Posters lined the stairwell at regular intervals, their messages changing with each sublevel. UNITY THROUGH COORDINATION showed five silhouetted pilots in perfect formation. YOUR SQUAD IS YOUR SURVIVAL depicted a squad standing triumphant over fallen entities. EXCELLENCE IS EXPECTED. FAILURE IS UNACCEPTABLE was just text, stark white on black, impossible to ignore.
"Dimensional proximity," Quinn said, counting the stairs with silent lip movements. "We're approaching the rift's active influence zone. Physics degradation approximately three percent from baseline."
"Can you not calculate everything?" Saren's voice carried the same cold contempt she'd wielded during their squad meeting three hours ago. "Some of us prefer not to quantify our impending failures."
"Quantification allows for optimization." Quinn didn't look up from their tablet. "Unquantified variables can't be controlled."
"Neither can your compulsive need to measure everything, apparently."
"Maddox," Valoris said, trying for authority and achieving something closer to pleading. "We should focus on the simulation."
"I'm perfectly focused," Saren said without looking at her. "Unlike our squad leader, who spent the entire briefing taking notes instead of actually leading."
Valoris couldn’t help a flinch. She'd filled three pages with tactical observations during Instructor Davis's briefing, desperately trying to memorize protocols she should already know, procedures she should have internalized weeks ago.
Lead them, she thought. You're supposed to know how to lead them.
She had no idea how to lead them.
Milo walked ahead of the group, occasionally pausing to examine architectural features with focused intensity. At one point he pulled out a small measuring device and pointed it at a wall panel.
"Renn," Zee said, voice flat. "What are you doing?"
"Just checking the dimensional dampening field integrity. These lower levels need stronger shielding and I thought maybe–"
"Put it away."
"But the harmonic resonance is definitely suboptimal and if I could just–"
"Put. It. Away." Zee moved closer and put a hand on Milo's arm, not aggressive, but firm. "We have a simulation in ten minutes. Whatever you're measuring can wait."
Milo looked like he wanted to argue, then noticed the expressions on everyone else's faces. He pocketed the device with the air of someone being forced to abandon a fascinating puzzle.
"Later," he said. "I'll check later."
"You won't," Saren said. "Because unauthorized equipment scanning is a disciplinary violation and we don't need your compulsive tinkering dragging down our squad metrics."
"I'm just trying to help–"
"Then help by not getting us written up before we've even started training."
They reached Sublevel 3 in hostile silence.
The simulation chamber was vast, easily a hundred meters across, walls lined with what looked like organic circuitry that pulsed with dim bioluminescence. The ceiling disappeared into darkness above, and the air tasted like ozone and something metallic that coated the back of Valoris's throat. The space had been divided into training stations, each containing five simulation pods arranged in a star formation around a central holographic projector.
The pods themselves looked like stripped-down mech cockpits; familiar enough to be recognizable, different enough to be unsettling. Video-game-style control interfaces – throttle sticks, weapon triggers, button arrays – nothing like the neural link cradles that real mechs used. Actual piloting happened entirely through neural connection, thought translating directly to movement without physical controls at all. But students wouldn't access that until they'd proven themselves worthy of real mechs. For now: simplified training interfaces, seats designed for comfort rather than the full-body harnesses neural piloting required. Each pod had a curved screen that would display the pilot's first-person perspective, while the central holographic projector would show the shared tactical space visible to observers.
Above each station, digital boards displayed squad designations and current rankings. Most still read "AWAITING EVALUATION," but a few early squads had already posted scores. Squad designation, tactical coordination percentage, mission efficiency, overall rating… all public, all permanent.
All watched by everyone, Valoris thought, feeling her stomach clench.
Sixty-one squads. Sixty-one groups of five students, all about to learn whether the academy's algorithmic sorting had created functional units or collections of incompatible parts forced into cooperation.
On the far wall, a massive display showed what looked like a live tactical feed from an actual combat zone: pilots engaging entities in real time, explosions rendered in sharp detail, casualty counts updating continuously. Below it, bold text: THEY FIGHT FOR HUMANITY. WILL YOU ANSWER THE CALL?
Instructor Davis stood at the chamber's entrance, checking squads in with the same clinical efficiency he brought to everything. When Squad Kade-07 approached, he barely glanced at his tablet.
"Kade-07. Station twelve. You're after Thorne-03 finishes their run. Watch their performance. Learn something." He'd already moved on to the next squad before Valoris could respond.
Station twelve was positioned with a clear view of the central demonstration platform, whether by design or coincidence Valoris couldn't tell. They filed into the observation area and tried not to look as uncomfortable as they felt. The digital board above their assigned station glowed with their squad designation and a single word: UNRANKED.
Squad Thorne-03 was already positioned in their simulation pods at the central demonstration station. Through the transparent pod canopies, Valoris could see Kaito at the command interface, his posture relaxed and confident. His four squad members occupied the surrounding pods in a loose formation that somehow looked both casual and tactical. The holographic projector between them hummed to life, ready to display their shared tactical space.
Valoris recognized Sable Vex from Pod K, quiet, precise, always observing. The others she knew by reputation: Corwin Gray, Jace Korrin, and Petra Kaine. A balanced composition according to Quinn's earlier analysis; strong combat, solid tactics, no obvious weak points.
"Simulation parameters loading," an automated voice announced, echoing through the chamber. "Scenario: Entity extraction. Objective: Locate and retrieve target within hostile environment. Time limit: fifteen minutes. Failure conditions: team member eliminated, time expired, objective lost. Beginning neural interface synchronization."
The pod canopies sealed with soft hisses of pressurization. The central holographic projector erupted into three-dimensional tactical space, visible to every observer in the chamber. Five glowing avatars materialized, stylized humanoid figures color-coded to their pilots, moving through the simulated environment with mechanical precision. The combat zone took shape around them: a corrupted urban area, buildings twisted by dimensional instability, reality bending at wrong angles. Entity signatures flickered throughout, marked in hostile red.
Squad Thorne-03 moved with fluid efficiency that looked almost rehearsed… except they couldn't have rehearsed. They'd met for the first time today, same as everyone else.
"Alright," Kaito said over the squad comm channel, audible to observers through the chamber's broadcast system. His voice carried easy authority, amplified and clear. "Let's assess the field. What are we looking at?"
There was a brief pause. Then a quiet voice, so soft Valoris almost missed it despite the amplification: "Northeast cluster. Twelve signatures. Southwest looks clear."
"Southwest it is. Combat spread, let's move." Kaito's voice was confident and decisive. "Gray, you're front left. Corrin, watch our right flank. Kaine, stay central."
On the holographic display, their avatars moved in formation. Not perfectly – Jace's avatar hesitated slightly before finding position, Petra had to adjust her angle twice – but effectively. The coordination was visible in how their colored outlines moved together, maintaining tactical spacing without explicit commands.
As they advanced, someone spoke again, barely above a whisper: "Target's probably third floor. That collapsed structure, southwest quad."
"Copy that," Kaito said, his avatar moving with decisive confidence. "Everyone eyes on that structure ahead. That's where we're going."
A quiet murmur: "Entities shifting. Wait. Northwest's better now."
"Change of plans: northwest route, move now." Kaito's avatar pivoted without hesitation, and the squad followed like a school of fish changing direction.
The squad moved like a well-oiled machine, not because they'd trained together for months, but because their communication was efficient and their execution was immediate. When entities emerged from a collapsed structure, Kaito called out, "Corrin, suppression pattern!"
The holographic display showed it all with brutal clarity. Every movement coordinated, every decision executed smoothly. The avatars danced through the combat zone like they'd been designed to work together.
When they reached the objective, a glowing marker deep in the corrupted zone, entities tried to block their extraction. A quiet voice suggested: "Defense."
Kaito translated smoothly: "Defensive formation! Kaine, shields up. Vex, flank left. Corrin, suppression northwest. Gray, you're cleared hot on anything that gets through."
The squad executed seamlessly. Petra's avatar took point, energy shields manifesting in the holographic space. Jace's avatar unleashed suppressive fire that lit up the display in cascading orange. Corwin engaged targets with precision strikes. The formation held strong, coordinating everything.
Thirteen minutes, forty-two seconds after simulation start, Squad Thorne-03 stood at the extraction point with the objective secured and zero casualties. Their avatars glowed with health indicators still in the green, victory radiating from their formation.
"Simulation complete," the automated voice announced. "Performance evaluation: Excellent. Tactical coordination: 94%. Mission efficiency: 87%. Squad cohesion: 91%. Overall rating: A-minus."
The holographic display faded. The pod canopies opened with synchronized hisses. Squad Thorne-03 emerged to scattered applause from observing students.
Kaito was grinning, accepting congratulations with easy charisma. His squad dispersed around him, some members more comfortable with the attention than others.
"That was impressive," Zee said quietly. "They looked like they'd been training together for months."
"Good communication," Milo added. "Clear orders, immediate execution."
Saren said nothing, but her expression was thoughtful as she watched Squad Thorne-03 disperse.
"Squad Kade-07," Davis called out. "You're up. Station twelve. Enter your pods."
Valoris felt her stomach drop. We're not ready. We don't know each other. We don't have their coordination.
But they moved to their station anyway, because refusing wasn't an option.
The simulation pods loomed like judgment. Valoris approached the nearest pod, the interface screen already flickering to life as she got close. The seat conformed to her body with disconcerting precision as she climbed in, and immediately a configuration menu appeared on the main display.
SELECT MECH TYPE:
- COMMAND-CLASS
- VANGUARD-CLASS
- ASSAULT-CLASS
- MARKSMAN-CLASS
- INTERCEPTOR-CLASS
- SUPPORT-CLASS
Below the main selection, a secondary menu showed frame options; different configurations within each class, variations in weapon loadouts and defensive capabilities. All theoretical at this point, simulation approximations of what real mechs might feel like.
Valoris selected COMMAND-CLASS without hesitation, the only choice that made sense for a squad leader, even one who had no idea how to actually lead. The frame selection was more arbitrary. She chose one at random from the available options, not knowing enough to make an informed decision.
The control interface updated to reflect her selection. Throttle stick on her left, weapon triggers on her right, defensive systems and tactical display in front. Physical controls, simplified and crude compared to real mech piloting. Students had to prove themselves in simulation first, manipulating avatars through button presses and joystick movements like some ancient entertainment system.
Through the transparent canopy, she could see her squad members entering their pods and making their own selections, which were updated on her screens in real time. Zee had already chosen VANGUARD-CLASS; of course she had. The aggressive forward-combat specialization suited her perfectly. Saren was taking her time with MARKSMAN-CLASS, probably analyzing frame options with methodical precision. Quinn selected INTERCEPTOR-CLASS, their fingers moving across the interface with mechanical efficiency. Milo was adjusting something in his pod before finally selecting SUPPORT-CLASS.
"Neural interface synchronization beginning," the automated voice announced.
Except there was no neural interface. Just video-game controls and the simulation's interpretation of their inputs. The canopy sealed over Valoris with a soft hiss. The world outside became muffled, distant. Inside the pod, displays flickered to life: tactical overview, squad status, environmental data. She could see her squad members' vital signs on the squad display, their positions marked relative to hers. Their selected mech types appeared as small icons: vanguard, marksman, interceptor, support, orbiting her command designation.
"Simulation parameters loading," the voice continued. "Scenario: Entity suppression. Objective: Eliminate hostile entities within designated zone. Time limit: fifteen minutes. Failure conditions: team member eliminated, time expired, objective incomplete. Begin."
The holographic projector between their pods erupted with tactical space. Valoris's personal display showed her first-person perspective, the simulated environment stretching before her avatar's eyes. But she knew the real show was on the central holographic display, where observers would watch their color-coded avatars move through the combat zone.
Open terrain with minimal cover materialized around her avatar. Entity signatures scattered throughout in clusters of three to five. Environmental hazards marked in warning yellow. The simulation had given them a harder scenario than Squad Thorne-03 had faced, perhaps deliberately, perhaps randomly. Either way, it was worse.
Valoris's mind went into overdrive, tactical training flooding through. Open terrain means vulnerable to flanking. Entity clusters mean we need coordinated fire. Environmental hazards can be used tactically but also present risk…
"Okay," she said into the comm, trying to sound confident. Her voice would be broadcast to observers, just like Kaito's had been. Everyone would hear every word. "We need to clear the zone systematically. Zavaretti, you take point but stay within fifty meters of the group. Maddox, elevated position on that ridge for covering fire. Sterling, stay mobile and–"
"That's wrong," Saren said immediately.
Valoris blinked at her tactical display. "What?"
"Elevated position is tactically unsound in this terrain. The ridge has no cover and exposes me to flanking from three vectors. Standard doctrine for open terrain engagement requires protected positions with clear sight lines and multiple exit vectors. That ridge provides none of those."
She wasn't wrong. Valoris looked at the tactical display again and realized Saren was right: the ridge was exposed, a death trap for anyone trying to provide sustained covering fire.
"Then where?" Valoris asked.
"The depression near the– no, wait, that's in range of the environmental hazard. The collapsed structure would work if we can clear it first, but that requires–"
"Entities closing," Quinn said, voice sharp with urgency. "Eight signatures incoming from northeast. We need to engage or relocate. Now."
Valoris watched her tactical display update with hostile markers converging on their position. Through the pod's main screen, her avatar's perspective showed distant figures materializing from corrupted terrain.
"Right," Valoris said. "Okay, change of plan. Zavaretti, can you–"
"Zavaretti shouldn't be on point at all," Saren interrupted. "She's vanguard-class but without proper support positioning she's just going to draw excessive aggro and–"
"I know what I'm doing," Zee said. Through the holographic display visible through her pod canopy, Valoris could see Zee's avatar already moving toward the approaching entities, controls engaging with aggressive confidence.
"Zavaretti, wait for the squad to coordinate–" Valoris started.
"No time. They're spreading out. If we let them get into formation we're surrounded."
"That's exactly why we need proper positioning first!" Saren's voice had gone sharp with frustration. "Kade, tell her to fall back so we can establish fire support before–"
"Zavaretti, fall back to–"
But Zee was already engaging. On the central holographic display, her blue avatar crashed into the entity cluster with aggressive efficiency, blade systems active, moving with the kind of natural violence that made her combat scores exceptional.
And immediately drew attention from every other entity in the zone.
Entity markers on Valoris's tactical display all pivoted toward Zee's position simultaneously. The holographic projection showed hostile red signatures converging like a tide.
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"Shit," Milo breathed from his pod. "That's a lot of entities."
"Zee, you're pulling too much aggro," Valoris said, watching her squad member's health indicator start to drop. "Fall back to the squad."
"Can't. I'm committed. Someone provide covering fire–"
"From where?" Saren demanded. "You charged in without establishing fire positions. There's nowhere I can set up that has clear line of sight on your position without exposing myself to–"
"Then figure something out!"
"I'm trying to explain what the correct tactical approach should have been—"
"I don't need a lecture, I need support!"
Valoris felt control of the situation slipping away like water through her fingers. On the holographic display, visible to every observer in the chamber, her squad was falling apart. Zee's blue avatar surrounded by hostile red. Saren's green avatar still hadn't found a firing position. The other avatars scattered without coordination.
Make a decision. Now.
"Everyone stop. Maddox, just… find a position and fire. Zavaretti, try to pull back toward that collapsed structure. Sterling–"
She checked her tactical display. Where was Quinn?
Quinn's yellow avatar had moved to the far edge of the engagement zone on the holographic projection. They were standing near a cluster of entities, but not engaging. Just... observing, presumably with that tablet out even inside the pod, tracking movement patterns with focused intensity.
"Sterling! What are you doing?"
"Establishing optimal engagement patterns," Quinn said, their voice distracted. "If I can determine entity behavior algorithms I can predict movement and maximize kill efficiency for future–"
Three entity markers on the tactical display turned toward Quinn's position simultaneously.
"Sterling, move!"
Quinn's avatar looked up, the holographic figure's head tilting as though just noticing the threat, a half-second too late. The entities struck in coordinated sequence.
Quinn's health indicator dropped to zero. Their yellow avatar flickered and disappeared from the holographic display.
"Sterling eliminated," the automated voice announced, loud enough for every observer to hear.
"Fuck," Zee said. Her health indicator was at thirty percent now, surrounded by entities she couldn't handle alone. "I need support now or I'm dead–"
"The correct tactical approach would have been to establish fire positions before engaging," Saren said, still not having found a position because she was too busy explaining why every option was suboptimal.
"Maddox, just shoot something!" Valoris shouted, not caring anymore how it sounded to observers.
"Where? From what position? You're asking me to execute tactics that violate basic doctrine–"
"I don't care about doctrine! Our vanguard is dying!"
"Perhaps if you'd planned better in the first thirty seconds instead of engaging in debate with me–"
On the holographic display, an entity struck Zee's blue avatar from behind. Her health indicator dropped to fifteen percent.
"I can help," Milo said suddenly. He'd been quiet until now, watching the disaster unfold. "There's an environmental hazard near Zee's position. If I can trigger it, the explosion will clear the entities around her and–"
"No," Valoris and Saren said simultaneously.
"But it would work–"
"Environmental hazards are marked for a reason," Saren said. "Triggering one near Zavaretti’s position will eliminate her along with the entities."
"Not if I time it right. If she moves back exactly three meters and I trigger on my mark–"
"That's too many variables," Valoris said, watching the tactical display update with more entities closing in. "We can't coordinate that precisely yet."
"I can do the math–"
"Math isn't the problem," Zee said through gritted teeth. Her blue avatar was barely visible through the swarm of hostile red surrounding it. "The problem is I'm about to die and no one is helping."
Another hit. Health indicator: ten percent.
Valoris felt panic threading through her thoughts. The control interface felt foreign under her hands, the simulation responding to her inputs but without the natural flow of neural link piloting. She was fighting the controls as much as trying to coordinate her squad.
Think. There has to be a solution. Some tactical adjustment that–
"Maddox, the depression near coordinates–" She rattled off numbers from her tactical display. "Can you position there?"
"That's sixty meters from Zavaretti’s position. Effective range for my weapons is forty-five meters maximum. I'd be firing outside optimal parameters–"
"Can you hit anything?"
"Theoretically, yes, but accuracy drops significantly beyond optimal range and–"
"I don't need an accuracy lecture. Can you provide covering fire or not?"
A pause. Then: "Yes. Suboptimal accuracy but functional."
"Then do it. Now."
Saren's green avatar moved to the depression on the holographic display. Started firing. Valoris could see the weapons fire tracking across the tactical space; not perfectly, not as devastatingly as they would from an optimal position, but hitting. Entity markers started redirecting attention.
"Zavaretti, fall back," Valoris said. "Toward Maddox's position. Use her fire as cover."
Zee's blue avatar was already moving, combat instincts kicking in, reading the battlefield, using the brief respite to disengage.
She almost made it.
Three entity markers had flanked around Saren's firing arc, approaching from the blind spot created by the depression's angle. They converged on Zee's avatar as she retreated.
"Behind you!" Milo shouted.
Zee's avatar spun, weapon systems engaging, but there were too many and her health indicator was too low. Two hits. Three.
Her health indicator hit zero. The blue avatar flickered and disappeared from the holographic display.
"Zavaretti eliminated."
"Damn it." Saren's voice was flat with resignation.
Three avatars remained on the holographic display: Valoris's red command avatar, Saren's green marksman avatar, Milo's purple support avatar. Quinn was gone. Zee was gone. Three people against a zone full of entities with no coordination, no established tactics, and eight minutes left on the clock.
The observers could see it all. The failure playing out in full color on the central holographic projection.
"Okay," Valoris said, trying to salvage something from the disaster. "We need to–"
The holographic display erupted in orange light.
Valoris's tactical screen flashed warning indicators. Environmental hazard detonation. Blast radius expanding. Entity markers disappearing in clusters where the explosion touched them.
Saren's green avatar was caught at the edge of the blast. Her shields collapsed on the tactical display, health indicator dropping from full to zero in an instant.
Her avatar flickered and vanished.
"Maddox eliminated."
"Renn!" Valoris shouted. "What did you do?"
"Heads up," Milo said weakly, the warning coming three seconds too late to matter. His purple avatar stood near the environmental hazard marker, systems registering the trigger command. "I thought… the math worked, I just needed to–"
"You triggered it without coordinating!" Valoris stared at her tactical display in disbelief. Saren gone. The entity clusters decimated but not eliminated. And Milo's avatar standing in the blast zone aftermath with its health indicator dropping as secondary explosions rippled outward.
"I can fix this," Milo said, his voice smaller now. "If I trigger the other environmental hazards in sequence, create a cascade effect–"
He tried it.
His purple avatar moved between hazard markers, triggering them in careful sequence. The cascade worked better than his first attempt; the holographic display lighting up with chained explosions that actually eliminated several entity clusters. But the unpredictable nature of the chain reaction made positioning impossible. One blast redirected into another, which triggered a third, which caught Milo's avatar in the radius.
His health indicator dropped to zero.
"Renn eliminated."
Valoris's red avatar stood alone in the simulation, surrounded by entities, with six minutes remaining on the clock and zero chance of completing the objective.
She lasted forty-three more seconds.
Her avatar fought well; she'd trained in combat, knew how to engage, could handle entities in small numbers. But alone, overwhelmed, without squad support, the outcome was inevitable.
Her health indicator hit zero. The red avatar flickered out.
"Simulation terminated," the automated voice announced, loud enough to echo through the entire chamber. "Performance evaluation: Failure. Tactical coordination: 23%. Mission efficiency: 11%. Squad cohesion: 8%. Overall rating: F."
The holographic environment collapsed. The tactical displays went dark. The pod canopies opened with soft hisses that sounded like disappointment.
Valoris climbed out of her pod into silence. Not actual silence – the simulation chamber was full of students, other squads watching, instructors observing – but the kind of silence that comes from being the center of attention for all the wrong reasons.
They'd failed spectacularly.
And everyone had watched.
The debriefing room was small and deliberately uncomfortable. Six chairs arranged in a circle, lighting harsh enough to make everyone look exhausted, walls close enough to create claustrophobic pressure. Another propaganda poster occupied the far wall: WEAKNESS IN ONE IS WEAKNESS IN ALL above an image of a broken squad formation.
Instructor Davis stood at the center with his tablet and an expression that suggested he'd seen this exact disaster hundreds of times before.
"That," he said without preamble, "was pathetic."
Valoris flinched. Beside her, Saren sat rigid, jaw locked. Zee stared at the floor. Quinn typed on their tablet with mechanical precision, probably recording every word for later analysis. Milo fidgeted with his glasses, pushing them up repeatedly even though they weren't actually sliding down.
"Let's review," Davis continued. "Zavaretti, you charged in without coordination. Your individual combat capability is high. Your tactical awareness is nonexistent. You saw entities and attacked without considering whether your squad could support the engagement."
Zee's shoulders went even more rigid but she didn't argue.
"Maddox." Davis's attention shifted. "You identified legitimate tactical problems. That ridge was a death trap. Your analysis was correct."
Saren looked up, surprised.
"But you wasted forty-five seconds arguing instead of proposing alternatives immediately. When you finally suggested the depression position, entities had already engaged. In real combat, that delay kills people. Your job is to follow orders. Learn to critique and execute simultaneously, or your tactical knowledge becomes worthless."
Saren's jaw tightened but she nodded once.
"Sterling, you prioritized data collection over survival. Rankings don't matter if you're dead in the first three minutes." Davis's voice was flat. "And I saw your peripheral awareness scores. You noticed the entities approaching thirty-seven seconds before they attacked. You chose not to respond because you were focused on your tablet."
Quinn went very still. Kept typing, but slower now.
"Renn." Davis's attention fixed on Milo, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop. "You triggered an environmental hazard without squad coordination. Eliminated a squad member. Then attempted to fix your mistake with more uncoordinated environmental hazard triggers."
"I thought if I could–" Milo started.
"You thought," Davis interrupted, voice hard. "You thought your math was good enough to substitute for communication. You thought calculating blast radii was more important than telling your squad what you were doing. You thought wrong."
Milo sank lower in his chair.
"The cascade effect might have worked under different circumstances," Davis continued. "Your calculations weren't completely wrong. But innovation without communication isn't innovation. It's chaos. And chaos kills your squadmates."
He let that sink in before turning his attention to Valoris.
"And you. Squad leader." He paused, letting the silence build. "Your initial tactical plan was flawed but not catastrophic. The ridge position would have gotten Maddox killed, but you would have discovered the danger through observation and adapted."
Valoris blinked. That almost sounded like... not quite praise, but acknowledgment that she'd tried something reasonable.
"The problem," Davis continued, voice hardening, "is that you spent three minutes debating tactics instead of making decisions. Maddox criticized your plan and you engaged in argument rather than issuing corrections. By the time you'd worked out positioning, your vanguard had committed to an unsupported engagement and your analyst had died conducting research."
He leaned forward slightly.
"Squad leaders don't have the luxury of debate. You can solicit input; good leaders do. But when someone questions your orders, you adapt and move forward immediately. You don't defend your reasoning while your squad falls apart around you."
The words landed like blows because they were true. She'd gotten caught up in explaining, justifying, trying to prove she'd thought through the tactics properly. And while she'd been talking, her squad had been dying.
"You're not a squad," Davis said, looking at all of them now. "You're five individuals who happen to occupy the same space. Zavaretti fights like she's alone. Maddox can't stop arguing long enough to execute. Sterling ignores immediate threats for long-term optimization. Renn experiments without considering consequences. And Kade..." He shook his head. "You can see tactics. But you can't make people execute them fast enough to matter."
He consulted his tablet.
"Here's what happens now," Davis continued. "You train. Harder than any other squad because you're starting from further behind. You learn to communicate, coordinate, trust each other. You figure out how to function as a unit."
He leaned forward slightly, expression hard.
"If you can't coordinate in simulation, you'll die in real combat. And you'll get other people killed. Other squads will be forced to cover your failures. Pilots will be diverted from their objectives to rescue you. The academy doesn't tolerate squads that endanger others through incompetence."
The implied threat was clear: Improve or wash out.
"You have one week until the next simulation evaluation." He tapped his tablet, and the screen behind him flickered to life. "Sixty-one squads completed simulations today. Let me show you where you stand."
The display showed the full rankings, all sixty-one squads listed in order from best to worst performance. Squad Thorne-03 occupied the top position with their A-minus rating and impressive coordination scores.
Davis scrolled down. Past the excellent performers. Past the good squads. Past the mediocre ones. Past the barely-passing ones.
All the way to the bottom.
SQUAD KADE-07
RANK: #61 of 61
RATING: F
TACTICAL COORDINATION: 23% MISSION EFFICIENCY: 11% SQUAD COHESION: 8%
Last place. Dead last. Worse than every other squad.
"Pass the next evaluation," Davis said, his voice cutting through her spiraling thoughts. "Or start preparing dismissal paperwork. Dismissed."
They filed out in silence.
The walk back to the barracks felt like a funeral procession. No one spoke. Zee's jaw was locked tight enough that Valoris could see muscles jumping. Saren's expression was carved from ice, cold fury contained beneath rigid control. Quinn stared at their tablet, typing continuously. Milo kept his head down, curly hair flopping over his forehead and glasses fogging slightly despite the corridor's climate control.
And Valoris felt the weight of leadership pressing down like her grandmother's corruption; permanent, degenerative, impossible to escape.
They reached the barracks, squad-specific quarters assigned after permanent formation. Smaller space, five bunks, common area with a single table. For the next four years, this would be home.
If they lasted four years.
The door closed behind them with a sound like finality.
Saren didn't sit down. She stood near the window, arms crossed, staring out at nothing with an expression that suggested she was cataloging every failure and calculating exactly how much blame belonged to whom.
Quinn moved to their bunk and resumed typing on their tablet, documenting everything with mechanical focus. Milo fidgeted with equipment on his desk, not looking at anyone, guilt radiating from every movement. Zee leaned against the wall near the door, coiled energy suggesting she wanted to hit something but was restraining herself through sheer force of will.
Valoris stood in the center of the room, feeling the silence pressing against her like physical weight.
Fifteen minutes passed without a word.
Twenty.
The tension built until Valoris could feel it in her teeth.
Finally, she couldn't take it anymore. Saren's rigid posture, the barely-contained fury radiating from every line of her body, the pointed refusal to look at anyone. If they were going to have this fight, better to have it now than let it fester.
"Maddox." Valoris's voice came out steadier than she felt. "If you have something to say, say it."
Saren turned from the window. Her expression was controlled, precise, every emotion locked down beneath rigid discipline. But her eyes burned with something that had been building since the simulation ended.
"Fine." The word came out clipped and cold. "Zavaretti should be leading this squad."
The statement landed in the room like a grenade.
Zee's head came up sharply. Milo stopped fidgeting. Quinn's typing paused for exactly two seconds before resuming.
"Excuse me?" Valoris said.
"You heard me." Saren's voice didn't waver. "Zavaretti's combined academic and combat scores rival yours. She has better instincts under pressure. She makes decisions instead of debating them. And we just failed. Completely. Spectacularly. Last place out of sixty-one squads under your leadership."
Valoris felt the words like physical blows. Each one accurate. Each one cutting deeper because she couldn't argue with any of it.
"The academy assigned me as squad leader—"
"The academy assigned you because of your name." Saren cut her off without raising her voice. "Five generations of Kade pilots. Legacy admissions. Tactical scores that look good on paper but apparently don't translate to actual command capability." She paused, letting that sink in. "We watched Squad Thorne-03 execute flawlessly with a leader who earned his position. We watched them coordinate without hesitation. Then we watched you spend three minutes arguing about ridge positions while our squad died around you."
"That's not fair." Milo spoke up from his desk, voice small but determined. "We all made mistakes. I triggered the hazard without coordinating. I killed Saren."
"Yes. You did." Saren didn't look at him. "And that was catastrophic. But the cascade of failures started with poor leadership. Clear orders, immediate execution. That's what Thorne-03 had. That's what we don't have."
Zee pushed off from the wall. "Maddox, drop it."
Saren turned to face her fully. "Why? Because you don't want to be squad leader? Because the responsibility sounds exhausting? Because you'd rather charge into combat alone than actually coordinate a team?"
"Because it doesn't matter." Zee's voice was flat, controlled. "We can't change our leader. Academy assignment is permanent. Arguing about who should have the job doesn't help us pass next week's evaluation."
"Then we're going to fail."
The words hung in the air, stark and final.
Saren's expression didn't change, but something in her posture shifted. Not anger anymore. Something closer to despair, carefully contained.
"Look at us." She gestured around the room. "We're not a squad. Davis was right. We're five individuals occupying the same space, with a leader who can't make us function as a unit. We have one week to improve by fifty-five percent, and we can't even have a conversation without it becoming a disaster."
Nobody spoke. The accusation was too accurate to argue with.
Quinn's typing had stopped entirely. They were staring at their tablet, but their eyes weren't tracking the screen. Milo had gone pale, fingers still wrapped around some piece of equipment he'd been pretending to adjust. Zee's jaw was locked so tight Valoris could see the muscles jumping beneath her skin.
And Valoris stood in the center of it all, feeling the squad fracturing around her, feeling the weight of her name and her inadequacy pressing down with equal force.
"So that's it?" she asked. Her voice came out smaller than she wanted. "We just accept that we're going to wash out?"
"I didn't say that." Saren's eyes were cold. "I said we're going to fail with you as leader. Maybe we'll fail regardless. Maybe we're fundamentally incompatible, five people who should never have been grouped together. But our best chance of success would require leadership capable of making us function, and you've demonstrated you can't do that."
"Then help me." The words came out before Valoris could stop them. "If you're so certain I'm failing, help me do better. Tell me what commands you need. Work with me instead of against me."
"I tried to work with you. In the simulation. I identified tactical problems immediately, offered alternative positions—"
"You argued. You didn't adapt. You spent forty-five seconds explaining why my plan was wrong instead of executing a better one."
Saren's jaw tightened. For a moment, Valoris thought she'd pushed too hard, that the fragile possibility of conversation would shatter into irretrievable hostility.
Then Milo spoke, voice barely above a whisper.
"I keep thinking about what Davis said. About innovation without communication being chaos." He pushed his glasses up, not looking at anyone. "I saw the environmental hazard solution. I knew the math worked. And I triggered it without saying anything because I thought acting fast mattered more than coordinating."
He paused, swallowing hard.
"Saren's right that leadership matters. But I killed her. I made an independent decision without communicating, and she died because of it. That's not Valoris's failure. That's mine."
The admission settled into the silence.
"We all failed," Zee said quietly. "I charged in alone because I thought I could handle it. I ignored coordination because waiting felt like weakness." She looked at Valoris, then at Saren. "You can argue about who should be leader. You can be right about all of it. But we still have one week and we're still stuck together."
"Functional specialization," Quinn said. Their voice was flat, but something underneath it cracked slightly. "Individual weaknesses become less relevant when squad capabilities are properly coordinated. That's what the algorithm was supposed to achieve. That's why we were grouped together."
"The algorithm failed," Saren said.
"Or we failed the algorithm." Quinn finally looked up from their tablet. "The grouping was designed to create complementary capabilities. Kade for tactics, Zavaretti for combat, me for analysis, Renn for engineering, you for precision. On paper, we should function. In practice..."
"In practice, we're a disaster." Saren's voice had lost some of its edge, exhaustion bleeding through the anger. "We're a disaster with a leader who can't make us function, a vanguard who ignores coordination, an analyst who prioritizes data over survival, and an engineer who experiments without communication."
"So we fix it," Valoris said.
Saren looked at her. "How?"
"I don't know yet." Valoris took a breath, feeling the weight of the admission. "I don't know how to make us function. I don't know if I can learn to lead well enough in one week. I don't know if any of us can change enough to pass the next evaluation."
She paused, making sure Saren was listening.
"But I know we can't fix it if we're fighting each other. You're right that I failed. You're right that Zee might be a better leader. You're right about all of it. And none of that matters if we can't figure out how to work together regardless."
Saren stared at her for a long moment. The anger was still there, the frustration, the bone-deep certainty that this squad was doomed to failure. But underneath it, something else. Something that might have been the beginning of resignation, or possibly the first trace of willingness to try.
"One week," she said finally. "We have one week."
"Then we use every hour of it." Valoris looked around the room at her fractured, hostile, barely-functional squad. "We train. We communicate. We learn how to coordinate instead of arguing about who should give orders."
"And if it's not enough?" Saren asked.
"Then we fail together. But at least we'll know we tried."
The words hung in the air. Not a solution. Not a promise. Just acknowledgment that they had no good options and could only choose between bad ones.
Saren nodded once, a gesture so small it barely qualified as agreement. But it was something. A crack in the hostility. A possibility of progress.
Zee pushed off from the wall. "I'm going to hit something. Training room. Anyone want to join?"
"I'll come," Milo said quickly, clearly desperate to escape the tension.
Quinn returned to their tablet. "I'll draft training schedules. Optimize for our weaknesses."
Saren turned back to the window, posture still rigid but slightly less defensive. "I'll review tactical materials. Identify coordination protocols we should practice."
They were talking. Proposing solutions. Acknowledging the disaster without pretending it wasn't catastrophic.
It wasn't trust. It wasn't friendship. It wasn't even basic cooperation yet. Just five people stuck together, facing the same impossible deadline, choosing to work in parallel because the alternative was certain failure.
Outside, the sun was setting over the dimensional rift, casting shadows that moved at wrong angles.
Valoris watched them, her fractured squad dispersing to separate corners of the barracks, each processing the failure in their own way, none of them certain they could fix what was broken.
One week, she thought. Seven days to transform from sixty-first place disaster into something that might survive.
The odds weren't good. But they weren't zero either.
She had to believe that.
She had to.