Eric Nylund - The Fall of Reach

John couldn’t go on—but he knew he’d get the baton again if he stopped. He tried; he had to move. His legs trembled and only sluggishly responded.

“Rest,” Mendez finally called. “Trainers: get the water.”

The trainers wheeled out carts laden with water bottles. John grabbed one and gulped down the liquid. It was warm and slightly salty. He didn’t care. It was the best water he’d ever had.

He flopped on his back in the grass and panted.

The sun was up now. It was warm. He rolled to his knees and let the sweat drip off him like a heavy rain.

He slowly got up and glanced at the other children. They crouched on the ground, holding their sides, and no one talked. Their clothes were soaked through with perspiration. John didn’t recognize anyone from his school here.

So he was alone with strangers. He wondered where his mother was, and what—

“A good start, trainees,” Mendez told them. “Now we run. On your feet!”

The trainers brandished their batons and herded the trainees along. They jogged down a gravel path through the compound, past more cinderblock barracks. The run seemed to go on forever—they ran alongside a river, over a bridge, then by the edge of a runway where jets took off straight into the air. Once past the runway, Mendez led them on a zigzagging path of stone.

John wanted to think about what had happened, how he got here, and what was going to happen next... but he couldn’t think straight. All he could feel was the blood pounding through him, the ache in his muscles, and hunger.

They ran into a courtyard of smooth flagstones. A pole in the center flew the colors of the UNSC, a blue field with stars and Earth in the corner. At the far end of the yard was a building with a scalloped dome and white columns and dozens of wide steps leading to the entrance. The words NAVAL OFFICERS ACADEMY were chiseled into the arch over the entrance.

A woman stood on the top step and beckoned to them. She wore a white sheet wrapped around her body. She looked old to John, yet young at the same time. Then he saw the motes of light orbiting her head and knew she was an AI. He had seen them on vids. She wasn’t solid, but she was still real.

“Excellent work, Chief Petty Officer Mendez,” she said in a resonant, silk-smooth voice. She turned to the children. “Welcome. My name is Déjà and I will be your teacher. Please come in. Class is about to start.”

John groaned out loud. Several of the others grumbled, too.

She turned and started to walk inside. “Of course,” she said, “if you prefer to skip your lessons, you may continue the morning calisthenics.”

John double-timed it up the steps.

It was cool inside. A tray with crackers and a carton of milk had been laid out for each of them. John nibbled on the dry stale food, then gulped down his milk.

John was so tired he wanted to lay his head down on the desk and take a nap—until Déjà started to tell them about a battle and how three hundred soldiers fought against thousands of Persian infantry.

A holographic countryside appeared in the classroom. The children walked around the miniature mountains and hills and let the edge of the illusionary sea lap at their boots. Toy-sized soldiers marched toward what Déjà explained was Thermopylae, a narrow strip of land between steep mountains and the sea. Thousands of soldiers marched toward the three hundred who guarded the pass. The soldiers fought: spears and shields splintered, swords flashed and spilled blood.

John couldn’t take his eyes off the spectacle.

Déjà explained that the three hundred were Spartans and they were the best soldiers who had ever lived. They had been trained to fight since they were children. No one could beat them.

John watched, fascinated, as the holographic Spartans slaughtered the Persian spearmen.

He had eaten his crackers but he was still hungry, so he took the girl’s next to him when she wasn’t looking, and munched them down as the battle raged on. His stomach still growled and grumbled.

When was lunch? Or was it dinnertime already?

The Persians broke and ran and the Spartans stood victorious on the field.

The children cheered. They wanted to see it again.

“That’s all for today,” Déjà said. “We’ll continue tomorrow and I’ll show you some wolves. Now it’s time for you to go to the playground.”

“Playground?” John said. That was perfect. He could finally just sit on a swing, relax, and think for a moment.

He ran out of the room, as did the other trainees.

Chief Petty Officer Mendez and the trainers waited for them outside the classroom.

“Time for the playground,” Mendez said, and waved the children closer. “It’s a short run. Fall in.”

The “short run” turned into two miles. And the playground was like nothing John had ever seen. It was a forest of twenty-meter tall wooden poles. Rope cargo nets and bridges stretched between the poles; they swayed, crossed and crisscrossed one another, a maze suspended in the air. There were slide poles and knotted climbing ropes. There were swings and suspended platforms. There were ropes looped through pulleys and tied to baskets that looked sturdy enough to hoist a person.

“Trainees,” Mendez said, “form three lines.”

The instructors moved in to herd them, but John and the others made three rows without comment or fuss.

“The first person in every row will be team number one,” Mendez said. “The second person in each row will be team number two... and so on. If you do not understand this, speak up now.”

No one spoke.

John looked to his right. A boy with sandy hair, green eyes, and darkly tanned skin gave him a weary smile. Stenciled on his sweat top was SAMUEL-034. In the row beyond Samuel was a girl. She was taller than John, and skinny, with a long mane of hair dyed blue. KELLY-087. She didn’t look too happy to see him.

“Today’s game,” Mendez explained, “is called ‘Ring the Bell.’ ” He pointed to the tallest pole on the playground. It stood an additional ten meters above the others and had a steel slide pole next to it. Hung at the very top of that pole was a brass bell.

“There are many ways to get to the bell,” he told them. “I leave it up to each team to find their own way. When every member of your team has rung the bell, you are to get groundside double time and run back here across this finish line.”

Mendez took his baton and scratched a straight line in the sand.

John raised his hand.

Mendez glared at him for a moment with those black unblinking eyes. “A question, Trainee?”

“What do we win?”

Mendez cocked one eyebrow and appraised John. “You win dinner, Number 117. Tonight, dinner is roast turkey, gravy and mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, brownies, and ice cream.”

A murmur of approval swept though the children.

“But,” Mendez added, “for there to be winners there must be a loser. The last team to finish goes without food.”

They children fell silent—and then looked at each other warily.

“Make ready,” Mendez said.

“I’m Sam,” the boy whispered to John and the girl on their team.

She said, “I’m Kelly.”

John just looked at them and said nothing. The girl would slow him down. Too bad. He was hungry and he wasn’t about to let them make him lose.

“Go!” Mendez shouted.

John ran through the pack of children and scrambled up a cargo net onto a platform. He raced across the bridge—jumped onto the next platform, just in time. The bridge flipped and sent five others into the water below.

He paused at the rope tied to the large basket. It ran up through a pulley and then back down. He didn’t think he was strong enough to pull himself up in it. Instead, he tackled a knotted climbing rope and scrunched his body up. The rope swung wildly around the center pole. John looked down and almost lost his grip. It looked twice as far down as it had looked from the ground. He saw all the others, some climbing, others floundering in the water, getting up and starting over. No one was as close to the bell as he was.