was back, 0.7 centimeters of it. He’d been lying here long enough for it to grow. His hand roved down to a numb spot on the back of his neck, and he found a flat, metal port there. It was a neural access port. He just knew what it was.
“Now, Plebe, I’m going to run you through a few procedures to test whether we can send you out yet.”
“Already?” Tom croaked. “I’m going to combat now?”
Lieutenant Chang’s laughter rippled through the stale, cold room. “Not quite yet. You’ll need years of training before you become a Combatant.”
“Right.” Tom closed his eyes, because there was a datastream blasting the answer through his head: Standard advancement path in the Intrasolar Forces at the Pentagonal Spire: Initial Training as plebe, followed by Middle Company, Upper Company, and in cases where the trainee is found to excel, Camelot Company, the Combatant group. In cases where a trainee is found unsuitable for intrasolar combat, avenues with other government agencies will be considered, including the NSA, the CIA, the State Department, the …
Tom willed the datastream to stop, and it ceased immediately. So strange. He knew the information was coming from the neural processor, but it had felt like he was thinking it, like it was an ordinary scrap of information that belonged in his mind.
He was distracted when Chang ran him through the basic assessment, checking his pupils, his sensation of touch, his circulation. And then the lieutenant turned on a recording with various musical notes and asked Tom to identify them.
“I don’t know anything about music—” Tom began to protest.
But he did know them. With a strange shock, he listed E, C, D, A.
The nurse saw his shocked face, and patted his shoulder. Then he gestured for Tom to sit up. “We upload a few gigs of information to test you out, plus some class assignments so you don’t start off behind. You should have a reference database for your first week here, correct?”
Tom’s brain called it up. “Yes.” There was a file manager in his brain. In it were three files: Civilian Classes, Calisthenics, Trainee Specific Programs . And he knew he could just open and peruse the files with a thought. He just knew it.
“And where are you supposed to go right now?” Chang asked him.
“To meet Vikram Ashwan. My new roommate.” Tom paused. Again, something he just knew . “This is so weird.”
The nurse nodded. “You’ll get used to it, I’m told. You’re dismissed, Plebe.”
Tom opened his mouth to tell him he didn’t know where to go, but the Pentagonal Spire answered him this time, a mainframe with a careful tracking module following every recruit within its walls, feeding data into Tom’s neural processor.
Tom hopped down from the bed. His legs held, and he wasn’t even dizzy after lying in bed for three weeks. He started for the door.
“Mr. Raines, don’t forget this,” Lieutenant Chang called, holding something out in his hand. “It belongs to you now.”
Tom reached out and took the metal object. He held it up and realized it was a Challenge Coin just like the one General Marsh owned. The coin was stamped US INTRASOLAR FORCES . It flashed green when he held it, just like the general’s coin had.
A strange but awesome feeling shivered through him as he gazed at the bald eagle and realized this was now his .
He felt Chang’s dark eyes on him. “Welcome to the Pentagonal Spire, Mr. Raines.”
C HALLENGE C OIN IN pocket, Tom followed the map that loomed in his awareness like some nagging worry. The Spire said Vikram was 8.6 meters northwest of him. He stepped through the door into the first floor hallway, and indeed, Vikram was 8.6 meters away from where he’d been. Tom’s neural processor even ticked down the distance as he closed it.
When he clapped eyes on the Indian boy waiting for him, more text planted itself in his vision:
NAME : Vikram Ashwan
RANK : USIF, Grade III Plebe, Alexander Division
ORIGIN : New
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