On the surface of Elysia Novus, far from the cities and the towns, lay a barracks. More than a barracks, a full blown military training institute - barracks, mess hall, firing rounds, running tracks (and not too far away hills made artificially steeper for cross country running), zero-gravity courts, dojos and infantry halls as well as complex volumetric/field chambers capable of synthesising any environment. It was the height of Elysian training technology. And of course a defensive site - surrounding the site was a number of turret's.
At this time a Elysian shuttle was landing in a empty field set aside for the purpose, containing twenty plebeian soldiers ready for retraining in modern military technology and techniques.
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Schuyler was uneasy in his seat as the shuttle drifted downwards, before finally settling with a dull thump on the turf.
He was anxious to get started, and very anxious to get off of the shuttle he had been strapped into for the trip. He didnt necessarily hate flying, or being transported, he didnt like landing. The chance of everything you just went through to go up in a fire ball didnt appeal to him much, and he didnt like to trust other men with his life.
As for the training, he was very anxious to begin, and see what kinds of things they would be getting to play with.
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"Everybody out!" A loud and forceful voice came through the PA, verging on a shout as the door at the back of the shuttle opened slowly, allowing the occupants of said shuttle to leave said shuttle.
The field on which the shuttle had landed was filled with knee height (at least plebeian knee height) plants which were most reminiscent of grass - indeed what filled the biological niche on Elysia Novus and which shared many of its characteristics - other than being somewhat more quill like and having the capacity to grow higher.
Standing in this field was a Patrician officer in his full glory looking rather disdainfully at the group which gathered in front of him. At his waist there was a Hippeis Xiphos and in his hand there was a long springy cane. He waited with relative patience for everyone to gather.
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Schuyler was not one to dissapoint, and when he heard the voice command them to leave the shuttle, he was unbuckled, out the back, and moving through the rather sword shaped "grass" toward the officer.
He made sure to trudge through the grass, instead of over it, to avoid possibly impaling himself, it looked sharp, and he didnt want to test that.
In a few moments he was standing in front of the officer, at attention.
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The Patrician looked over the Plebeians from his superior height with cold, analysing eyes, "I am Commander Benael Trual, although you shall call me Commander Benael. During your stay here I am the closest thing to God, and I hold your lives in my hands - you would serve yourself well if you remember that. Work hard and you will leave here as competent servants of the Empire. Otherwise you will leave ... as something else." Commander Benael smiled a thin, frigid smile, "Nerael here," He pointed to a relatively imposing plebeian standing by his side, "Will be your immediate superior. He orders directly to me, so address him properly. He will now show you to your barracks and assign you beds." Without another word Benael turned and walked out of the field.
Which left them with Nerael who looked barely more compassionate than the Commander. He turned and told them to follow with nothing but a hand gesture, striding across the field and across a wide yard to the rectangular, squat, building that was the barracks. Once there he asked each persons name and assigned them a bunk, until he came to Schuyler. "Schuyler? What variety of heathen name is this?" He asked in a crisp, impatient voice.
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"It was once Dutch...Sir." He replied, slightly angered by the insult.
Schuyler was not goign to cow to this man, and definitely not on the first day.
He shifted steadily on his feet, ready for anything else this man might care to try and throw at him.
Schuyler's heritage was one thing that he held dearly, 'heathen' or not.
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"Dutch? Never heard of them." Nerael grunted, "Although I'm going to guess it is one of the race of humans. You'd be better to forget your tainted heritage boy, I shall call you Aetius and I expect you to refer to yourself in the same fashion. Do I make make myself clear Infantryman Aetius?" He barked the last statement.
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"Yes...Sir." he spat the last word, and did not make any attempt to hide his anger, or his clenched fist, shaking lightly.
He had no intention of forgetting his heritage. Tainted was not the word to describe it, honorable, warrior, innovative, those were more like it.
This man had it out for him, for the very least, because of his name. Schuyler couldnt care less. As long as he performed the proper thing at the proper time, this man would have a hard time doing anything to him.
He stayed at attention, he would not show this man any more than his sheer anger. No weakness, no lack of discipline. This man could be beaten.
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"Good. You've got Bunk 13b." Nerael said dismissively, pointing towards the door and moving onto the next plebeian.
The barracks was a long room and wide room divided into four sections, each of these which had four rows and two columns of bunks. Each of these bunks had two trunks and two wardrobes. The bunks were fairly average, a on the top, b on the bottom - and 13 was close on the left.
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Schuyler walked over to the bunk, it was rather clearly marked, and dropped his stuff on the floor before he started to organize it. Boots in the trunk, uniforms and clothes in the wardrobe, personal effects in the trunk, and so on.
He thought to himself, except for the fact that the drill instructor seems to have a very large chip on his shoulder, he probably isnt all that bad. But he had been known to be wrong before, so only time would tell.
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After giving the new soldiers ten minutes to settle in Nerael shouted them out, and after they assembeled spoke, "Your stay here will not be pleasant, and we demand utmost physical condition and health - as such you're all going on a twenty mile run. Starting now - follow the drone. And don't you worry, I'm running with you." From behind him a small dark green orb emerged and raced away at a jogging pace.
Nerael led the way, matching the drone with surprising ease.
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The first thoughts that entered Schuylers mind were 20 miles? This guy has got to be out of his mind... When he saw the man start running, he realized that he was not joking.
Schuyler had always been fit, but he never ran all that much. But, there was always a time to start right? He would find out soon enough, as he took off pacing himself with the drone and focusing only on the drone and the road on which he was running.
Its on the first day, and its the first training session, they wouldn’t be testing us on EVERYTHING would they? He decided that they probably would wait until the second day to test them on their comprehension of their surroundings. They would probably do the same for whether or not they would detect booby traps or not, and just kept running. He tried to keep his thoughts off of his legs, and the growing aches and pains.
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The drone turned and headed towards the hills with Nerael only a pace behind it. He seemed to be enjoying it enormously - perhaps due to some deep routed sadism, or perhaps a love of running. Indeed it was a bit of both. None the less the terrain soon became steeper - but Nerael and the drone kept at the same speed.
The terrain was fairly beautiful, the rocky exposed surfaces of the hills contrasting with brilliant greens and patches of flowers.
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At this point Schuyler was struggling to maintain the pace, and almost puked when he saw the increase in slope.
He managed to fight back the urge, and kept plugging along. He figured that if Nerael could do it, he sure as hell wasn’t going to fall behind. He wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of watching an "inferior" fail.
He had a couple running friends back home, and whenever they ran up hills they said they always used shorter strides, and moved their legs faster. He decided to give it a shot. Almost instantly, he noticed that he wasn’t working quite as hard, and actually gaining on the drone a little bit. Not much, but it was a start.
He would beat Narael at his own game one day. Maybe it would take a while, but it would happen. He gritted his teeth again as a surge of pain swept through his battered legs.
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Eight miles into the jog the drone seemed to leap over a cliff-like ridge on the side of the hill and Nerael followed it - skidding down the shale like a surfer. He was glad to see that at least some of the soldiers were keeping up - albeit some of them were lagging behind. He would probably have to beat some of the ones who had given up.
The course had been steep and rugged, but now at the bottom of this steep ridge came a large plain like environment of high grass. The sun was beginning to set and the sky was turning a brilliant shade of red.
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When Schuyler saw the drone dissapeared, he almost didnt comprehend what had happened in his state of exhaustion. He was still keeping up, but the hill was a rather large one, and it wasnt as easy a climb as it felt at first.
When he reached the crest, and noted what Nerael was doing, he followed suit, though he did almost fall several times in his attempt to copy the move.
Schuyler coughed and spat up a mix of phlegm and stomach acid. His body really wasnt liking this sudden exposure to running. He stumbled for a moment, before he cleared his throat, and then continued on.
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The drone moved through the fields in an enormous loop, an incredibly indirect route back to the camp through the thinning light. An hour later - and still with an hour before even Nerael and the drone finished the race - it was getting relatively dark. The drone activated some inner light which made it shine bright enough for even the worst laggers to see.
Nerael was getting a little fatigued - but the burn in his muscles was good. It was an old familiar friend and he welcomed it.
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Schuylers eyes burned at the sudden light change, because it was all he had to go off of. He kept on pushing himself forward, his legs feeling like so many pounds of lead.
Was it possible that he just saw Nerael slow down slightly? No, it couldn’t have been, he was still right next to the drone, there’s no way he could have slowed down.
The only thing that Schuyler DID like about this field, was that it was relatively flat. Or at least as flat as you could hope for a grass field to be, on a military installation.
He kept pushing forward, wanting very badly to catch up right next to the drone, and deny Nereal the pleasure of seeing him "fail" this first test.
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Another hour later and the loop was near to finished - only two more miles to go and with the military installation lights giving little hope to those soldiers who had managed to keep up with drone (or at least manage to keep it in the distance of their sights). Those who hadn't ... well they were now largely lost. Nerael would probably look for those that were still lost in the morning. Or make a test of their survival skills. Either was good.
It was now completely dark - the only lights were the drone and the institution.
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Schuyler was about a quarter mile, to maybe a half mile from the drone at this point. He could clearly see it, but there were a couple people in front of him on the way to the drone. He decided that he wasn’t going to let that stand if at all possible.
The sight of the installation gave him comfort that at least the run was almost over, and he started to kick slightly harder, trying to pick up the quarter mile between himself and the drone before they got back.
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Around nine minutes later Nerael and the drone reached the edges of the installation - at ten they reached the court yard outside the barracks. And here Nerael stood panting for a few seconds - confident that no-one could see him - before straightening up and correcting his composure - looking like nothing had happened whatsoever (beyond his somewhat red face) and grinning savagely. The drone rose three hundred metres up into the air and shone brighter.
Now was time to see who had made it, and in what state they were.
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After a few minutes, Schuyler had closed in, and by what he judged, they were almost in the installation. He decided that a dead out sprint for the drone was in order, why the hell not? At least he wouldnt be told to run again. At least he didnt think so.
While he was approaching where the drone appeared to finally stopped, it suddenly shot straight up. He stopped suddenly, panting, feeling as though he had cement shoes.
Nerael stood in front of him a short distance away.
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Nerael looked at him slowly. So the cadet that was proud of his heathen heritage had managed to come first. Well after him of course. But he'd never lost. So he didn't really count ... except that he did. In any case it would seem that cadet Aetius had some redeeming feature.
Another eight or so came in within the next fifteen minutes, and another five the half hour after that. At this point Nerael turned to the group, "You have done relatively well - we shall repeat this exercise next week. Now go and rest - we're rising at seven in the morning tomorrow. As for your comrades that are late .. I have a special treatment in mind for them." Nerael smiled evilly.
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Schuyler knew that though he hadn’t come in first...at least not yet, he had won. In some small way, some small immeasurable way, he had beaten this man, for the moment.
When he heard the words "repeat this next week" he got a chill down his spine. He would be faster then. He would be more prepared then. He would be ready for it.
He did however feel a slight pang of sorrow for his comrades left in the boonies, but that was their deal. He was just too tired to care. His bunk was like heaven, and in a few short moments he was out like a light.
