The worst thing about BAaT was the food. Designed to fulfill the exact caloric demand of endless hours of training, it was, in theory, the perfectly tailored meal. The 35 million credit contract for the catering apparently couldn’t pay for flavor. Processed to hell with a mouthfeel that was part wet mushroom and part raw spinach, it was clearly the result of hiring the lowest bidder. Conatix might run the show, but Good Enough for Government Work permeated every inch of Jump Zero, courtesy of the Alliance.
Worse still was the training. Being jolted awake at odd hours of the night to drill after a long day was a special kind of hell. Maybe it was that, no matter how much progress they made, it was never enough. It was endless pushing, because humanity has thousands of years of biotic training to make up for.
Or maybe the worst thing of all was the silence. Without the extranet, the rest of the galaxy may as well not exist. Sometimes news trickled in with shipments of supplies—skirmishes in the Terminus, political drama in the Citadel, whatever. Nothing that felt relevant to a station as remote as Jump Zero. Once someone smuggled them a copy of the latest Blasto movie—for weeks “Enkindle THIS!” dominated the training room.
The girl that smuggled the vid earned enough demerits to put her all the way back at Step One.
Maybe it was pointless ranking the facets of BAaT by how shittiness. Maybe the worst part was how all the shitty parts worked together, cogs in a machine of endless fuckery. It was meant to make even the most resilient student buckle on the strain; instructors liked to wax philosophical about building them up from nothing afterwards. Apparently they were forging heroes for humanity.
It’s all bullshit. Humanity isn’t even at war.
Kalyani learned to keep that opinion to herself. Her left arm still ached whenever the chill of empty, endless space knifed through the station. No matter how hard they tried, Conatix failed to keep Jump Zero consistently warm. Hell, maybe they weren’t trying. They must be saving a fortune.
Five years. After five years she’d finally clawed her way up the ladder, finally worked the program to completion. Step Nine came with a room of its own, relaxed curfews, and even the occasional extranet access. Slow, heavily monitored, extranet access—but after five years of silence, it was wonderful.
The responsibilities Step Nine came with, however, were anything but.
“Get up.”
Kalyani’s voice was a whipcrack, carving through the hum of biotics echoing throughout the training room. Dozens of exercises filled the massive room, flares of biotic blue gleaming off grey walls.
“Get up,” She barked again. The tangle of lanky limbs on the battered red mat stirred. Slowly, the boy unfolded, rising like a battered daddy long legs. Violet had blossomed across a ruddy cheek, a pale eye squeezed shut. He finally stood and raised his arms, fumbling through a mnemonic.
The shimmer of electric blue along his fingertips shot towards her, listing left. Sloppy. After years in this room, it was as easy as breathing to flare a barrier. Pale sparks shattered against her corona. The impact had knocked a shoulder back, more playful shove than actual blow.
She wanted nothing more than to let that count.
“Again,” she said instead.
“Oh come on!” His voice cracked on the last word. Fucking hell. She was beating the shit out of a fucking child. This was not one of her prouder moments. If only her mother could see her now.
“Just land a proper blow and we can stop,” Kalyani urged in a low voice.
The look he shot her said ‘fuck you’ with an eloquence words could never match. It was impressive, really.
“I’m tired,” his whine was sharp, his frustration surfacing at long last.
“Quiet,” Kalyani hissed. His complaint seemed to have gone unnoticed by instructors proper; a small mercy, that. Complaints only made things worse. Some of the staff went overboard at the merest hint of protest. “Try it again.”
For one terrible moment she thought he might refuse. He finally snapped his arms, awash in a silvery glow. Physics went strange, fraying at the edges, screaming like a bullet. It was clean, fierce, and it was worth letting it slip past her barrier. Her ribs disagreed vehemently.
“Better,” Kalyani pressed a hand against her flank. Nothing felt broken; probably bruised to hell though. Good enough. “Go get something to eat—“
“Madan.”
Shit.
That dual-toned voice never failed to kick the reptile part of her brain into overdrive. Perhaps it was xenophobic; she wished she could have been ashamed of herself. Turians were just so sharp. Every primitive instinct urged her to run whenever she found herself under those pinprick eyes. Apex predators had a way of doing that to a girl.
Needless to say, Kalyani was fucking terrified of them.
Squaring her shoulders, she looked up. That it wasn’t the Commander staring her down was only a small relief. Caelnus was still plenty intimidating. Kalyani took a step back.
“Is there any reason you’re coddling Court?”
FUCK, Kalyani thought eloquently.
“Sir?” She said intelligently.
Caelnus did not look amused. As much as Kalyani could tell, anyways. She spent most of her time avoiding the attention of the turians that had taken over the program. Reading turian mandible expressions was not her forte. Was that irritation, or indigestion?
“Coddling Court,” Caelnus repeated, as if she were simple. Irritation, then. “You let him hit you.”
Well, he wasn’t wrong.
“No, sir—”
Not for the first time, Kalyani wished she was a better liar. Her strategy of keeping her head down and avoiding any and all trouble had gotten her this far, but it left her hilariously ill-equipped to handle scrutiny. She lost the staring contest, dropping her gaze to the mat beneath her worn boots. She fidgeted. It did precisely nothing for her credibility.
Caelnus’ disapproval was a tactile thing, pressing in on her until she capitulated. The mat creaked beneath her heavy feet as she turned and faced wide, terrified eyes.
“Again."
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