Defying Terror

Chapter XXXV

Capt. Brian W. Manchester, No. 002

24 August 2030

17:41 QCT

General Gilroy Hamilton tilts the knobs on the box television set he brought in from his house. He fine-tunes the signal until the scratchy, black and white film on the screen buzzes to a visible picture. As he starts to back away from the TV to view the screen, it shakes back into the choppy, moving current. He growls, muttering curses under his breath, and returns to work.

"Damn old thing. It was working great up until number twenty," Gill mumbles. "If any of you would like to assist me in fixing this, I would greatly appreciate it. Hell, I might even let you skip the next Officer meeting."

That appears to be my cue.

As the General inspects the cords attached to the ancient box, I approach with a glass of whiskey in my hand. "Have you tried hitting it?" I let my elbow sit atop the screen in a thick film of dust.

"I wouldn't try, Brian. This TV is over fifty years old, and I can't risk it br-"

I move my glass to my other hand and form a fist with the one I abandoned. I slam it onto the top of the TV, shooting specks of dust into the air. This thing only leaves Gill's closet once a year. He was pulling cobwebs off of it this morning.

"Number seventeen," Sergeant Lee pauses. "Ashley Harper."

The General presses off of the ground with weak knees and glares at me. "Well, aren't you a genius, Captain Manchester?" He waltzes around me and makes his way to the sofa facing the television screen. "Lucky you, you don't have to hear Isaiah and Arthur bitch at each other for five hours. Now, where did I put that drink?"

Keira and I don't let that statement pass us by. She turns to James, who stands behind the couch with a strong grip on his glass of whiskey. The General calls him that primarily to bother him, and the Colonel knows that he is only jesting. Of course, Gill can refer to him by that name without any major repercussions, but God forbid I do it, and I won't hear the end of it. That's James; always trying to start problems.

Every year, the officers of the Queen's City Imperial Guard meet in the Castle to view the ranking of the top one hundred recruits in the faction. Gill pulls his old television out from his closet and brings it just so we can watch it in low-definition. A bit nostalgic, depending on who you're asking. I bet the kids being ranked across town would complain about the quality of the video.

I remember the day of my ranking, in the year 2000. I was told earlier that morning that I was going to be ranked in the top ten, and that bothered me for the rest of the event. But at least I knew what my fate was. I thought I knew what I was getting myself into. I could have never predicted what happened to me only months later.

Calvin Tross was selected seventh in the class, to my shock. My closest ally in training camp had a stellar performance on all the tests, so the idea that I could've done any better made me question myself as the numbers counted down. Once the realization struck me that I wouldn't be ranked fourth, I prepared to hear my name be accompanied with "Sergeant" at the front.

I got Corporal, instead. They gave the highest rank to a scoundrel named Markus Towne from Woodrow. His parents were third-generation Imperial Guard members, so I wondered if that had anything to do with it. My father was in the Imperial Guard and died fighting for Oltima when I was only an infant. But I'm positive that I wasn't given any kind of leverage. That comparison between Markus and I drew the top ten of Class 0 to me, and the others viewed me as a better leader than him.

Then, one thing led to another, and five years later, I was officially recognized as the Sergeant of Class 0.

Lieutenant Hill steps in my direction to intercept my path to the coffee table. "They just ranked seventeen, and it's not Slater."