The woman’s lips curled in a frigid bow. “Stellers,” she hissed. “You will stand upright and at attention or I will make you stand upright and at attention.”
“I think I understand. Ma’am.” Thorn choked on his words as he recovered from the shock, keeping his anger at bay with a force of will.
Narvez stared, then turned on her heel and led him toward a small grouping of oil-shined steel buildings. She didn’t look back, assuming he would follow. He did, though he looked around, stunned at the sights.
Code Nebula was pristine. On Murgon 4, Thorn had stood out from the other workers, literally a head taller than the rest, but also because he couldn’t stop himself from attempting to clear the muck from every facet of his life. As he absorbed his surroundings now, he felt as though he was the muck they’d be wiping from their shiny black boots.
They arrived at the barracks, and Narvez directed him to the second on the right. Simple black markings above the door read “2A.” Thorn paused, a new life waiting just beyond the metal threshold, then pressed into the orderly, sterile space.
The recruit bunks somehow managed to exude the kind of cold that seeps into your bones while at the same time hinting at comfort he could only dream of. In all his years, he had never felt so luxuriously neglected. The soft white pillow beckoned to him, and he realized just how utterly exhausted he was. Kira may have slept en route, but he’d never had the pleasure. All of the plane jumping seemed to smack him in the face, and his eyes began to droop.
“STELLERS!” Thorn jolted to attention at the sound of Narvez’s voice. He didn’t remember drifting into a sleep haze.
“Ma’am?” he said, his brain lagging two steps behind his mouth.
“Your bunk is there.” She pointed with a long finger. “Near the window. Get the hell out of Rodie’s bunkspace.”
“Shit,” he grumbled. Then, as his brain finally caught up to him, he snapped to attention and flashed a brilliant smile at the serrated woman. “I mean shit, ma’am.”
Though she didn’t seem too pleased with the correction, Thorn snatched up his canvas bag and clutched it tightly as he transitioned to the correct bunk. The other six recruits in his barrack sniggered into the crooks of their elbows or behind their blankets, but Thorn didn’t pay them more than a glance. He didn’t have the energy. Until their collective laughter, he hadn’t even clocked their presence.
Narvez left him with an icy glare, and Thorn sighed away the tension as he collapsed on the edge of the mattress.
“I’m Rodie,” a nasally voice announced from much closer than Thorn had anticipated. “This is Drigo. Don’t worry about the bunk mishap. They all look the same anyway.”
Thorn grasped the man’s hand and shook it, marveling at the slight figure he saw before him.
When Kira had offered him the job, Thorn thought he was a lock. Obviously, the ON would be interested in a tall, heavily-built man such as himself. But standing before him now was a young man barely more than skin-and-bones with a head two sizes too big for his neck and glasses that made a job of sliding down the bridge of his nose.
“I…uh, yeah…” Thorn stuttered at the juxtaposition before him.
Drigo chuckled and lifted his arm to press it against the metal bed frame. “We get it, man. Don’t worry about it. The first day in Magecorps is a little freaky. Messes with your head and shit.” He had a subtle air of aggression, even when he was smiling. Thorn knew his type—as the tallest kid in every group, and on the slop crews, Thorn was made to be challenged, and usually by guys like Drigo, who thought their natural position was in the lead. They’d have to reach an understanding at some point.
Thorn dropped his head and ran his fingers through his chunky locks of blonde hair. “Magecorps.” He tested the word on his lips. It fell from his mouth naturally and somehow brought the collision of reality to the surrealism of his surroundings.
“Yeah, well, trust me, man—your head’s gonna be doin’ somersaults tomorrow.” Drigo’s bicep rippled as he gestured vaguely about the oncoming day. His physique fit the construct Thorn had created of his fellow recruits much better than Rodie’s—just about a foot and a half shorter than what he expected. What he lacked in height, he’d certainly gained in bulk, though.
Add Napoleon complex to his urge to lead, Thorn mused.
Rodie chimed in again, pushing his glasses up with a crooked finger. “That’s Val over there. She’s a beast. Then you’ve got Streya, Tuck, and Unger.” He leaned in close enough that Thorn could feel his breath against his cheek. “But if you need anything, you wanna talk to me.”
Drigo grabbed Rodie by the shoulder and nudged him gently toward the aisle between the bunks. “Yeah, yeah, let’s let the poor guy get some sleep before you start touting your goods, eh?”
The pillow on his bunk was just as inviting as Thorn imagined Rodie’s to be. Even the rough blanket couldn’t stop sleep from finding him, and soon he slipped away for the night, his body and mind finally at rest. For a while.
A resounding crack brought Thorn reeling out of sleep. His heart pounded against his chest, and he gulped to calm his staggered breath. He hardly recalled his dreams anymore, though he didn’t know why. He did know that the racing thump of his heart and beading sweat on his brow wasn’t unfamiliar. Without thinking, he reached for the book stashed beneath his pillow and ran his thumb across the cracked cover in the dark.
Just when he thought the calm had returned, another sharp, atmospheric crack sounded in the distance. This time, he saw the light that filled the room with an ethereal glow. Thorn pulled himself up by the window ledge and stared out in wonder. He had only seen that particular luminescence once before, and it had emanated from his own palm. Here, he saw the clouds alight with the spectacle.
Thorn glanced around the room. Everybody else seemed to still be sleeping. Smart. Catch your flies while you can, he knew, so he eased back down to a prone position. Despite his exhaustion, Thorn lay awake listening to the sky crackle as flashes of light splashed across the ceiling tiles.
It wasn’t much longer before the barrack door smashed open and a cyclone of cold air tore through the bunks, ripping blankets from the recruits and jolting them all awake. At the back of the room, Thorn was lucky enough to see the destruction, so he clung to his bunk, fingers in a death grip.
The slim figure in the doorway could be none other than Narvez, but right now she appeared to stand ten feet tall. Her cloak swirled about her knees as she stood silhouetted against the pre-dawn sky.
Narvez’s voice echoed above the tired groans of his bunkmates. “Breakfast in five, or none at all.” Then she was gone.
With each passing second, Thorn was missing the muck and oil of his former life.
The mess hall was far from messy. Thorn couldn’t help but marvel at the polished aluminum floors, the shiny metal chairs—hell, he could nearly see his reflection in the tray Drigo passed back to him. Bodies jostled about as they shook off the haze of fitful sleep. Men with silver bars on their jackets stood throughout the room, surveying the recruits with professional disinterest.
To say the breakfast was meager would be an overstatement. For a hard day’s labor on the pipes, Thorn could eat nearly a dozen eggs, toast, bacon, and then some. He had a feeling today would be a bit more strenuous than working pipes on Murgon 4, but what he got was two egg-like circles of protein on top of a slice of dusty bread so thin it only had one side. For his second slice of what the cook seemed to think of as bread, there was a jelly with the consistency of engine oil, smelling vaguely of burned sugar and peaches. He devoured it out of necessity but took solace from the coffee. It was hot, heavily caffeinated, and only mildly offensive.