Scott Sigler - The Rookie

“You will be dismissed.”

Quentin walked to the X as Boss Two fluttered up to the perch rail. Quentin backed into it, putting his feet on the little platforms at the bottom. He gripped the hand holds at the top. He had time for one, deep, ragged breath, then a dozen Creterakians flew down from their ceiling perches. They fluttered around him, working the controls. Restraining locks snapped in place around his wrists, legs and waist. The tight locks dug into his arms and shins.

Be calm, be calm, it’s just like a linebacker blitz. Be calm and make the right decision.

“Recruit 113, have you ever had any kind of cybernetic implant?”

“No.”

“Have you ever had any biotech modifications to your body?”

“No.”

A pair of small mechanical arms dropped down from either side of his head. Each arm had a small screen — tiny, but when right in front of his eyes they filled up his entire range of vision. Multi-colored static played on the screen. Quentin felt his heart rate increase.

“Have you ever taken performance-enhancing drugs?”

“No.”

“Have you ever stolen?”

Quentin started to automatically say “no,” then stopped himself. He’d stolen plenty of times as a kid. Could the Creterakians know about that? Did they have access to Purist Nation criminal files?

“Have you ever stolen, 113?”

The GFL demanded poster boy types from all races. If he admitted to stealing, would they kick him out? Would he be sent back to the PNFL to live out his career in the most backwater of football leagues?

“You will answer now or you will be dismissed. Have you ever stolen?”

“Yes.”

A stabbing, needle-like pain erupted from the small of his back.

“What’s going on? What are you doing to me?”

“Have you ever taken the stimulants cocaine, esatrex, heroin, mesh or Kermiac bacterial extract?”

Another needle like pain, this one from his shoulder. He grunted in pain and pulled at the restraints, but they held him fast. He tried to turn his head and look, but little screens moved with him, and he could see nothing but multi-colored static.

“Candidate 113 you will answer the question or be dismissed.”

“I took bacterial extract once, but not the others. And when I get out of this thing I’m going to twist your little shucking head right off your body.”

Two more needle stings, one in each buttock.

“Do not threaten violence, 113, or you will be dismissed. You will now be asked five questions and if you answer incorrectly you will receive a shock.”

A fifth needle-like sting, this time from his thigh, and much worse than the others. This one dug deep. Through the piercing agony, Quentin thought he felt the point punch into his femur.

“Is your name Quentin Barnes?”

“Yes.”

“What is four times fifteen?”

“Sixty.”

“What is the square root of 249?”

“What?”

A short, one second blast of electricity ripped through his body. His back arched involuntarily, pushing his stomach hard against the waist restraint.

“What is the square root of 249?”

“How should I know?”

Another blast of electricity hit him, this one two seconds long and stronger than the first.

“The Void take you, let me out of this thing!”

“Do you wish to quit the test?”

Quentin fell silent. Quitting now meant he failed and would never reach Tier Two, let alone Tier One. He took a fast, deep breath, tried to block out the needle pain.

“No. I will continue.”

“Who do you know in the Zoroastrian Guild?”

“The what?”

A third shock wave hit him, much harder than the last.

“Who do you know in the Zoroastrian Guild?”

“I don’t know anyone in any guild!”

“If a shuttle leaves Buddha City at a speed of three light-years per day, and it is heading for the Planetary Union consulate on New Earth, which is at a distance of twelve light-years but moving away at a rate of two light-years per day, how long will it take the shuttle to reach the consulate?”

“A story problem ? What does this have to do with football?”

A five-second blast of electricity ripped into him. His body shook and convulsed of its own accord. Primal urges took over and Quentin pulled at his restraints with all his might. The restraints rattled with his efforts, but did not give way.

“Answer the question.”

“I don’t know!”

Another five-second blast hit him, although it seemed as if it lasted for hours. He tasted blood in his mouth, hot and coppery and salty.

“Answer the question!”

Quentin took a breath and tried to think. He had to answer the question or they’d keep hitting him with shocks. “Give me a second, okay? You said… what, three light-years per day?”

Suddenly the static screens went blank and the lights died, casting the room into blackness. Sparks erupted from the X-table, illuminating the room in brief strobe-light bursts. The smell of smoke filled the air, as did the high-pitched screeches of the two dozen Creterakians.

[MALFUNCTION, MALFUNCTION] droned a robotic voice. [SUSPECT IN DANGER OF ELECTRICAL OVERLOAD. SHUT DOWN INTERROGATION TABLE IMMEDIATELY]

The lights flickered back on at half strength, just in time for Quentin to see the Creterakians abandon the room, flying out through holes in the ceiling. In only two seconds he was alone, trapped on the X-Table. His heart whacked away inside his chest, the strongest muscle in his body pumping panic through his limbs.

[WARNING, SUSPECT IN DANGER OF ELECTROCUTION]

Quentin pulled forward with all the strength in his arms. He strained with effort, a small grunt escaping his lips. The smell of sparks and smoke filled his nose. He pulled and pulled, muscles bulging beneath his yellow body suit.

[WARNING, SUSPECT WILL RECEIVE FATAL SHOCK IN FIVE SECONDS]

What in High One’s name is happening?

Quentin pulled harder, and the restraints started to give. He threw the last of his strength — strength he didn’t even know he possessed — into the effort, and the arm restraints snapped free with a metallic complaint. He reached down and ripped the restraints from first his left leg, then his right, then dove to the floor just as the chair crackled and hummed with a huge burst of electricity.

A shudder ripped through the station, so strong Quentin grabbed at the stool to keep his balance.

[WARNING, STATION DECOMPRESSION IMMINENT, EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY]

The door opposite the one he had entered slid open with a hiss. He fought down panic — somehow he’d gone from a simple test to a sudden run for his life. Quentin looked above the door. The orange circle — the universal symbol for a path to an escape pod — emitted a welcoming glow. If he just followed doors marked with that circle, the path would lead him to a way out.

He sprinted through the door, which led into a long hall. At the end of the hall he saw another orange circle. Strong legs pumped beneath him and he ate up the distance in seconds. At the end of the second hall, the door slid open for him and he jumped through. This room looked like a medical bay, full of tables and cabinets.

The floor shifted below him, tilting to the left.

[DECOMPRESSION IMMINENT. MOVE TO THE NEAREST EVACUATION STATION]

The lights started to flicker. Quentin had seen enough newscasts to know decompression wasn’t a pretty sight. He scanned the three doors in the room — the one at the far end showed the welcome orange circle. Just as he ran forward, the room tilted steeply to the right. He kept his balance and kept moving forward, but the tables rolled into his path. He hopped backwards as one rolled just in front of him and slammed against the wall. He took three steps forward before the room shifted again, this time hard to the left.