“Get your ass up! You had him,” Kymberlynn shouts.
Amye slides her face up off the mat to glare at Kymberlynn. “Half-second advantage on a Calthos warrior’s not having them.”
“Do you know what kind of skill it takes to gain an advantage on one of these guys?” Kymberlynn scolds her sister.
Amye flips her eyes back on her instructor. The master warrior slides into his training jacket, covering the second-greatest honor bestowed on a Calthosion—the permanent placement of the clan’s sigil on the warrior. Tattooed across his entire back is an Ouroboros involving an eagle snatching a viper in his talons while the reptile sinks its fangs into the eagle. A white wolf waiting on a rocky outcropping as the full moon rises over all of them. He wraps the robes of his clan around himself and ties the ebony sash around his waist.
“Your skill has improved,” Joenerbrawl compliments. He adjusts the cloth manacles covering each arm under his training uniform.
“I don’t know if I can do this anymore.” Amye collapses onto her back in labored breaths.
“Choice. You asked me to train you in the path of the warrior. There’s more difficult paths to achieving enlightenment than physical perfection.”
“If I quit?”
Kymberlynn and Joenerbrawl respond to her in choral voices: “You only hurt yourself.”
“I measure myself only by my own failures. Your failure to complete the training doesn’t reflect upon me.” Joe nods.
“But it’s so hard,” she whimpers.
“Lower standards won’t make a better warrior. You’ve chosen to train. I will instruct as I would any Calthos warrior.”
“But I’m not from Calthos,” Amye waves Kymberlynn away, wanting no help from her in getting up.
“You want to learn how to fight as if you were, so you must train as if you were.”
“Right now I want my spine…” Amye’s back thunder-cracks as she straightens up. “It hurts.”
“I educated you in several meditative rituals. Perform those to restrict your pain and prevent future trauma.”
“Reynard trained under you for a year. How did he survive such intense exercises to earn your clan tattoo?”
“He was accepted as a pupil by our clan’s Old Maestro, our most experienced teacher. Through his wisdom Reynard trained as an accomplished swordsman. His skill with a blade earned him honor.”
“Swords and mysticism aren’t effective against a good blaster.” Amye raises each shoulder. Her vertebrae pop, and the pain relinquishes.
“Then why did he request to be trained in the skills of such an antiquated weapon?”
Amye realizes the question is only for her to ponder over. Joe already understands the answer. “And you won’t tell me.”
“Giving you the answers won’t help you to learn in the same way as figuring it out for yourself. When you understand why the Commander chose the path he did, you may better understand yourself as a warrior.”
Polemic, Amye again reiterates, “I don’t know.”
“Even if you learn to fight in order to avoid confrontation, the skills you must acquire come from within. When they are released, it becomes the moment you understand who you truly are.”
“What if I don’t want to know who I truly am?”
“Many people become lost. When you are ready to find the path again, I will help you.” Joe bows to her in a sign of respect.
“No insistence.”
“You cannot help someone who’s not ready to be helped.”
She returns the bow. “I’ve got to help Reynard with his Mecat pilot training.”
ONE HUNDRED AND twenty seconds.
Two minutes—the average life expectancy of a Mecat pilot during their first battle is less than two minutes. Survival probability quadruples if they make it to a second battle campaign. Not many do. The Mechanized Electronic Combat Attack Tanks have become a staple in ground warfare, even in orbital combat. The two-legged walkers traverse most every terrain, and larger Cats outfitted with orbital buster rockets allow for more missile casements or larger cannons operating like portable howitzers.
Unlike aircraft or even treaded ground tanks, Mecats take a great deal more skill, coordination, and reflexes to pilot. The driver has to move arms, legs, aim, shoot, and avoid all in the same moment. Osirians’ reflexes are slower compared to many other humanoid species; only the naturally capable make it past the first battle. The majority of Osirians who become expert pilots and collect enough Confirmed Kill Notches end up working in mercenary Lances and hire out to the highest bidder.
It’s a short life span for even the superlative pilots. And despite the high payroll, most earned funds funnel back into outfitting the Mecat for the next job. Considering death expectancy of pilots, reaching quick wealth means they must eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow they die.
Reynard has no intention of dying today or tomorrow. Attempting to procure his place in this war smuggling weapons remains a precursor to his goals. Admiral Maxtin envisions the crew as espionage agents or even counterintelligence operatives. Reynard fathoms stylish involvement as a James Bond type to be fantasy. Work as a mercenary with any clout requires he must learn to pilot a Mecat.
“Commander.” Amye’s voice crackles through the comm unit. “When I open the shield doors, fire your thrusters. Whatever enemy you face will have targeted the launch bay in an attempt to destroy Mecats as they release.”
Amye, a natural pilot, secured the five hundred hours of simulator time faster than any Osirian possibly could. Piloting skills must run through her blood since her sister scored even higher. He read in Amye’s IMC file she’s qualified to pilot a Blackweb Hypershuttle, a craft not designed for Osirians due to their short arms. Her tutelage should help him improve his own piloting skills.
“Shouldn’t I know what battle scenario I’m attempting?” he asks.
“Doesn’t matter. An intelligent brief
