“Politics, Mr. Rafting. My advisors are keeping a close watch, and even Commander Mannard will be wary when he travels to Narviid at the end of next week for his inspection. We don’t need to get caught in a power struggle, not while Belvun sits on the side, withering away.”

Chapter Eight

On Tuesday, Victoria wakes us up at eight o’clock and has us to the docking platforms by nine. Glacia, Ellin, and I practiced Molter simulations for six hours yesterday, and now it’s time to fly the real things. Pilots will be standing by, ready to remotely intervene if something goes wrong.

Other Recruits are already gathered on the platform, listening to a pilot who is reading names off a list. Glacia is called, then me and Ellin.

The pilot separates people according to age, so Ellin joins the small batch of twenty-four year old Recruits. I stay near Glacia when we board a military transport with six others. The instructors move us into a passenger chamber, where we strap into seats and wait for take off.

The engines hum and the thrusters flare. My body presses flattens against the cushioned seat when the transport accelerates upward, and my ears pop. I grip the restraints. Across from me, a girl loses all the color in her face. Her knuckles turn white as she clenches her fingers, and then—when some turbulence jostles the transport—she spews vomit all over herself. Chunks of her breakfast splatter her pants and shoes. The guy next to her jerks away, but his shoes leave a trail of slime.

Ugh, the smell. I hold my breath. Hopefully we get wherever we’re going soon, because the stench of the vomit is already making my eyes water.

The altitude gauge above the entry reads seven thousand feet…eight thousand feet…nine thousand feet. The transport levels off at ten thousand, and a buzzer sounds off. The restraints unlatch and a pilot walks into the chamber. He sniffs the air once and grimaces. He looks at the girl, but her eyes are closed and her entire body is shuddering from the nausea.

“We’ll get her clean,” the pilot tells us. “You guys get out. Follow this hall and hang a right.”

No need to tell us twice. The rest of us scramble out of the chamber, desperate to reach fresh air.

“Weak,” Glacia mutters.

The hall ends at a gate. When it opens, we find ourselves standing at the head of the transport’s cramped docking platform. Ten Molters are lined up in two rows facing the exit gate. At the rear of the dock, several pilots sit behind control stations, each operating their own panel. Another pilot standing next to one of the Molters calls us to him and opens the hatch.