The training program fosters the capacity of the trainees for camaraderie and teamwork by bunking them in pairs. There is a steady stream of standardised tests, some — but nobody is made aware which — counting toward their ongoing pass/fail assessment; but outside of those, all exercises count only if passed as a buddy unit.
The psychological applicability to the eventual pilot-handler duo is obvious. The handlers hold the power, and occupy a position of physical safety; but the pilots, augmented, are an expensive investment. Best to foster in the prospective handlers the groundwork of an eventual understanding that just because they don’t get shot to hell by artillery or opfor mechs, doesn’t mean they can simply throw away the frontline half of their partnerships.
…Not on pure whim, anyway.
And right now, that buddyship leaves Jen with a problem.
Janine — the matching Js a joke that everyone else rapidly ran into the ground, then continued to plough into an ever-deeper furrow of negative amounts of funny — is not bad. But she’s also not what you’d call good, or at least not a good student. She’s — well. Not that smart would be a cruel thing to say; smarts are not, Jen thinks, half as intrinsic as people make out. Like athletics, you might have underlying aptitude, but in practice they’re a matter of what you’re prepared to train.
Janine, unfortunately, is not terribly willing. She’s bitchy and lazy and self-entitled. Jen doesn’t always like her very much. But she’s very pretty, and Jen is very weak to pretty, and Jen is also very weak to a sense of duty, and what else is buddyship made of?
Everybody was issued a thick envelope yesterday, a bewilderingly thorough and wide-ranging written test to complete and submit by the end of today; written and multiple-choice sections, obviously testing a cross-section of skills. And Janine has filled hers out — after a fashion; unserious, hungover, slapdash. And Jen thinks that Janine’s individual position on the program is tenuous already.
“Hey,” she says, casual — oh so casual. “I was going to go and drop my test off. If you’re finished with yours, I can take that too?”
“Whatever,” Janine says, face down on her bunk. “It’s as done as it’s going to get.”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” Jen says encouragingly, and carefully puts Janine’s pretty-sure-it-isn’t-fine test into the envelope marked with Jen’s name and candidate code, and Jen’s own pretty-sure-it’s-good one into Janine’s envelope, quietly seals them both, and takes them to drop off into the sealed envelope-slot boxes in the foyer.
“Handler candidates,” their class instructor says, in their first morning class after the weekend. “Look around at your fellows.”
A repetition of the tired old look at your fellows; half of you will fail this year speech, no doubt. Jen dutifully stares toward the front of the class.
“Up until now, you’ve been working in buddy pairs,” the instructor says. “But last week’s test was a standardised snapshot-point outcome determiner. Half of this year’s class simply will not become handlers; that half of each buddy pair who scored lower than their buddy on the determiner is no longer a handler candidate.”
Jen nearly misses what he says next, for the rising tide of cold static filling her.
“Each of you had a link implant installed at the beginning of this program. For half of you, congratulations: your handler training begins in earnest now. For the other half: today will begin the series of software and eventual hardware augmentations to your implant that will ultimately see you assume full pilot status. The campus network is transmitting updates to the affected students’ implants as we speak; once activated, pilot implants will enforce compliance with all legal verbal orders your provisional handler issues. All former buddy pairs now consist of one provisional handler and their assigned cadet pilot.”
Perhaps the static isn’t simply panic. Perhaps this is the feeling of becoming.
Jen, trembling, shoots a glance at Janine, white-knuckling the edge of her desk in obvious dread.
“Remaining candidates: you’re reminded that damage to your pilot is still a disciplinary matter. The rest of this morning’s classes are cancelled to allow you a short period to accustom yourselves to the basic parameters of your pilot’s new role.”
For, in other words, those of the class who are still people to…experiment.
Janine grabs her elbow the second they’re dismissed, drags Jen’s unresisting form away. She could, still, if she wanted to — it’s not a verbal order; but Jen is numb and helpless-feeling. Compliant.
Everyone knows what washing out of handler class means, but Jen is — Jen was one of the smart ones.
“You stupid asshole,” Janine says, shoving her against a wall in the nearest student bathroom. “You stupid asshole, Jen, what did you do.”
Jen just blinks stupidly, clutching at her own arms, huddled around her own shock.
“Tell me what you did,” Janine says threateningly, and they both shock to the realisation of what she’s done the second she says it.
“I switched our tests,” Jen says obediently, because she’s going to one way or another — she doesn’t know how enforcement works, but she already suspects she won’t like finding out.
“Fuck,” Janine says. “Fuck,” and covers her face with her hands for a second. “Well, I goddamn hope your crush on me was worth it.”
They both realise, when she uncovers her face and their eyes meet, that with only a small change in phrasing, that could have been an order for information, too.
“Fuck,” Janine says, and then falls silent as someone else bangs cheerily through the door. Melissa, one of the ultracompetitive assholes constantly jockeying for top-ten-of-the-class positions; and Jen’s throat tightens to see Mel’s buddy, Cassidy, trailing behind her on all fours, jaw clenched, face red, eyes teary.
“Holy shit, Montblanc,” Mel crows at the sight of them. “What did your folks do, bribe an examiner to throw Jen under the bus? Poor fucking bitch.”
“Hey,” Jen says. “Fuck you,” and her stomach drops at Mel’s smirk.
“You should get some practise at keeping her under control,” Mel says; not to Jen.
“Fuck you,” Jen repeats. “You know how cancer survival percantages work, Mel? Fifty percent survival rate means that each year after diagnosis, fifty percent of last year’s survivors are still alive. Pilot losses are much more than handler attrition; we need to graduate much more pilot stock than handlers. Did you think it was fifty percent handler washout total?” She glares. “And they select for handlers with a sense of loyalty, Melissa.”
“I’m going to enjoy it when Janine’s desperately trading a go on you around, to copy somebody’s homework,” Mel sneers back, but she can’t help a flicker of a glance down at her former buddy’s angry face.
“When it’s you crawling,” Janine spits at her, “and you’re desperately hoping I take a go on you because other people will be worse to you, I’m going to enjoy passing you up,” and she tugs on Jen’s arm, mouth visibly clamped shut on a reflexive something like Let’s go.
Halfway back to their shared room, Jen finally, shakily, in lieu of thanks, manages to blurt, “Please.” She’s not even sure what she means. “Please look after me.”
Janine laughs, shrill and false and terror-eyed.
“Well,” she says. “I fucking have to now, don’t I?”
