ARC10

Chapter 9

I succumb to surreal excitement when I stand in front of Combat Room 4. If I move the wrong way, I might wake up and find out it's a sham. With my most arduous journey behind me, I face today with smirks, handshakes, and many blurted, "Captain Lorn, you son-of-a-bitch," which are directly followed by painful slaps on the shoulder.

The crowd gathers around the front door and disappears into the room one at a time. I'm the last person standing outside, staring at the dull, black-and-silver door. I want to smile. I want to be proud of my place here, but somehow, a joyful militiaman isn't a militiaman taken seriously. Most people would immediately question her sanity, and I'm tired of questions. It's time to snatch my rightful place.

The small scar on my chin with the slightly upturned ends always seemed ironic. Today the scar is the real deal.

Chin raised, I march through the door of Combat Room 4 and note that the large, U-shaped briefing table has been removed and replaced with ten tables and two chairs behind each in a traditional classroom formation. This is going to be a long day.

Each table holds a small monitor and a blackened screen displaying a bold, singular, red number. This marker indicates where the ten pairs are to sit and listen today. I crane my neck to check if they're in any order. The desk before me blares out "3," so I cut right and strut through the rows of tables and chairs.

Some chairs already hold their designated soldiers, resting with their hands on the table and staring ahead. Some soldiers converse with partners or other officers. I continue to the end of the room where "10" glows in the far corner with one solitary chair.

I stare at the groups seated together and then back to my sequestered seat. The customary anxiety of my GenEd years resurfaces.

As I slide in, I wrestle away sleep. I don't want to ignore the teacher for the rest of the morning. This isn't seventh year. I'm not covered in zits anymore. This is useful information I'm going to need, very much unlike Earth Science.

"So, how's it going today, Spider Woman?" Kai punches me in the shoulder with a gentle tap. He perches on my small table, leaving his hand on my body.

I smile back, stifling a flinch. The bruises around his eyes mutate to moldy-green. I wish they would heal faster so I'm not thrown back to the Maroon Coats, the rod, and the lab when I look him in the eyes.

"I definitely feel better than you look." I shift uncomfortably under his hand. The touches of the men my age are something strange and invasive. It makes my skin crinkle like old sheets of aluminum foil.

Kai glances at the monitor resting on the table, his shaggy black hair wiggling over his bruises. "Open it," he encourages as he pushes himself off the desk and stands behind me with his green-and-blue cheeks precariously close to mine. I bask in his warmth, and I wonder if I move my face even three inches to the left, will we be connected at the jaw? The thought makes me both nervous and explosive.

Apprehensive, I eye the black-and-red screen. My fingers swipe to the side, exposing an individual file folder. The information erupts from it one at a time. There are a few maps, some graphics about the specifications of the ARC10 and general rules and codes of conduct humans should follow while aboard. My excitement floods through my fingertips. They could shoot out bolts of lightning if I get anymore hyped.

"Ours has so much more information about the Meltronians. Like, they're a carbon breathing species, so they've got to wear masks here. My civilians'll be restricted to designated sections of the ship where they can roam and breathe freely. I'll be fitted for a carbon mask, and so will Kara. We're gonna be the only ones allowed access to restricted areas of the ARC4. For safety, of course . . ."

As he's talking in one long stream, I continue flipping through the short documents to discover there is nothing more about the alien race navigating ARC10. Details about my particular role in this auspicious mission seem to be absent from my file.

The imagined grandeur is draining faster than a leaky bladder. I open and close the file folder again. I check the desktop to see if I'd missed a file or some pictures or anything that could provide a better grasp on this situation. But there's nothing.

Kai remains a silent spectator of my desperate search. He's kind enough not to make jokes right now. "Maybe there's not that much to report about them? Maybe they're not that interesting? Hey! You're going to be on Hayomo's ship, she's probably got more information than you could want."

He dons a half-smile in a feeble attempt at encouragement. My gaze levels him with the full force of my resentment. No part of me believes Hayomo's hoarding the information, waiting for the perfect time to fill me in.

Of course, in absolute perfect timing, my peripherals catch Dean's tall frame striding into the room. He doesn't even glance my way but takes his seat at the table marked "9," directly to my left. 

I try not to notice as his partner, an older officer in his thirty-somethings, greets him. The two men shake hands. They dive into their own folder which looks as if it has documents spilling out of the corners of the machine. My envy incapacitates me. How is he deemed worthy enough to access so much information about his ARC? How the hell is he always blessed with the luck?

It's always been this way. When orders are distributed, I'm usually the one taking the back alleys and shirking farther and farther away from any real combat. While I'm equally qualified in combat intelligence, I still get shafted. Then there's the whole HHP deal where he's not ordered to carry this thing around for nine months.

Kai jabs me in the shoulder. Everyone rises to attention as our commanding officer enters the room. In the few seconds I have glowered at Dean, Hayomo has taken the opportunity to slide to my side and announce we are going to kickoff the first ARC briefing. Another shock of excitement surges through my bones. As upset as I am over my lack of information, I still can't wait to immerse myself in this mission.

The morning passes uneventfully. We listen for hours as Hayomo lectures on the species of the Alliance. I'm barely conscious by the time the morning ends with the last two ARCs.

"ARC9 is from a race well-connected to Earth for hundreds of years. We've known them as the Grays." Hayomo paces the space between the tables. "In troves, the Grays, or Zeta Reticulans, began volunteering for our defense. You all know of their history. I don't want to waste our time on old news."

I remember hearing about these aliens as a kid, because they were the ones supplying us with the ammo to fight the hostiles. We blamed the Invasion on them first, but we were wrong. Very wrong.

Hayomo stops in front of Dean's table. "Operation Homecoming will be the last bit of assistance they offer our primitive species."

It makes sense why Dean's folder is brimming with information. The Grays are the most notorious alien species humanity has ever dealt with. His records contain hundreds of years of history. I frown at my piddling file on my desk.

"ARC10," Hayomo states, steeling her eyes above my shoulder, "is from the last race to join the Alliance. While this host's aid is appreciated, their contract is unstable at best. Their participation is not voluntary, and the ship they have donated is engineered with capricious technology that they've offered little explanation for. It's my hope that the Xani nation recognizes the desperate need of the human race in these hours of distress and puts their own bigotry aside to lend us the aid we need."

My jaw drops. Now I know why Hayomo has avoided eye contact throughout the lecture.

"The Xani will be hostile, but I have been promised their cooperation will be maintained. Therefore, I have decided to take control of ARC10 myself. It will be a difficult five years, but as I've said before, they have agreed to aid us, albeit unwillingly, out of a favor they owe the Grays. We must accept any amount of hospitality graciously."

For the first time today, Dean faces me.