Chapter 5: Test
The Academy’s main thoroughfare, the Atrium, was a canyon of polished steel and propaganda. Holographic banners streamed from the vaulted ceiling sixty feet above, each displaying a Cleaner Corps motto. One flickered, stuck between “CLARITY IN PURIFICATION” and “YOUR DUTY, OUR LEGACY.” Saku navigated the flow of cadets with practiced efficiency, Wataru a lanky shadow beside him, already lamenting the pre-quiz panic they both knew was coming.The impact was sudden, deliberate, and jarring. A shoulder slammed into Saku’s, knocking him a half-step sideways. The subtle, expensive scent of engineered cologne—something marketed as “Frontline Resolve”—filled his nose before he saw the face.
Kai Tanaka stood there, not looking back, already continuing his leisurely stroll as if he’d merely brushed against a piece of furniture. His girlfriend, Yui, a petite girl with an expression of polished neutrality, offered a flicker of a glance that was neither apologetic nor interested.
“Watch your sector, Shimizu,” Kai said over his shoulder, his voice a smooth baritone designed for announcements. He finally turned, his face a mask of calm annoyance. “The hallways aren’t your personal simulation grid.”
Saku felt the heat rise in his neck. He forced his stance to relax, a technique from his uncle: Do not give the pressure a point of focus. “Traffic flow suggests maintaining a consistent vector prevents collisions, Tanaka. You deviated.”
Kai’s eyes, a cold hazel, flickered. The insult was minor, technical, but it was a language Kai didn’t command. He took a single step back towards Saku, his height an unconscious advantage he loved to press.“Is that right? Maybe you should focus less on vectors and more on your place.Some of us are here to lead. Others are just… tools.”
“Kai,” Yui murmured, her hand lightly touching his arm. “The Instructor’s briefing.”
The tension held for a three-count.Kai’s jaw worked.He offered a smile that showed no teeth. “You’re right.My apologies, Cadet Shimizu. Wouldn’t want to upset the top percentile.” The title was a slur in his mouth. He turned, and they melted back into the crowd.Wataru exhaled a low whistle.“Wow. He’s in a special mood. Did his portfolio lose virtual value overnight?”
“Irrelevant,” Saku said, adjusting his collar where Kai’s shoulder had struck.But the word felt hollow. The interaction was a minor system error, a blip, yet it left a trace of corrupt data in his focus. He pushed it aside. “We’re late.”
The lecture hall was a sloped, impersonal amphitheater that smelled of recycled air and ozone. Instructor Daiku stood at the central podium, a monolithic figure carved from old scars and disappointment.He did not speak as they filed in. His eyes, the color of old gunmetal, tracked them. When the last cadet was seated, the door hissed shut with a sound like a vacuum seal.
“Today,” Daiku began, his voice a dry rasp that scraped the silence raw, “is module 47-B: Logistics and Redistribution in Sustained Containment.” A collective, almost imperceptible slump went through the room. Daiku’s lip curled.“I see your enthusiasm.It warms my heart. Perhaps you’d prefer to be out there?” He jabbed a thick finger towards the sealed, blast-proof windows. “Learning this lesson from a Shade as it repurposes your femur into a nesting aid?”
He launched into the lecture. It was a river of dry statistics: caloric requirements for a six-man squad in a low-yield Deadzone, ammunition weight ratios, water reclamation protocols from atmospheric condensers in corrupted zones. The holograms he summoned were flowcharts of mind-numbing complexity, buzzing with tiny, flickering numbers.
Saku’s mind, engineered for tactical fluidity and split-second harmonization with machines, began to drown.The numbers bled together. Daiku’s monotone was a resonant frequency designed to induce psychic paralysis. Saku’s eyelids, heavy from the early morning and the residual humiliation of the train, grew weighty. The crisp lines of the holographic flowchart softened, blurred into a gentle, pulsing green sea…
A thunderous crack shattered the haze.Daiku had slammed a reinforced carbon baton onto the podium. The sound echoed in the silent hall like a bone breaking.Every cadet jolted upright.
Saku’s eyes snapped open.He found Daiku’s gaze locked directly onto him. The old man’s face was a landscape of grim satisfaction.
“Dreaming, Cadet Shimizu?” Daiku’s voice dropped, becoming dangerously conversational.“Of glory?Of piloting your shiny suit? Let me educate you.” He stepped out from behind the podium, his boots echoing. “Glory is the smell of your own intestines because the logistics train was three hours late. Glory is watching your partner’s Mark III seize up mid-combat because some prodigy back at base miscalculated the lubricant shear point for zone-temperature variance.” He stopped, sweeping his gaze across the now-terrified room.“You think the Deadzones are about killing Shades? It’s about endurance.It’s about spreadsheets. It’s about knowing that the most dangerous enemy isn’t out there in the distortion. It’s the stupidity you carry in here.” He tapped his own temple with a thick finger.
He walked back to the podium, the silence absolute.“You are all soft.You think simulations teach you war? Simulations teach you gaming.So.Let’s play a game.”
A soft groan escaped Wataru. Kai Tanaka sat perfectly still, but his eyes were fixed on Saku with a pure, undiluted venom.This is your fault, the stare said.
“Pop quiz,” Daiku announced, as a wave of despairing holographic screens blossomed before each cadet.“Fifty questions. Drawn from module 47-B. And”—he paused, letting the dread settle—“since Cadet Shimizu found the material so restful, the entire class will be graded on a curve set by his score.Anyone scoring below him fails the module.Immediate probation. No simulator access for a month.”
Wataru’s head thunked softly onto his desk. A girl two rows ahead let out a stifled sob. Kai’s stare didn’t waver; it promised a different, more personal kind of consequence.
Saku’s own screen glowed to life, the first question shimmering. Calculate the necessary cubic liters of anti-corrosion aerosol for a 72-hour operation in a Class-3 Hydro-Distortion Zone, assuming a 15% atmospheric uptake variance. His stomach tightened into a cold, hard knot.The numbers danced, refusing to align. He could feel the weight of forty-nine other lives, their resentment, their panic, pressing down on the back of his neck.He took a breath, the scent of ozone and fear sharp in his nose. His fingers hovered over the keypad. The hero’s anthem was a silent, distant echo now, drowned out by the dry rustle of Daiku’s uniform as he paced, and the frantic, whispered calculations beginning to hum through the room like the buzz of dying insects.