Warchild by Karin Lowachee

Author:Karin Lowachee [Lowachee, Karin]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Speculative Fiction
ISBN: 9780446610773
Google: 31FSPwAACAAJ
Amazon: 0446610771
Goodreads: 184786
Publisher: Aspect
Published: 2001-12-31T22:00:00+00:00

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XVII.

« ^ »

As an operative I was off to a rotten start. I would have thought they were just naturally concerned about my year with a pirate, except Azarcon hadn’t looked on it with any degree of compassion—even though it was also clear I’d escaped. They couldn’t have overlooked that fact, and still they grilled me.

The thought of another interview made my stomach increasingly upset. I didn’t know how I was going to last a month on this ship, much less five years. Maybe at my first opportunity I’d ask Niko to pull me out. Maybe at our next port.

Maybe I could leave somehow, get back on Austro, if I could get past the jets.

Coward. Niko needed me here. How could I go back to the ka’redan-na, a failure?

I might never see Aaian-na again, if I didn’t break for it.

I wasn’t going to break for it. Feeling sick wasn’t an excuse. Not even homesick.

“So what’d she ask?”

I glanced behind as Kris jogged up to follow me, as I followed the JI back to the shooting gallery.

Conscious of the instructor, I waved a dismissive hand. “The usual. They just want to get to know us.”

“I think we’re going to start PT once our platoon’s done interviewing. What’d the doc say about you, are you up to it or do you get to sit out?”

“Why are you so interested?”

He gave me a second look; I hadn’t disguised my irritation.

“Just conversation, mano.” He held up his arms in a casual defensive gesture. “Forget it.” He strode ahead to walk abreast of the JI.

These were the people I had to work with; I could see Niko’s disapproving face. Make an effort, Jos. At least to cast off suspicion.

Still, I didn’t say anything.

Kris was right; they had us familiarize with the guns until Training Platoon One had all been through the SJI mill, then they ran us around the ship. By then my ribs were just a dull fire, as Rodriguez had promised, though my surface bruises still ached. The JIs didn’t care; I would have to fight in dismal physical conditions probably more than once in my career as a jet, so it was all training.

We took a sweating tour of the training deck, then parts of jetdeck, flight deck, and maindeck. We weren’t allowed anywhere near the command deck or engineering without escort. If we were sighted on those levels we’d be shot. And that applied for when we graduated as well. We were going to be on a year’s probation, like I’d suspected.

“The Masochist March,” SJI Schmitt called it as the squad slowed from a jog to a fast walk on our way back to the training deck. By then my PT uni was soaked with sweat. I took no more notice of the carrier’s bulkheads, crew, compartments, or lack of colors. It was a narrow gray world for the most part. When the crew was on duty or on leave, it was a quiet world with the kind of steel emptiness I’d felt when I snuck out of quarters and roamed Mukudori on blueshifts.

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