“I don't know,” Uno said. “It's not that bad.”
“What?” the other pilots said in unison.
Uno’s face colored, and he kept his eyes on his tray, absently poking at the food paste with his fork. “I kind of like it. It’s interesting.”
“You’re messed up in the head, man,” Squawks said.
The conversation eventually drifted in other directions, but Coda’s mind was occupied with what Uno had said. Like the pilots in Viking Squadron, those in Commander Coleman’s would have their own strengths and weaknesses, and it would be vital that their squadron leader know how to use them accordingly.
Coda made a mental note of Uno’s. He didn’t know if he would ever be in a leadership position again, but if he was, he promised himself he would be ready.
10
Ready Room, SAS Jamestown
Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B, High Orbit
Uno’s prediction that they would spend plenty of time in the gym proved to be true. Apart from their mealtimes and daily briefings, it offered the only reprieve from their computer-aided training.
Coda had never been much for working out, but he took to it immediately, relishing the opportunity to get away from the droll voice of the narrator. The highly technical overview of the inner workings of the X-23’s guidance system had been more than enough to turn his brain to mush, and he was growing increasingly frustrated with the process.
He was a pilot. Building a fighter wasn’t his job—flying one was. Who cared how the guidance system worked as long as it did? But after making a less-than-ideal first impression, he wasn't about to voice his displeasure. Instead, he took his aggression out in the gym.
The only person who seemed to hate the gym more than the CAI was Noodle. He complained about it as much as Squawks griped about the food.
The goal of their workouts, Commander Coleman had said, wasn't to bulk up. They weren't interested in pure strength; it would only get in the way. Instead, they were after enhanced flexibility and muscular endurance. That meant, in addition to heavy cardio and partner stretching, they focused on exercises that strengthened their cores, utilizing low weight with high reps. After the gym and the mental undertaking of the CAI, Coda went to bed exhausted, both mentally and physically.
Three days into FAM Phase, Commander Coleman posted their first progress report on the display boards of the ready room, and to Coda’s great surprise, he was dead last. Every other pilot had completed more CAI modules than he had, and most had better scores. Worse yet, Moscow was in the top ten and made sure Coda knew it. The only thing that kept Coda sane was that Uno had not only finished the most but had also remarkably scored the highest on each of the evaluations.
When Coda asked him how he'd scored so high, Uno had just shrugged and repeated that he found the subject matter interesting. Unfortunately, such advice wasn't helpful, and even after reapplying himself, Coda didn’t make up enough ground to dig his way out of the bottom quarter of the class by the end of the week. For the first time in his life, Coda was failing at something, and he had no idea how to fix it.
That night, during their daily briefing, Commander Coleman reviewed their progress, calling out everyone in the bottom half by name. It was public humiliation at its worst. When he got to Coda’s name, Moscow snickered and muttered something to one of the nearby pilots. Coda couldn't make out what he’d said, but the outburst had drawn the commander’s attention.
“What was that?” Commander Coleman asked, pausing his review.
Moscow stiffened, his smile disappearing immediately.
“I asked you a question, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then answer it.”
“Sir,” Moscow said, “I just wonder when the first cuts are going to be made. You know, when the first pilots will be sent home.”
“Afraid of your competition, Lieutenant Krylov?”
“No, sir,” Moscow said, apparently refusing to take the bait. “I’m more afraid of flying with pilots who can’t pass a simple test, sir.”
Commander Coleman chewed on the words, his face a mask of displeasure. Coda waited for him to scold Moscow, but to his surprise, the commander did the opposite. “I would be too, Moscow. That is why any pilots who haven’t completed their computer-aided instruction by the end of next week will be cut from the program.” He surveyed the ready room. “Hear me now, nuggets. You have seven days. Make them count.”
11
Gym, SAS Jamestown
Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B, High Orbit
Uno was the first pilot to complete his CAI, finishing four full days before the deadline, with an impressive cumulative score of ninety-six percent. The next batch of graduates came a day later, and to Coda’s great frustration, Moscow was among them.
“Ninety-three percent,” Moscow said when Coda passed him in the gym. “That’s what I scored, O’Neil. Did you see it? You won’t even make it through ninety-three percent of the material.”
Coda seethed but said nothing. He strode past Moscow, making for the free weights on the other side of the gym. When he got to the bench press, he slapped a series of weights on either side of the bar and lay down into position.
“What are you doing?” Noodle asked, appearing above him. “We’re not supposed to be using these weights.”
Coda ignored the question—it should have been pretty damn obvious what he was doing. “Spot me.”
“Coda—”
“Spot me,” Coda repeated, then without waiting for a response, he lifted the bar from the bracket and lowered it onto his chest. It felt lighter than he’d expected. Fewer than two weeks into the program, his body was growing stronger and showing signs of increased muscle definition. He finished the first four reps without issue. By the fifth, the bar began to get heavy. By seven, he was noticeably slower, and by the ninth, his arms were shaking.
“One more,” Noodle said, placing his hands under the bar in case Coda’s arms gave out. “Come on, Coda. One more.”
Feeling as though he was lifting the weight of the world itself, Coda pushed with everything he had. When the bar slammed back into place
