The messages are so rapid-fire I wonder if he’s using talk-to-type. Or maybe he prewrote the text and is pasting it from his Note app. That seems like the kind of thing Lament would do.
My handheld lights up again. I don’t need a bonehead for a partner.
That gets me smiling again.So you admit we’re partners now?
I didn’t say that.
Yes you did. It’s time-stamped and everything.
That was a mistype.
I might be a bonehead, but I can still read.
The pause goes on for long enough that I think maybe he’s not going to reply. Then: You’re not really a bonehead.
My thumbs hover over the touch screen. I want to say something back. Something stupid and heartfelt like,I hope this means we’re okayorI’m sorry for everythingorYou scared me too, you know.Before I can embarrass myself, another message appears. Illiviamona says you shouldn’t be awake right now.
I let out a huff.And whose fault is that?
Yours, I believe.
Excuse you. Your message woke me up.
Light sleeper?
Yep.
I’ll leave you alone, then.
It’s not really what I want, but I can’t exactly admit that, either, so I just say,Finally.
Good night, Hartman.
I scroll back through our message chain, rereading the exchange over and over until I practically have it memorized. It’s with me as I lie back down in my new bed in my new room, pull the thin thermal sheet up to my chin. The black text stains my vision as I fall asleep.
My first official week as a Sixer goes by in a blur of tactical training sessions, strategy meetings, and orientations. Most of these are for my benefit, to help me acclimate to my new team and the expectations of life on Skyhub. Which, generally speaking, are a lot like the expectations for lifeat the Academy. There are early morning wake-up calls (I set three backup alarms), strict uniform rules (no loose cords, no wrinkled fabric), and physical training (which we just call PT and is something I’m actually good at, thank the stars). Sergeant Forst heads most of the lessons, which either take place in the detachment’s briefing room or training room, depending on our schedule. There hasn’t been any flying yet, and no Halobringers, much to my disappointment. On the plus side, the sergeant doesn’t seem to be holding any grudges, despite our rocky start. On the whole, the week goes well.
As well as it can, anyway, given my fleetmates seem determined to take none of it seriously.
Like when Avi “accidentally” tosses a red T-shirt into the laundry with our whites, and everyone has to wear pink uniforms until we can get them replaced. Or when Jester reprograms the automatic kitchen door to spout random wombat facts whenever someone passes through. Or like now, in the briefing room, as the Sixers start playing a game where they send a word to our group chat, and whoever gets the sergeant to say it first wins.
Youvu Hum: Next word is breach.
Vera: LAMENT IS NOT ALLOWED TO PLAY
Me: Why can’t Lament play?
Jester: He’s too good.
Jester: He can basically trick the sergeant into saying anything on the first try.
Vera: LAMENT DO NOT RUIN THIS FOR US
The sergeant is currently standing at the front of the (predictably white) briefing room, delivering a lecture on firefight formations. I wait until her attention is on her holographic whiteboard (tragically nicknamed the holo-wolo) before glancing at Lament sitting in the row behind me. The room is set up like a miniature lecture hall, with two staggered rows of desks and ten seats (one of which is presumably for Toph, except his kneesdon’t fit under the table so they’ve installed an extra bench for him at the back). Vera shoots Lament anI’m watching youmotion. Lament just smirks.
“Which is why it’s important to hold your line,” the sergeant is saying, flipping through pictures of space battles, “even after a retreat is called.”
“Excuse me, Sergeant Forst?” Lament raises a hand. “Is that why the Legion banned the use of the Ten Calls formation?”
