After six months of 0430 sirens, they came to life at 0500. Half an hour of extra sleep, and not a single one of us took it in stride. Conditioned to be up before the 0430 siren so that we wouldn't get chewed out for tardiness, the entire barracks sat in silence across thirty minutes of what should have been extra rest.
Eyes open, boots swinging off bunks, fatigues halfway on before someone checked the schedule and said, "Exhibition starts at 0600. We've got time."
I lay in the door bunk, already dressed, staring at the ceiling and running scenarios. Beside me, Tomás's pencil scratched in his notebook.
"You're thinking too loud," he said without looking up.
"You're scribbling too loud."
"Touché."
We got up and did what we always did — morning drill. The squad assembled in the yard at 0500 and ran the routine without Vance or Okafor knocking down our door. We did it for the routine of it, exhibition or not, it was still expected of us.
The drill was flawless; six months of repetition had turned forty-five minutes of physical conditioning into automation. Forty-five pairs of boots struck packed dirt at the same time, and a single unified crack echoed off the barracks walls. If the system gave XP for drill performance, we'd all be Level 50 by now.
"Looking sharp," Vance said as he passed, almost disappointed.
I could see a few of the other kids puff out their chests in pride as we were dismissed for chow.
Breakfast was surprisingly loud; a buzzing energy permeated the room. Excitedly chatting, running through game plans and talking about how the food still hasn't gotten any more edible. Though some were feeling the pressure. Someone at a Barracks 4 table had their hands wrapped so tightly around their cup that their knuckles were white.
Jin still sat in her adjusted position, Tomás between us.
Seriously, even today?
We walked out at 0545, and the training yard was gone.
Where the sparring rings and dummy stations had been, an arena rose — walls four metres high, modular military-grade panels, observation platforms stacked above. A central display board dominated the far wall, dark for now. Temporary stands lined the perimeter, already filling with recruits. The whole thing must have been around fifty meters in diameter.
Not just our barracks. Barracks 3, 4, 9, 12—numbers I recognised—and others I'd never heard of. Barracks 15 through 25. The F and D-Grade population of the base was larger than I'd realised. Hundreds of recruits filling the stands, most of them strangers, most of them carrying the same Federation Standard future we were.
But the observation deck was what caught my eye.
The sponsor sections were arranged along the upper platform: company placards, designated seating, and evaluatory positions. Except that most of the seats were empty. In their stead, holographic projections shimmered in the allocated spaces. Translucent figures seated in corporate chairs that weren't physically there. Blue-tinged outlines of evaluators watching from offices and boardrooms hundreds of kilometres away.
Haldane Logistics, two holograms, their forms flickering slightly in the morning breeze. Kepler Defence Solutions, three shimmering figures in matching corporate grey, their projected bodies occasionally losing resolution when the wind shifted. Meridian Defence Group, a single holographic evaluator, older, military bearing, his image more stable than the others.
Then the Tiernan section.
Four figures. Solid. Present.
Uncle David sat in the centre of the section, physically occupying a chair that every other sponsor had filled with light. Legs crossed and datapad on his knees. Though he didn't seem to be taking notes, his eyes were glued to the arena floor.
Uncle Michael was beside him, leaning back with one arm draped over the chair. Sprawled on his face, I could see that shit-eating grin I'd seen so many times. He was talking to a woman in a military uniform on his right. She sat with her hands folded, watching the arena floor with an intensity that made David look casual. Mid-forties. Sharp features. Something about the line of her jaw was eerily familiar. Just who is that?
The fourth was younger. Mid-twenties, seated slightly apart. His gaze was firmly planted on the recruits, measuring them. His eyes scanned across the large swathes of greenies till it finally rested on me.
Of all the family, it had to be those two? Weren't they supposed to be off on deployment by now? Fuckin—
"Marcus," Tomás said low.
"I see them."
"Meridian sent a body. Kepler sent two. Everyone else projected." He paused. "The Tiernans sent four. To an F-Grade exhibition."
"I know what it means, Tomás."
The display board lit up, cutting the conversation short.
|EXHIBITION EVALUATION — PHASE ONE: SQUAD COMBAT|
|TEAMS OF SIX — ELIMINATION FORMAT|
Names populated the screen. Squad designations, barracks numbers. I scanned for ours and found it near the bottom of the lower bracket.
First match — Squad 1, Barracks 9.
Just a mix of D-Grades, no faction. Competent but organised.
The rest of the bracket was a blur of barracks numbers and unfamiliar squad names — the unaffiliated majority, the kids without factions who'd been cobbled into teams by default. Federation Standard firmware waited for most of them.
I stared at the bracket for a moment. We had three matches between here and the top of our section. Three fights that would decide platoon placement, firmware eligibility, and whether six months of training had produced something worth noticing.
"If we make it to round three." Tomás paused. "We face the winner of Miller versus Osei."
"When," Jin said.
"When," he amended.
The arena assignments loaded.
SQUAD TIERNAN, BARRACKS 7 vs SQUAD 1, BARRACKS 9 — ARENA ONE
Squad Tiernan. My surname in block capitals on a display board, formalised and official.
"Squad Tiernan," Tomás murmured.
"Don't."
"Wasn't going to say anything."
"You were."
"Yeah. I was."
I suppressed a grin and caught Miller out of the corner of my eye, watching the observation deck. I followed his line of sight and found his gaze. His gaze had found the Tiernan placard; he looked at the four solid figures. Then he looked at me.
I turned to find Osei, trying to find out what he was taking seriously. I found him a dozen metres back, hidden behind a line of greenies. His eyes were planted firmly on Miller.
Feels like a damn standoff, and we haven't even entered the arena yet.
I shook my head and turned to the rest of my group, "Looks like everyone's in a serious mood, should make things interesting, eh?"
As I turned to them, I could see Park pale as a ghost, his eyes flitting between the observation deck and me.
"Park," I said.
He looked at me.
"Not on you."
He didn't look convinced.
"Phase One, Squad Combat. First match. Arena One. Squad Tiernan versus Squad Barracks 9. Combatants to staging."
The announcement cut through the yard, drawing our attention. Looked like we were the first match of the exhibition. Whether that was random assignment or deliberate arrangement, the effect was the same — every eye in the building would watch the Tiernan squad's first fight.
"Let's go," Jin said. She was already standing.
The squad rose. Sato cracked his neck. Hsu rolled her shoulders. Park tucked his datapad away and settled his glasses. Ren was already walking. Tomás flashed me a grin.
We moved through the courtyard and up to the arena entrance, which was plain and brutalist from the outside. We moved into the staging corridor, with concrete walls and strip lighting that laid everything bare. The sound of our boots amplified in the enclosed space — Sato's slightly faster than the rest, Tomás' measured and deliberate, Jin's pace a fraction ahead of everyone's. The corridor compressed the squad into a single file, and the nerves were audible in the breathing.
The woman's jaw flashed through my mind. Sharp features. The line of it was pulling at something I couldn't reach. I filed it and kept walking.
I checked the interface. One glance.
[QUEST: PROVING GROUND — ACTIVE]
With a curt nod to myself, I sucked in a cool breath of air and prepared myself as we stopped before the main gate.
"Alright, let's show them what we're made of," I said to myself more than the group.
"Right out the gate with the cheese, huh?" Tomás declared, causing a low chuckle to escape the rest of the group.
"Come on, let the Squad Leader of Squad Tiernan have his moment to feel cool", Hsu added.
I groaned as four faces looked at me, amusement plastered on their faces. Jin paid no mind.
The gate opened.
Packed dirt and gravel underfoot, partial walls at varying heights, breaking sightlines into fragments. An elevated platform along the eastern edge — two metres up, accessible by a ramp partially hidden behind a chest-high barrier. A sunken section in the centre, dropping half a metre below the surrounding floor.
Cover. Elevation. Broken ground. Chokepoints.
Park exhaled beside me — the sound of a breath held for weeks.
"Configuration Two," he whispered. "Almost identical."
Ren was already reading the space. "East platform. Clear sightline to the depression. Three covered approaches."
Across the arena, the opposite gate opened. Six kids from Barracks 9 walked in. They looked at the terrain — the walls, the elevation, the broken ground. One of them said something to another. The other shook his head.
They'd trained for flat rings.
"Positions," I said.
The squad moved. Ren and Park toward the platform — spotter and tactician taking the high ground. Jin to the forward position, weight shifting to the balls of her feet. Hsu and Sato on the flanks, spreading to use the partial walls.
Tomás fell in beside me.
"Our terrain," he said.
"Our terrain."
The match horn sounded.