with field supplies so Weaver could roll over. A few other members of the squad came to help while the others took full advantage of the break and slumped to the ground in the shade.

DO Hardigan walked over, barely winded, and blocked the sun while he looked down at Weaver. After a few moments, he started to come around.

“Sorry, sir.” Weaver mumbled as he tried to sit up.

“Whoa, there.” Hardigan dropped to a knee and stopped Weaver from getting up. “Got a medvac coming up. You gotta learn how to hydrate, kid.”

“Sorry, sir. I will, sir.”

Hardigan shook his head and after tossing Weaver a hydro-gel pack, told Teagen and the other recruits who had helped to see that Weaver got back. He then turned to the rest of the squad.

“Well, since you all didn’t feel like helping your squadmate, looks like we got to start the full sixteen again.”

The recruits were considerably more unified after that day. That sense of unity would only strengthen as they entered the phase of their training known as Candidacy: three weeks of testing, designed to not only assess each recruit’s physical, psychological and intellectual aptitude, but how well they’ve incorporated the past eight months of training into action.

After Candidacy ended, it was another week before the recruits would be divided and sent to the next phase of their training. Out of the sixteen recruits, most continued onto enlisted training. Four were transferred to specialized facilities the next week. Recruit Teagen disappeared halfway through and, if Hardigan was to be believed, had been headhunted by the Marines. Recruit Weaver and the three others had been approved to begin Flight Academy training.

On the first morning of flight school, Hardigan jogged the lucky few to a lonely stretch of tarmac where, sitting against the morning sun, was an F7 Hornet and their new DO, Lt. Edward Aino.

“This is what you’ve got, Hardigan?” The stout man in his eighties dropped onto the deck as he looked over the recruits.

“Afraid so,” Hardigan replied.

“These look weaker than the last bunch.”

“Then break ’em,” Hardigan said with a shrug. Aino nodded, then fired a salute to Hardigan who returned it and then started the jog back.

Aino stepped closer to the recruits in silence. He studied each one for an uncomfortably long amount of time, possibly to see if they would react. They did not.

Over the next few minutes, more recruits showed up, dropped off by the DO’s like the first day of school. Aino repeated the procedure with each new addition.

Once the class was filled, he turned to the Hornet.

“Take a good look,” Aino said as he paced alongside the fighter, his eyes fixated on the pristine machine. “For some of you, this will be the closest you ever get to one of these. Until now, we’ve just been playing.”

Some of the recruits exchanged weary glances.

“But this is an instrument of war. Capable of raining destruction the likes of which you have not seen, so if you think I’m going to let any of you [redacted] anywhere near this, you are out of your [redacted] mind. You will need to earn my trust and respect before I hand you a weapon. Hear?”

“Sir, yes, sir!” The recruits shouted in perfect unison.

“We’ll see.”

Aino wasn’t kidding. Ten hours a day, six days a week for the next two months, he had them poring over technical manuals, historical accounts, strategic and tactical analyses of military actions (including rigorous study of Marduke’s Elements of Warfare). The heaviest focus was on flight theory and he would surprise them with tests about everything, even piloting fundamentals, despite the fact that many had been flying spacecraft for years.

After a particularly grueling session that ended with Aino recommending that one of the recruits to be transferred out of academy, I asked him why.

“The type of flying they’re used to won’t prepare them for what’s out there,” he replied. “We ask the impossible day in and day out. When you’ve lost your entire squadron and Vanduul are bearing down, we need you to be able to make competent tactical decisions. If you can’t cut it in a classroom, you won’t last a day on the drift.”

As the summer heat began to break toward autumn, the remaining recruits moved on to Aino’s next level of training. Bolstering their confidence by proclaiming that he was ‘ready to see what they could do in a cockpit,’ he led the recruits to a distant hangar.

When they arrived, there was a palpable excitement in the air. All that intense study would finally be put to use. Aino pulled the massive doors open.

Facsimiles built out of discarded pipes to resemble the frame of a cockpit were spaced evenly throughout the hangar. Plastic chairs doubled as operator seats. The flightstick? A tube taped to a spring. The recruits were less than enthused.

“What the hell you waiting for? Pick a ship,” Aino yelled.

Thus began phase two of their training. Aino ran them through basic cockpit layout. He forced them to meticulously reconstruct the placement of every button and switch for a variety of ships that they might be expected to fly. Once complete, he would exhaustively test each and every one of them on the function and conventional (or unconventional) applications of the ship. He’d put recruits on the spot and call out scenarios, then time their response.

The phrase “too slow, you’re dead” was repeated thousands of times.

Within the month, another two recruits had been reassigned to different Forges, but Weaver it seemed, had found something to excel at. He displayed a photographic memory when it came to the layout of the various cockpits, easily switching between the configurations of Gladius, Hornet and even Starfarer layouts without needing to consult the specs.

Aino certainly noticed. Away from the recruits, Aino was a quiet, considerate man. A veteran of over five hundred missions, he’d seen his fair share of combat, but it was impossible to get him to elaborate more than that. While having sujin tea with him during our weekly talk, I asked him about Weaver’s aptitude. Surprisingly, he went into detail.

“Sometimes, it just clicks. Not for me. My DO would scream herself hoarse yelling at me to get it right.” He settled back and sipped on his coffee. “We’re still a long way away and he’s got a lot more learning to do. I mean, I’ve seen people pick it up quick when there ain’t nothing on the line, only to lose it the second they’re in their first scrap, but we’ll see … maybe he’s earned a treat.”

“Like what?” I asked.

Aino turned and looked out the window for a minute. I almost thought he’d forgotten the question. He then turned back and smiled.

Recruit Weaver was going to be the first to go up in an actual test flight.

TAG 256: EIN TAG DER KANDIDATUR
2946.12.06.06 SATZ
Von Sean Nazawa
Teil Zwei einer laufenden Serie nach einer Gruppe von Rekruten, die durch das Boot Camp der Marine (im Service bekannt als Forges) ziehen.

FORGE QUINTUS, KILIANISCH - "Zum Teufel, ist Weaver gestorben?" Die Gruppe der Rekruten verlangsamte sich bis zum Stillstand und sah DO Hardigan an, unsicher, ob dies eine Art Test war.

Wir waren acht Kilometer in einem sechzehn Kilometer langen Lauf. Eine übliche Art, einen Samstagnachmittag in der heißesten Jahreszeit auf MacArthur zu verbringen, zumindest war es in Hardigan's Forge. Als ziviler Außenseiter wurde mir eine persönliche HOV angeboten (und abgelehnt). Es war ein laufender Witz zwischen Hardigan und mir gewesen, aber nach fünf Monaten, in denen ich mit diesen Rekruten zusammenlebte und nicht nur ihre Geschichte, sondern auch ihre Pläne für die Zukunft hörte, hatte ich beschlossen, dass ich kein Außenseiter sein würde. Das war vor drei Monaten, und ich gebe zu, heute habe ich es irgendwie bereut.

So wie Hardigans Gesicht aussieht, war das kein Test. Wir drehten uns alle um, um Recruit Callum Weaver mit dem Gesicht nach unten im Dreck zu sehen. Weaver, ein dürrer Junge, der in Plantock River auf Aremis aufgewachsen ist, hatte immer mit den intensiven körperlichen Anforderungen der Grundausbildung zu kämpfen.

"Ich hoffe immer noch, dass es einen Punkt geben wird, an dem ich durchdringe", vertraute Weaver mir einen Tag nach drei Stunden energischer Kampfbohrung an. "Und ja, obwohl es jedes Mal ein wenig einfacher wird, fühlt es sich nie an, als ob sich mein Körper daran gewöhnt."

Rekrut Teagen war der erste, der reagierte. Sie eilte hinüber und zog den mit Feldvorräten beladenen Schwerlastrucksack ab, damit Weaver sich umdrehen konnte. Ein paar andere Mitglieder der Truppe kamen zur Hilfe, während die anderen die Pause voll ausnutzten und im Schatten zu Boden stürzten.

DO Hardigan ging hinüber, kaum gewunden, und blockierte die Sonne, während er auf Weaver herabblickte. Nach ein paar Augenblicken fing er an, sich zu beruhigen.

"Tut mir leid, Sir." Der Weber murmelte, als er versuchte, sich aufzurichten.

"Whoa, da." Hardigan fiel auf ein Knie und hielt Weaver davon ab, aufzustehen. "Da kommt ein Medvac auf uns zu. Du musst lernen, wie man hydriert, Junge."

"Tut mir leid, Sir. Das werde ich, Sir."

Hardigan schüttelte den Kopf und nachdem er Weaver einen Hydrogel-Pack geworfen hatte, erzählte er Teagen und den anderen Rekruten, die geholfen hatten zu sehen, dass Weaver zurückkam. Dann wandte er sich dem Rest der Truppe zu.

"Nun, da ihr alle nicht unbedingt eurem Teamkollegen helfen wolltet, sieht es so aus, als müssten wir wieder mit den vollen sechzehn anfangen."

Die Rekruten waren nach diesem Tag wesentlich einheitlicher. Dieses Gefühl der Einheit würde sich nur verstärken, wenn sie in die Phase ihres Trainings eintraten, die als Kandidatur bekannt ist: drei Wochen lang Tests, die darauf abzielen, nicht nur die physische, psychische und intellektuelle Eignung jedes Rekruten zu beurteilen, sondern auch, wie gut er die letzten acht Monate des Trainings in die Tat umgesetzt hat.

Nachdem die Kandidatur beendet war, dauerte es eine weitere Woche, bis die Rekruten geteilt und in die nächste Phase ihrer Ausbildung geschickt wurden. Von den sechzehn Rekruten setzten die meisten ihre Ausbildung fort. Vier wurden in der nächsten Woche in spezialisierte Einrichtungen verlegt. Der Rekrut Teagen verschwand auf halbem Weg und wurde, wenn man Hardigan glauben sollte, von den Marines abgeworben. Recruit Weaver und die drei anderen waren für den Beginn der Ausbildung an der Flight Academy zugelassen.

Am ersten Morgen der Flugschule joggte Hardigan mit den Glücklichen auf eine einsame Strecke auf Asphalt, wo eine F7 Hornet und ihr neuer DO, Leutnant Edward Aino, gegen die Morgensonne saßen.

"Das ist es, was du hast, Hardigan?" Der kräftige Mann in den Achtzigern fiel auf das Deck, als er über die Rekruten schaute.

"Angst davor", antwortete Hardigan.

"Die sehen schwächer aus als der letzte Haufen."

"Dann zerbrich sie", sagte Hardigan mit einem Achselzucken. Aino nickte, dann feuerte er einen Gruß an Hardigan, der ihn zurückgab und dann den Jogging zurück startete.

Aino trat schweigend näher an die Rekruten heran. Er studierte jeden einzelnen für eine unbequem lange Zeit, möglicherweise um zu sehen, ob er reagieren würde. Das haben sie nicht.

In den nächsten Minuten tauchten weitere Rekruten auf, die von den DO's wie am ersten Schultag abgesetzt wurden. Aino wiederholte den Vorgang bei jeder neuen Zugabe.

Als die Klasse besetzt war, wandte er sich an die Hornisse.

"Schau genau hin", sagte Aino, als er neben dem Kämpfer ging, seine Augen waren auf die ursprüngliche Maschine gerichtet. "Für einige von euch wird das das Beste sein, was ihr je einem von diesen hier erreicht habt. Bis jetzt haben wir nur gespielt."

Einige der Rekruten tauschten müde Blicke aus.

"Aber das ist ein Kriegsinstrument. Fähig, Zerstörung zu regnen, wie du sie noch nicht gesehen hast, also wenn du denkst, dass ich einen von euch in der Nähe von diesem Ort zulassen werde, bist du verrückt. Du musst dir mein Vertrauen und meinen Respekt verdienen, bevor ich dir eine Waffe gebe. Hörst du?"

"Sir, ja, Sir, Sir!" Die Rekruten schrien in perfektem Einklang.

"Wir werden sehen."

Aino hat nicht gescherzt. Zehn Stunden am Tag, sechs Tage die Woche für die nächsten zwei Monate ließ er sie über technische Handbücher, historische Berichte, strategische und taktische Analysen von militärischen Aktionen nachdenken (einschließlich strenger Studien über Marduke's Elemente der Kriegsführung). Der größte Fokus lag auf der Flugtheorie und er würde sie mit Tests über alles überraschen, sogar über Grundlagen des Piloten, obwohl viele schon seit Jahren Raumschiffe fliegen.

Nach einer besonders anstrengenden Sitzung, die damit endete, dass Aino empfahl, dass einer der Rekruten von der Akademie versetzt werden sollte, fragte ich ihn, warum.

"Die Art des Fliegens, an die sie gewöhnt sind, wird sie nicht auf das vorbereiten, was da draußen ist", antwortete er. "Wir fragen Tag für Tag nach dem Unmöglichen. Wenn du deine gesamte Staffel verloren hast und Vanduul untergeht, brauchen wir dich, um kompetente taktische Entscheidungen treffen zu können. Wenn du es nicht in einem Klassenzimmer schneiden kannst, wirst du keinen Tag auf der Drift durchhalten."

Als die Sommerhitze gegen Herbst zu brechen begann, wechselten die restlichen Rekruten auf die nächste Ausbildungsstufe von Aino. Er stärkte ihr Selbstvertrauen, indem er verkündete, dass er "bereit sei, zu sehen, was sie in einem Cockpit tun könnten", und führte die Rekruten zu einem entfernten Hangar.

Als sie ankamen, lag eine spürbare Aufregung in der Luft. All diese intensiven Studien würden endlich zum Einsatz kommen. Aino zog die massiven Türen auf.

Faksimiles, die aus verworfenen Rohren gebaut wurden, um dem Rahmen eines Cockpits zu ähneln, waren gleichmäßig über den gesamten Hangar verteilt. Kunststoffstühle wurden als Fahrersitze genutzt. Der Flugstock? Ein Schlauch, der an eine Feder geklebt ist. Die Rekruten waren weniger als begeistert.

"Worauf zum Teufel wartest du noch? Such dir ein Schiff aus", schrie Aino.

Damit begann die zweite Phase ihrer Ausbildung. Aino führte sie durch das grundlegende Cockpit-Layout. Er zwang sie, die Platzierung jedes Knopfes sorgfältig zu rekonstruieren und für eine Vielzahl von Schiffen, von denen man erwarten konnte, dass sie fliegen würden, zu wechseln. Nach seiner Fertigstellung würde er jeden einzelnen von ihnen ausführlich auf die Funktion und die konventionellen (oder unkonventionellen) Anwendungen des Schiffes testen. Er würde Rekruten auf den Punkt bringen und Szenarien aufrufen, dann ihre Antwort festlegen.

Der Satz "zu langsam, du bist tot" wurde tausende Male wiederholt.

Innerhalb des Monats waren weitere zwei Rekruten verschiedenen Schmieden zugewiesen worden, aber Weaver schien etwas gefunden zu haben, worin man sich hervorheben konnte. Er zeigte ein fotografisches Gedächtnis, wenn es um das Layout der verschiedenen Cockpits ging, und wechselte leicht zwischen den Konfigurationen von Gladius, Hornet und sogar Starfarer Layouts, ohne die Spezifikationen einsehen zu müssen.

Aino hat es sicherlich bemerkt. Abseits der Rekruten war Aino ein ruhiger, rücksichtsvoller Mann. Als Veteran von über fünfhundert Missionen hatte er seinen gerechten Anteil am Kampf gesehen, aber es war unmöglich, ihn dazu zu bringen, mehr als das zu erklären. Während ich während unseres wöchentlichen Gesprächs Sujin-Tee mit ihm trank, fragte ich ihn nach Weavers Eignung. Überraschenderweise ging er ins Detail.

"Manchmal klickt es einfach nur. Nicht für mich. Meine DO würde sich heiser schreien und mich anschreien, um es richtig zu machen." Er setzte sich zurück und trank auf seinen Kaffee. "Wir sind noch weit weg und er hat noch viel mehr zu lernen. Ich meine, ich habe gesehen, wie die Leute es schnell aufnahmen, wenn nichts auf dem Spiel steht, nur um es in der Sekunde zu verlieren, in der sie in ihrem ersten Schrott stecken, aber wir werden sehen... vielleicht hat er sich eine Belohnung verdient."

"Was zum Beispiel?" fragte ich.

Aino drehte sich um und schaute für eine Minute aus dem Fenster. Ich dachte fast, er hätte die Frage vergessen. Dann drehte er sich um und lächelte.

Recruit Weaver war der erste, der in einem echten Testflug nach oben ging.

DAY 256: A DAY OF CANDIDACY
2946.12.06 SET
By Sean Nazawa
Part Two of an ongoing series following a class of recruits moving through the Navy’s boot camp (known in the service as Forges).

FORGE QUINTUS, KILIAN – “Aw hell, did Weaver die?” The group of recruits slowed to a halt and looked at DO Hardigan, unsure if this was some kind of test.

We were eight kilometers into a sixteen kilometer run. A standard way to spend a Saturday afternoon in the hottest season on MacArthur, at least it was in Hardigan’s Forge. As a civilian outsider, I had been offered (and declined) a personal HOV. It had been a running joke between Hardigan and me, but after five months living with these recruits, of hearing not only their histories, but also their plans for the future, I’d decided that I wasn’t going to be an outsider. That was three months ago, and I’ll admit, today I was kinda regretting it.

From the look on Hardigan’s face, this wasn’t a test. We all turned back to see Recruit Callum Weaver face down in the dirt. A scrawny kid raised in Plantock River on Aremis, Weaver always struggled with the intensely physical requirements in basic training.

“I keep hoping that there’ll be a point where I push through,” Weaver confided in me one day after three hours of vigorous combat drilling. “And yeah, while it gets a little easier each time, it never feels like my body gets used to it.”

Recruit Teagen was the first to react. She rushed over and pulled off the heavy pack loaded with field supplies so Weaver could roll over. A few other members of the squad came to help while the others took full advantage of the break and slumped to the ground in the shade.

DO Hardigan walked over, barely winded, and blocked the sun while he looked down at Weaver. After a few moments, he started to come around.

“Sorry, sir.” Weaver mumbled as he tried to sit up.

“Whoa, there.” Hardigan dropped to a knee and stopped Weaver from getting up. “Got a medvac coming up. You gotta learn how to hydrate, kid.”

“Sorry, sir. I will, sir.”

Hardigan shook his head and after tossing Weaver a hydro-gel pack, told Teagen and the other recruits who had helped to see that Weaver got back. He then turned to the rest of the squad.

“Well, since you all didn’t feel like helping your squadmate, looks like we got to start the full sixteen again.”

The recruits were considerably more unified after that day. That sense of unity would only strengthen as they entered the phase of their training known as Candidacy: three weeks of testing, designed to not only assess each recruit’s physical, psychological and intellectual aptitude, but how well they’ve incorporated the past eight months of training into action.

After Candidacy ended, it was another week before the recruits would be divided and sent to the next phase of their training. Out of the sixteen recruits, most continued onto enlisted training. Four were transferred to specialized facilities the next week. Recruit Teagen disappeared halfway through and, if Hardigan was to be believed, had been headhunted by the Marines. Recruit Weaver and the three others had been approved to begin Flight Academy training.

On the first morning of flight school, Hardigan jogged the lucky few to a lonely stretch of tarmac where, sitting against the morning sun, was an F7 Hornet and their new DO, Lt. Edward Aino.

“This is what you’ve got, Hardigan?” The stout man in his eighties dropped onto the deck as he looked over the recruits.

“Afraid so,” Hardigan replied.

“These look weaker than the last bunch.”

“Then break ’em,” Hardigan said with a shrug. Aino nodded, then fired a salute to Hardigan who returned it and then started the jog back.

Aino stepped closer to the recruits in silence. He studied each one for an uncomfortably long amount of time, possibly to see if they would react. They did not.

Over the next few minutes, more recruits showed up, dropped off by the DO’s like the first day of school. Aino repeated the procedure with each new addition.

Once the class was filled, he turned to the Hornet.

“Take a good look,” Aino said as he paced alongside the fighter, his eyes fixated on the pristine machine. “For some of you, this will be the closest you ever get to one of these. Until now, we’ve just been playing.”

Some of the recruits exchanged weary glances.

“But this is an instrument of war. Capable of raining destruction the likes of which you have not seen, so if you think I’m going to let any of you [redacted] anywhere near this, you are out of your [redacted] mind. You will need to earn my trust and respect before I hand you a weapon. Hear?”

“Sir, yes, sir!” The recruits shouted in perfect unison.

“We’ll see.”

Aino wasn’t kidding. Ten hours a day, six days a week for the next two months, he had them poring over technical manuals, historical accounts, strategic and tactical analyses of military actions (including rigorous study of Marduke’s Elements of Warfare). The heaviest focus was on flight theory and he would surprise them with tests about everything, even piloting fundamentals, despite the fact that many had been flying spacecraft for years.

After a particularly grueling session that ended with Aino recommending that one of the recruits to be transferred out of academy, I asked him why.

“The type of flying they’re used to won’t prepare them for what’s out there,” he replied. “We ask the impossible day in and day out. When you’ve lost your entire squadron and Vanduul are bearing down, we need you to be able to make competent tactical decisions. If you can’t cut it in a classroom, you won’t last a day on the drift.”

As the summer heat began to break toward autumn, the remaining recruits moved on to Aino’s next level of training. Bolstering their confidence by proclaiming that he was ‘ready to see what they could do in a cockpit,’ he led the recruits to a distant hangar.

When they arrived, there was a palpable excitement in the air. All that intense study would finally be put to use. Aino pulled the massive doors open.

Facsimiles built out of discarded pipes to resemble the frame of a cockpit were spaced evenly throughout the hangar. Plastic chairs doubled as operator seats. The flightstick? A tube taped to a spring. The recruits were less than enthused.

“What the hell you waiting for? Pick a ship,” Aino yelled.

Thus began phase two of their training. Aino ran them through basic cockpit layout. He forced them to meticulously reconstruct the placement of every button and switch for a variety of ships that they might be expected to fly. Once complete, he would exhaustively test each and every one of them on the function and conventional (or unconventional) applications of the ship. He’d put recruits on the spot and call out scenarios, then time their response.

The phrase “too slow, you’re dead” was repeated thousands of times.

Within the month, another two recruits had been reassigned to different Forges, but Weaver it seemed, had found something to excel at. He displayed a photographic memory when it came to the layout of the various cockpits, easily switching between the configurations of Gladius, Hornet and even Starfarer layouts without needing to consult the specs.

Aino certainly noticed. Away from the recruits, Aino was a quiet, considerate man. A veteran of over five hundred missions, he’d seen his fair share of combat, but it was impossible to get him to elaborate more than that. While having sujin tea with him during our weekly talk, I asked him about Weaver’s aptitude. Surprisingly, he went into detail.

“Sometimes, it just clicks. Not for me. My DO would scream herself hoarse yelling at me to get it right.” He settled back and sipped on his coffee. “We’re still a long way away and he’s got a lot more learning to do. I mean, I’ve seen people pick it up quick when there ain’t nothing on the line, only to lose it the second they’re in their first scrap, but we’ll see … maybe he’s earned a treat.”

“Like what?” I asked.

Aino turned and looked out the window for a minute. I almost thought he’d forgotten the question. He then turned back and smiled.

Recruit Weaver was going to be the first to go up in an actual test flight.