Training Part 1

The fifteen were unceremoniously bundled into the back of the same van that brought them. Over the next several hours as the group was transported to the spaceport then to Ceres, a moon prison facility repurposed by the Union government for use by Earth, not a whimper was heard from the group. They were not convicts. They were not even prisoners. They were the Soulless.

Though like the Rhizon, Earthlings had the requisite brain bits that offered protection from the Vord Terror, in humans it was not natural. Instead, the gene expression had to be brought out. A barrage of chemical boosting, electrical stimulation and bio-modification performed on subjects brought out the animal, so-to speak. Unfortunately, the mortality rate was close to a hundred percent. Twenty five million, seven hundred and eighty four thousand, three hundred and two men and women joined Paul over a period of two years on Ceres' prison husk. Misfits. Atheists, homosexuals, rapists, sexual deviants, political rebels, cross-dressers. Children were excepted and instead chemically conditioned to accept Hegemony authority. Nothing there. Early tests indicated a hundred percent mortality among children. They simply could not handle the chemical and physical stresses worked upon their little minds. Adults on the other hand could survive. The figures said near-hundred percent.

Paul was among seven thousand, four hundred and sixty three individuals that survived the operations. No one knew why some survived while close to a hundred percent died horrible deaths. Even those that survived suffered terribly. The Hegemony was not simply satisfied with creating fighter pilots for the Union. They had to be assured of their loyalty when fighting for the Union. They were Soulless. No oaths of loyalty sufficed. On top of the chemical stresses the survivors experienced they faced electrical and biochemical conditioning targeted at their brains. One way or the other, they would obey Union officials placed over them.

* * *

At least it is over. All that is left for us is death.

Paul was not a morbid fellow by nature. The weeks of chemical conditioning left him in a perpetual state of existence where he knew he was going to die. During his hacker days, he'd seen the files. Of the millions subjected to the procedures less than a fraction of a percent survived. That he was among the lucky meant absolutely nothing. He'd also seen Union records of Rhizon battles against the Vord. The Rhizon never proffered too many of their pilots to serve in the Union navy. Still, too many of them died in the battles as they were swarmed. For Paul and his companions, Death was not abated. The Grim Reaper simply waited for them somewhere along the road.

"Piloting involves more than simply controlling your plane. You must become one with your fighter. Your neural links allow for complete pilot-craft merging. Feel your wings as extensions of your body. Forget your controls. Forget that you are in a metal box. You are one with your fighter."

The instructor's voice peeped from the com-box. Commander Artvul was the trainer charged with preparing Earthlings for space warfare. After three and a half months of puking, convulsions, fevers and excruciating pain, Space Command deemed the survivors ready for pilot school. Reecevark, superlative pilots comfortable flying under their own power or behind a machine, headed the pilot training school based on the same planetoid as their prison. Unfortunately, at least according to Artvul, humans were unappreciative of the opportunity to study under the greatest flight instructors in the known universe.

Paul could see the mechanically voiced commander struggling to reach across to his students. With placid expressions on their faces, there was a deadness to each pilot's eyes. The Commander knew he was not getting through. Paul saw the Commander glance at his hip where the neural disruptor hung and smiled inwardly and grinned to himself. He knew why the instructor kept surreptitiously glancing at the disruptor. Each survivor was tagged with a neural chip used to control the pilots. For the most part the chips worked because any thoughts of violence against the instructors were met with disabling pain. It was a great idea, but since chips' coding did not cover violence against other students, the pilots were apt to sudden acts of murderous fury towards each other.

"Tomorrow you will all get the opportunity to fly for the first time." The instructor continued. "Your test scores in the simulators are enough to cause grief to expectant Ungalit matrons! I expect better of you!" Seeing the lack of response from his audience, he added, "The best will be rewarded with extra stims. Those that perform poorly will be punished."

Artvul finished off with what he hoped was a furious expression on his face. He hoped that behind the expressionless faces in front of him some of the students took his advice to heart. He shouldn't have bothered. To most in that room, those that bothered to pay him any attention, he looked like an oversized ostrich with delusions of grandeur. As it was, Artvul failed miserably. If anything, Artvul had just guaranteed that the fledgling pilots would ignore the very instructions he gave.

With class dismissed, three hundred and twenty human pilots-in-training left for physical regime. Not a word was exchanged among the students. It wasn't that they had no regard for each other. They did. Most simply wanted to leave the premises for their rooms where they would dose themselves to the gills with stims.

Like everyone else, Paul was dead inside. Since he had no choice to be there, he would make things as difficult for his instructors as possible. Walking down the hall, he could see the adjacent building where they housed incoming batches of 'prisoners' slated for gene modification. The fact that Hegemony did not care about their feelings enough to order new constructions far from the training school said all Paul needed to hear. Before reaching the doors to the training halls, he saw an altercation between two trainees proceeding.

"You stepped on my toe." That was Jackson. At six-five and massively, he was one of the biggest survivors in the Soulless. He was also the angriest.

"I did not step on anyone." This was offered flatly without the slightest hint of fear at confronting the human tank. Lila was short with a pixie face and nose to go with it. She was also one of the most silent ones in the group. When she wasn't provoked. Lila stared up at Jackson with what was evidently a desire to pluck his eyes out.

"You did." Jackson was getting angrier. Chest bulging out, he was just about to reach for Lila when he suddenly crumpled without a sound. Folded up into a ball, mewling sounds could be heard coming from his throat. Beside him, Lila was doing the same.

"If you cannot match to your next class without fighting each other you will be carried there." The mechanical voice box that accompanied each Reecevark grated out. Unlike humans, Reecevark lacked vocal cords capable of 'normal' sound. Instead, they had holes in their beaks they used to whistle while communicating with each other.

The students sidestepped and matched past the convulsing duo. Like everyone else, Paul did not mind having his brains scrambled by a neural disruptor. They had all been through the worst the universe could throw at them. It was simply that they could not be bothered to react. Besides, they were headed to the gym.

Passing through the massive doors that held the gyms, Paul could see clumps of bored students gathered around several Ungalit instructors. Two Ungalit demonstrated a combo aimed at disarming an opponent of his rifle. As pilots, the students did not need instructions in martial arts. However, bureaucracies being what they were, Space Command demanded, and received, instructors from the Union Army.

To the side, two students faced each other. Unlike the Ungalit, they were padded in protective gear. It did not matter because the gleeful expressions on their faces revealed they meant to use the dirtiest strikes against each other. Without bothering to apply the lessons just imparted by the instructors, they suddenly flew towards each other. Paul saw Johanssen, the smaller one, snap a kick aimed towards her opponent's head. Before she finished the turn, she was sweeping her left knee towards her opponent's crotch. Before the knee contacted, Usama turned to the side, trapped the leg, and jerked his elbow towards her eyebrow. The blow smashed against her temple and she was bleeding over her eye. Briefly blinded, she did not see the lethal palm strike aimed at her throat. The slam connected and she suddenly spotted a crushed larynx.

Johanssen was not done in. Following through with a palm strike against her opponent's rib, she sent a clawed strike against her opponent's eyes. The blow was a feint. Gasping for air, she used her opponent's own fleeting blindness to slam her shin once more at Usama's crotch. The explosive grunt Usama released was enough to put anyone out of a fight. The Soulless were not anyone. With his opponent's air supply cut off all Usama had to do was wait her out. He didn't. Shuffling towards her, he grabbed her flailing arm and with her left leg still trapped between his thighs, pulled her towards him. Before the instructors could step in, he had her head in a lock with a quick twist of his shoulders snapped her neck.