Chương 39: The Weight of Advancement

Accompanied by envious sighs and whispers behind my back, I stepped out of formation. The teenagers looked at me as if I had just received exclusive access to a new console they would not even be allowed to touch. Inside me, despite all my experience and age, an excited ten-year-old boy started jumping with joy. The same one who once dreamed of a laser gun and a jetpack.

"Listen carefully," the sergeant said as he began methodically removing his gear, deftly unclipping the carabiners.

"There're two ways to take this off. The standard way is what I'm doing now, carefully, by the book, no rush. And then there's the emergency way." He pointed at a massive steel ring positioned at chest level, to the right of the vest's central plate. It looked very much like a parachute ripcord.

"One sharp pull, and the tanks along with the cable system detach," the sergeant's voice turned deadly serious.

"That's for when your S-Power runs dry and the enemy's breathing down your neck. In that situation, you need to turn from a heavy infantryman into a light athlete and get the hell out. An extra twenty pounds of ballast in a portal is a one-way ticket." He paused, sweeping us with a heavy gaze.

"And remember, without a special stand in the repair dock, you won't be able to reattach the tanks. So if any of you smartasses pull that ring just for laughs during training, you'll be scrubbing toilets until discharge," he gave Ted a pointed look.

"Got it?"

"Yes, sir!" I barked.

"I'm not just talking to you, Ross," his gaze slashed across the line of cadets.

"Platoon! Is that clear?!"

"Yes, sir! We won't pull the ring!" the others responded, uneven but loud. Finally, the gear was removed, and it was my turn. Putting this piece of technology on alone was no easy task, so both sergeants helped me. The first problem was the boots. When I tried to force my foot inside, my toes curled painfully. Too small, damn it.

"It's a training model, Ross," the sergeant said when he noticed my grimace, his voice devoid of sympathy.

"Prove you're worth something, and you'll get a brand-new set straight from the factory, tailored to your size down to the millimeter. Until then, deal with it." I simply nodded, deciding not to make a scene. After all, I was used to second-hand gear. I remembered my first Krav Maga class at Mr. Goodman's gym. I thought we would start with theory, but he just tossed me a pair of old, worn gloves. They smelled like someone else's sweat and old leather, and the paint was peeling as if a rabid dog had chewed on them.

But they were enough to build a proper punch, and the next day I already had my own pair, still carrying that fresh store smell. Somehow, I managed to settle my toes inside the boots. Uncomfortable, yes. I would not risk running a marathon in them, but for standing and shooting, they would do. The gloves fit perfectly, no issues there. But when the vest with the tanks settled onto my shoulders, I involuntarily exhaled. The thing weighed at least fifteen pounds. For my build, it was nothing, a familiar burden.

Still, I could not help glancing at twelve-year-old Mary. How was that tiny girl supposed to carry this load? Kids would either have to strengthen their backs or the engineers would have to ditch one tank for the sake of their survival. At the end, the sergeant fastened the helmet on me. A click under the chin, and the world narrowed slightly.

"Safety isn't just a word, Ross, it's your life," he instructed, checking the straps.

"Look here. Each glove has two buttons. You don't press either of them without my direct command. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Now look at your right wrist. That's your consumption regulator." I lowered my gaze. A small glass window sat on my forearm, resembling the dial of an old deep-sea watch. Beneath the glass, a needle trembled at the edge of the green zone. A simple and clear interface: green meant full, yellow meant get ready, red meant recharge. All this equipment suspiciously resembled diving gear.

And in diving, there is one golden rule: do not damage the tank unless you want to turn into a human torpedo or create a fireworks display. The thought made me tense.

"Permission to speak, sir," I said, trying to keep my voice steady inside the helmet.

"What's the safety protocol if a tank gets damaged? If a stray bullet hits it, do I turn into a live bomb?" The sergeant drew breath to answer, but Selina beat him to it. She rose gracefully from her chair, clearly enjoying the moment. This was her domain, her element.

"Allow me, Sergeant," she purred as she stepped closer.

"Of course, Cadet Ross, this was the primary concern of my sponsors at the Pentagon during the design phase. No one wants to invest millions in soldiers who explode from the slightest scratch. I conducted hundreds of tests. Compressed S-Power isn't propane and isn't gasoline. It's inert to fire and chemical reactions. If a tank is punctured, an instant decompression occurs. A quick release, and the energy simply dissipates into the atmosphere.

The most you'll feel is a sharp burst of air, like a very large and very expensive balloon popping. No explosions." I exhaled in relief. It was comforting to know that I did not have a ticking charge on my back, just a couple of high-tech balloons.

"Enough poetry," the sergeant cut in.

"We move on to live fire training. Keep it smooth. Finger on the trigger, one clean click. Aim at the far block. Hit the target!" I picked up the S-Gun. A strange device. Only now did I realize what it reminded me of. When I was a kid, Megan and I used to spend hours in arcades. There were those old machines where you had to shoot monsters on a screen using heavy plastic guns chained to the cabinet by thick cables. The feeling was identical. The same weight, the same sense of artificiality masking lethal power.

I raised the weapon, aligning the sights with a concrete cube. The cable interfered slightly, restricting movement, but my time at the shooting range quickly corrected my grip. A deep breath, hold, smooth trigger pull... If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. The block in the distance shattered into rubble. I froze, staring blankly at the empty stand. It was not the destructive power that stunned me. I felt no recoil. None at all.

No kick to the shoulder, no upward force, no deafening blast that clogged your ears. It felt eerily similar to that arcade game, you just clicked on enemies, and they disappeared. Clean. Silent. Deadly. I glanced at the sergeant. He gave a brief nod, allowing me to continue. I got into it. Two quick shots, and two more blocks turned into dust. It was an incredibly satisfying feeling.

A disturbing thought flashed through my mind: after this, going back to conventional firearms would feel like switching from a Tesla to a cart pulled by a donkey. You got used to good things instantly.

"Not bad, Ross," the sergeant commented, a hint of approval slipping into his voice.

"Now let's see how well you can protect your own skin. Defense Mode, activate!" I found the upper button on the right glove by touch and pressed it until it clicked. The air around me instantly thickened, locking me inside an invisible cocoon. There was no heaviness in my chest and no lack of oxygen, breathing felt just as easy as a second ago.

But the world around me suddenly changed: the colors faded, becoming muted and grayish, as if I were looking at the training ground through the windshield of an old Chevrolet. It was a strange, almost surreal feeling of absolute protection. I kept the shield active for a couple of seconds, listening to the faint hum of static electricity, then switched it off. Wasting energy while an invisible S-Power timer ticked behind my back did not appeal to me, an old habit of conserving resources made itself known.

"Now Dash Mode," the sergeant ordered, stepping back to give me space.

"Keep this in mind, Ross, keep your feet angled opposite to your direction of movement, or you'll plow the ground with your face." I followed his advice, lowered into a starting stance like a sprinter at the hundred-meter dash, and pressed the upper button on my left glove. Whoosh! The world turned into a blur. The image smeared into streaks of green and blue. In the next fraction of a second, I was already standing three hundred yards away from the platoon.

Something inside me lurched, my stomach tried to climb into my throat, and my vestibular system rang the alarm in panic. It felt like I had been shoved into a centrifuge and spun at maximum speed. I strongly doubted my body could handle five of these jumps in a row, I would likely turn inside out before the tanks ran dry.

"Think you can make it back the same way, Ross?" the sergeant's booming voice carried over the distance.

"Yes, sir!" I shouted, trying to keep my voice steady. Another dash. This time I was ready, but it was no easier. The airflow knocked the oxygen out of my lungs, and when I decelerated, I had to tense every muscle in my body. The boots tore into the turf, I barely kept my balance, but I stayed on my feet instead of sprawling in front of the formation.

"Elevation Mode," the sergeant said as he stepped closer, monitoring my every move.

"Keep your thumbs on the buttons at all times. Smooth control." I lowered my thumbs onto the lower triggers of the gloves. I lifted my left foot, pressed the button, and the sole met a firm invisible surface with a dull, barely audible pop. I shifted my weight, feeling like a tightrope walker, and repeated the motion with my right foot. It was incredibly strange: my brain screamed that there was nothing beneath me, but my body felt the solid reliability of a platform.

"Don't get carried away, Ross! Four steps, then back down!" the sergeant ordered. Getting down turned out to be quite a challenge. When you step into empty space, hoping to hit the button before gravity takes over, your adrenaline spikes hard. One awkward move and you go tumbling. Only thanks to my honed agility and trained reflexes did I manage to descend rhythmically, without pauses or stumbles.

"Not bad, Ross. Very not bad," the sergeant nodded with restraint, and in his eyes I caught genuine respect.

"With your baseline, you'll pass the exam on the first try. You're dismissed." I took off the heavy gear with relief and returned to formation. Ted stepped up next. The guy was practically bouncing with excitement, his eyes burning with anticipation, a typical teenager getting his hands on the coolest video game in the world.

"Hey, what?!" he protested when the sergeant deftly detached the S-Gun and put it away in a crate.

"What about shooting?!"

"No weapons until each of you passes the theory and firearm safety procedures," the sergeant cut him off.

"But Ross got to shoot! Why's he allowed and I'm not?!" Ted pouted.

"Cadet Ross confirmed his firearm handling skills back in civilian life," the sergeant replied coldly.

"He provided a certificate from a certified shooting club with a digital signature during enlistment processing." I could not help but smirk to myself. That same thirty-dollar piece of paper the girl at the front desk had pushed on me. I had grumbled back then that it was a pointless expense for bureaucracy, and she insisted it might come in handy someday. Ted, despite his complaints, handled Defense Mode perfectly. Dash Mode, however, ended in failure.

He misjudged his weight distribution and, after the jump, failed to stay on his feet, plowing a good ten feet across the grass on his stomach.

"I'm good, I'm fine!" he said cheerfully, tapping his helmet as he got up and brushed himself off.

"Let's go again!" The second time, he came back the same way, on his belly. But judging by his satisfied grin, he was genuinely enjoying the process. Elevation Mode gave him trouble as well: he shot upward like a bird, but stumbled on the way down and crashed spectacularly, though the sergeants had already dragged over a thick mat. Nick passed the test with mixed results, but Luisa ran into trouble even during the fitting.

"Dios mio, it's so heavy..." she groaned when the vest with the tanks settled onto her shoulders.

"I think I'm gonna fall apart." She managed Defense Mode, but after Dash, her face turned a distinct swampy shade. She appeared three hundred yards away and froze, hands braced on her knees. It was clear she was about to throw up right into her helmet.

"Here, take this!" the female sergeant reacted instantly. She pulled a lemon from her pocket and sliced off a juicy wedge on the move.

"Chew it, go on. You'll feel better right away."

"It's so sour..." Luisa winced, but a minute later her cheeks began to regain their normal color. Luisa was the only one who did not risk a second dash. She trudged back to formation on foot, barely moving her legs. I mentally gave the female sergeant credit. Professional. She had prepared a lemon in advance, knowing the weak points of newcomers, and did not say a single critical word to the girl. To my fellow cadets' credit, no one laughed or pointed fingers at her. Mary went last.

Watching them load pounds of steel and composite onto that fragile girl made me clench my fists. It seemed like she would simply collapse under the weight, but Mary only pressed her lips tighter and straightened her back.

"Cadet Summers, you're exempt from Dash Mode," the sergeant announced. To me, it did not look like a favor. It looked like common sense. With her weight and bone density, the stress of a dash could have ended in the infirmary with fractures. She activated Defense Mode without emotion. But in Elevation Mode, even though she was allowed only two steps, Mary impressed everyone. She executed the exercise flawlessly.

Not a hint of doubt, not a single unnecessary movement, she descended as confidently as if she had been walking on air her entire life. The whole platoon fell silent. Even for me, with my exceptional agility, the first step into empty space had caused a moment of hesitation. Mary was different.

"Training's over!" the sergeant barked, breaking the prolonged silence.

"You're all dismissed. Head to the mess hall. You've got personal time until fifteen hundred. At ease!" The boys and girls spilled off the training ground, loudly and excitedly discussing what they had just experienced. The air buzzed with voices, their first real encounter with awakened technology had loosened everyone's tongues. I did not rush to leave. I still had one unfinished conversation.

"Professor Langstrom," I said as I approached Selina, who was already folding her chair.

"We need to talk. One on one."