"Long way to go, sir."
Halstead gave another harrumph. He countered, "You're standing straight, tall, and sure. That's a damn sight better than the half-broken boy they dragged in here."
"Well, sir, they sold me on enlistment with promises of a workout program."
"Gym's cheaper." Halstead said. His thin smile was another man's guffaw. He added, "But it's a hell of a lot less thorough." He gave Firenze another once-over. "I've heard good things about you."
"They didn't tell you about the armor, then." Firenze countered. He could still feel the pinch of the collar, the crush on his chest, the sweat trapped against his skin until he thought he might drown. He remembered crashing to the deck, exhausted, pinned in the carapace like a turtle on its shell. He could still hear the command, 'Somone pick up Princess. He's on his back again.' While it hadn't been the most embarrassing experience in his life, it was undoubtedly in the highlight reel.
Halstead countered, "You adapted. You overcame. I knew you would."
"I-" Firenze couldn't quite force the words out. He glanced at the off-time clock, centered his thoughts, and confessed, "I don't know, sir. Sometimes I pretend hard enough that I almost fool myself. We get a couple good runs through the sim, and I start believing, but then I think about how many people are on that airship, and I get sick. I try to act normal, act cool, but I'm not. I'm scared out of my mind. I'm posturing. Faking!" He had to stop and gather himself for the conclusion, "I'm worried, sir. I'm worried that when shit hits the fan, my facade is going to slip, and then I'm gonna fail. And we can't afford to fail."
Halstead leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers under his mustache. He said, "Congratulations, Mister Firenze, you've just stumbled on the secret."
"Sir?"
"I'll to tell you something, but it's not going to make your life any easier."
Firenze felt his hopes sink. He' been half-expecting this response. He hazarded, "Let me guess. Everyone's faking? Everyone's scared?"
"Oh, yes." Halstead agreed. "But worse. The fear you described, the fear of failure? That's a benevolent force in your monkey-brain. The real terror comes up from the lizard. The moment the first bullet cracks past your head, and you measure life and death in centimeters and seconds, there's a screaming voice that's going to rear up, seize your body, and drown all your precious intellect."
Halstead glanced towards the yellow-stained windows, towards the silent machinery of Kessinwey's echoing halls. His whiskers twitched, and he seemed to focus on something far away. "There's a powerful motive force in the back of your biology that just wants to keep living, and once it thinks you might not, it will assert itself with the full weight of five million years."
He paused, turned back to Firenze, and asked, "I bet you felt the edges of it, the first time in the sims? A squeeze in your stomach? Icewater in your veins? The urge to run, fight, hide? Your conscious mind knew it was just a game, a fake, but the limbic system said, 'near enough' and started edging in on you. Am I right?"
Firenze nodded.
"I've been in combat more times than I care to count. If you think that terror ever subsides, you'd be wrong. You learn to manage it better, train in better reflexes for when you can't hold it down, but that voice is powerful. It's why jumpers try to fly before they hit pavement. No matter how ready you think you are, that mortal urge is going to howl its protest, and it is loud."
The colonel continued, "We look for the right kind of people, give them the motivation and tools to overcome. Fear of failing can be part of that. When your limbic system is screaming 'live', maybe its the desire to win that pulls you through. Perhaps, it's the need to save your team. Possibly, its the understanding of stakes that gives your higher mind the leverage it needs to turn the screaming terror into something useful. So, Mister Firenze, turn that fear into strength when the real terror comes. When it comes to failure, I have no need of men so afraid that they won't try, but I have every need for the ones who get back up because they refuse to accept defeat."
Halstead's piercing blue eyes softened. At that moment, he looked almost grandfatherly, tucked into his study full of books and broken things. His wan smile returned, and he asked, "So, Mister Firenze, I hope you can take comfort in my anti-consolation."
Firenze tried to pretend it was helpful. He replied, "At least you didn't lie to me."
"That's the Agency's job." Halstead replied.
Firenze laughed despite himself.
"Was there anything else I could do for you?" The colonel asked.
"No, s-" Firenze cut himself off. Weeks of training and the alien thoughts jammed into his head commanded that he dismiss himself courteously and allow senior officers to do their work. He refused. He wasn't a soldier, and he had the right to ask. "Why are we doing this?"
Halstead's eyes narrowed. "Lives, Mister Firenze. Twelve hundred of them, at a minimum."
"But why like this? Why Berenson?"
A storm passed the colonel's brow, darkened his scowl. Halstead said, "Be careful about him."
Firenze nodded. "I was warned. I understand. But why work with him?"
Halstead sighed. "I told you. Because we're soldiers and we don't get that choice. This is his mission."
"Is he Agency?" Firenze asked.
Halstead gave a slight shake of his head. "I can't give you that answer, but he is the Agency's asset. We'll handle Berenson, you just keep the network on lock."
"At least tell me why we're doing this." Firenze demanded. "Why not just hit the ship in port? Bring overwhelming force - the Authority is good at that!"
Halstead leaned back, looking for all the world like a professor in his office, about to 'educate' a particularly ornery student. He said, "Very well, Mister Firenze. We can go through the how and why. First,
