The Perfect Soldier

I was a soldier once.

Whatever records they still have on me in the Galactic Expansion Program will say I was a soldier for a year before becoming Sergeant. Then Captain. Then nothing. But before the shipwreck, I was always General Grant’s perfect soldier.

“Relax,” says Dr. Roz. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days, his graying hair rumpled and dark circles shadowing his eyes.

The Martian female in the chair eyes the long syringe in his hand, her rust-red skin going slightly pale as she twists the wedding ring on her finger. She’s having doubts. They always do.

Dr. Roz lifts her sleeve and prepares her arm for the injection. I silently watch him, fixated on the gray shade of his skin and six-fingered hands. All these years in the slums and shadow markets of this planet, and I still haven’t gotten used to walking among Zeonians and Martians. It’s easy to get caught up in their lives and politics until I remember what they’d do to me if they saw beneath my silver shell of a mask. What they already did twenty-two years ago.

“Wait,” the woman says. Her plea comes out loud and sudden, echoing through the silent lab. “I—I dont know about this. What did you say the symptoms were?”

Pain like you’ve never known before. Like you’re being burned from the inside out. Nausea if you survive, but instead of stomach acid, you spew fire.

Dr. Roz tenses, like he’s bracing to repeat the awful list.

I take over before he can. “Remember what brought you here.” She’s already made the decision to bail, just wants to hear the reasons again. Whatever drove her to this lab—probably an attack from an elemental, or losing her job to one—the fury and shock of it is wearing off and giving way to the miserable lure of familiarity. “Do you want to be defenseless the next time the Dynestrate sends fire-shifting soldiers to raid your homes and farmlands? Or when they shoot you the moment you lay a hand on your flimsy weapons?”

She shakes her head. “What if I can’t control the fire?”

I take a step closer, my boots clapping against the white tile. The woman, no older than forty, is unnerved by the sight of me. Maybe it’s the full face mask, or the collar-like device at my throat that distorts my voice in case someone from my past happens to recognize it.

I try to be as uplifting as possible, to channel the peacemaker that carried me through my long years on Earth. I’m not the young girl who failed her crew anymore, but I’m not General Grant, either. Here, I earn my respect and lead with it.

“What if you can?” I remind her.

That’s all it takes. The hope of escaping the life of a second-class citizen. She’s silent for a moment, then sets her jaw, ready as she’ll ever be.

“Step out until I call you back inside,” Dr. Roz says to me. He’s buttoning up a pelmina—a fireproof coat that’s standard for everyone to own on planet Zeon—over his lab coat. I doubt it’ll be much help if the experiment goes wrong, but as a water-shifter, he has a much better chance at protecting himself than a human like me would.

It still grates against me, the authoritative tone in his voice. I’m no one’s pawn. I left that life behind when I decided to stay on Zeon under a new name instead of taking the return flight to Earth. Running from another failure, they’d call it. Running from Grant’s judgment.

No, I think bitterly. I’m chasing success beyond your wildest dreams.

I ruminate over this as I stalk toward the double doors, stepping into the brightly lit hallway. I’d rather not be seen anxiously waiting outside the lab, so I decide to check on one of the training sessions.

This underground facility is my greatest pride. Years of work paid into building the House of Moonstone. I defend my investments with my life, and I made damn sure that it would take an army of elementals to destroy this one.

The training hall is around the corner, and I punch in the security code with a gloved hand before quietly turning the handle.

Heat blasts from the room. The exhaust fans in the ceiling are working at full power, clearing out the smoke.

I peer over the railing. Twenty-four fire-shifting Martians are rotating about different stations, conjuring fire out of thin air. Flamethrowers arc across the room and slam into targets. Blazing swords slash clean through mannequins. Fire is a difficult element to control, but Ingrid taught them quickly.

The rest of the world would call it an impossibility, creating an artificial elemental ability. Treasonous. When Dr. Roz came to one of my informants months ago, claiming he had the recipe for the impossible—a drug that can give fire-shifting abilities to an elementless person—I knew this would be the next phase of the revolution. The only thing more terrifying than a fire-shifter is one who’s fed up of living their life in terror.

The Martians are sweating from heat and exhaustion, but they still persist in their drills. The sight gives me a sense of pride, seeing fighters who were cowering civilians just days ago. I can tell which ones are new by the way their gazes hitch on my figure. They’re either wondering why I’m sweating in these winter clothes in this oven of a room, or counting the weapons and gadgets holstered in my belt. Maybe they’ve placed bets on what I’m hiding: horrible disfigurement, burn marks, a face that’s on a wanted poster in some elite city, perhaps a messed-up tattoo. But all I’ve got is tan skin, plague scars, and maybe a twenty-year old obituary on a planet several thousand light years away.

One of the younger recruits gives out, stumbling away from the formation to grab a drink. Ingrid snaps her attention to her and barks, “You! Did I say you can leave?”

Usually, I let Ingrid draw out the session for another five minutes before I step in to announce a break. Every time their aching muscles and dwindling elemental energy reserves make them want to cuss someone out, the respite redirects their muttered curses to Ingrid. The stone-faced woman doesn’t care, so long as I continue paying her well. I’m glad, because all I need them to remember is who to thank for our future.

Their future, I correct myself. I will keep hiding behind this name and mask. But it’s a small price because I see my old crew in each of these people, and I can’t fail them.

But the girl looks so young. Dark haired and dark-eyed, favoring her left leg as she limps. Probably fresh out of high school. Did she spend her life waiting to go home each day, like the others? Or was home a place she dreaded, too, until she decided to run?

Running from failure.

“Stop,” I hear myself say. “Take fifteen.”

Sighs of relief echo around the room. The older faces have already been discreetly watching me, waiting for my command that will end their hours-long toil.

But before they’ve even extinguished their flames, I burst out of the room. The memory that took the longest to bury comes rushing to the surface, like a drowning monster gasping for air.

General Grant is standing at the door with his hands clasped behind his back, tracking my movements as I set down my military pack, my legs protesting after a long day of training.

My mouth is dry. I’ve rehearsed a dozen variations of my response on the way from the barracks, and it takes every bit of the discipline drilled into me to stick to the script. “I followed the protocol. You can check my documentation—“ I began.

“But that’s not why I called you here.”

“—and I know my team. We did everything right. There has to be something wrong with the ship.”

Silence stretches between us, tightening like a noose around my neck. The general takes a step toward me, carving a menacing silhouette against the harsh fluorescent lights.

I back away before I can stop myself, and Grant’s chiseled features warp into a sneer, turning him from the decorated officer known among the GEP to the monster I know.

“Are you afraid, Captain?” He spits out the title with a mocking note.

Yes, I want to say. Because this is the version of General Grant that haunts me in my sleep. The version no one else sees. “No.”

“Then start climbing.”

I wish he’d choose some other punishment for my failures. A beating. A lecture. Something I’ve already learned to bear. Instead, he’s been having me scale the climbing wall for hours, the hum of the conveyor belt bleeding into my ears, until I fall onto the concrete floor. I’ve grown quite good at climbing, but I’ve also grown a special hatred for it. What’s the point of all that work if I can never make it to the top?

I take off my boots, making sure he sees me gazing at the forgotten safety harness and ropes. It’s a last-ditch effort to win a shred of his sympathy.

The climbing wall looms above me. I’ll never know why the general had one built on this cursed space station. Or why, of all the squads in the GEP, he chose mine to give the brunt of his attention.

Grant stands by the console. He starts the conveyor belt before I’ve reached the wall. I’ve memorized the layout of the rocks by now, and it takes me less than a minute to latch on and start scaling the wall. My muscles scream at first, but the pain eventually becomes numb. There is only me and the rhythm of my breathing.

I risk a glance at Grant, who's gone back to sitting at his desk. There is something I can’t name in his face that’s making me wait for the other shoe to drop. He doesn’t plan to simply watch me climb until I fall. He’s waiting for something this time. I can’t guess what.

But twenty minutes pass. Thirty. The speed increases, and soon I can’t afford to keep looking over at him.

An hour later, my hands and feet suddenly slip. I let out a strangled cry as muscle memory kicks in and I break my fall with a clumsy roll. Pain lances through my shoulder.

Sprawled on the hard floor, I look up, bewildered at how quickly I lost my grip. I wonder if I’m more sore than I realized, or if I was distracted, when I see what Grant has done. The climbing holds are gone, leaving only the rough surface of the wall. He retracted them mid-climb.

He’s watching me with a look of detachment. I take that as my cue to leave. I’ve learned my lesson; I’ve learned how to fall, and I’ve learned that there is no excuse for failure.

“Did I say you could leave?” he calls after me.

I silently force myself to my feet, wishing more than anything someone would show up and save me from this ordeal. I realize he’s got some kind of remote by his desk, and every now and then, he pauses his work to discreetly activate the remote. Each time, I climb faster.

Once I’ve fallen for the sixth time, I realize how desperately I need to get to the top. I need it more than I need air. I’m scrambling on my feet to try again, ignoring the excruciating cramps in my fingers, convinced that if I hold on tighter this time, I won’t need the handholds. Convinced that only a sniveling fool would try fixing a rigged game, and that a soldier would win it.

Someone clears his throat. I whirl on him, pistol drawn before I realize it’s just Dr. Roz. He jumps back, easy as ever to scare, even though he’s got half a foot on me.

I already know what news he’s about to give me. “She didn’t survive?”

Dr. Roz swallows and shakes his head, clutching his clipboard like a stuffed animal. “I have some possible explanations, things I might tweak for the next trial—“

I wave him off, feigning disinterest in hearing another biochemistry lesson. He can’t see that I’m clenching my jaw so tightly that it might pop. My throat burns. Did she have someone waiting for her at home? I let the grief wash over me until it passes and I can breathe again.

Pain is the only thing I can’t hide with a mask or a Martian name. And with it comes the damning reminder that I’m human.

Once Dr. Roz scurries away to dispose of the body and prepare the next serum, I steel myself to head back to the training hall.

They’ve begun training again. I watch and think of how hard I’m still trying to convince myself I’m not a fool.

***

After forty-eight hours, the dead victim shows up on the news. Like clockwork, the police feign an investigation, give up after two days, and the woman is forgotten. The volunteers for the Red Cure trials keep coming. My guards and informants are quick to weed out the few spies among them. Whichever ones they miss, I identify and terminate.

Three weeks after the woman’s death, a young boy named Delvar arrives as a volunteer. I don’t pay him much attention at first—it’s no use getting attached to someone who might die in a few hours.

But the next morning, I see him in the training hall. And the day after. And so on. Each time I call for a break, he leaves the room and continues training on his own until Ingrid resumes the session. There’s something unnervingly familiar about him.

One day, I stop the session and beckon for him to follow me. Every eye tracks us across the room with a mix of pity and wariness for the boy I’m pulling aside. But if Delvar is as scared as they are, he doesn’t show it. He holds his chin high.

Once we’re alone in one of the spare rooms, I ask him, “Why did you volunteer?”

As I study him, the answer hits me before he opens his mouth. I notice a ring on his index finger. Her ring.

Suddenly, it hurts to look at this boy. I briefly close my eyes, but there’s no unseeing it now. Everything about him, down to the grim set of his jaw, is just like her.

My chest squeezes. She did have someone waiting at home, after all.

Delvar’s eyes flicker. “My mother. She disappeared. My uncle found the body in the river a few days later when he was fishing.” He swallows. “Burned to the bone.”

She was killed by fire, I think. But it didn’t come from a soldier.

I already know what he’ll do if I tell him the truth. He’ll burn me alive with the power I gave him, for one, but worse than that, the turmoil from the resulting power vacuum won’t go unnoticed. The House of Moonstone will be turned over like fresh soil for the world to excavate and scrutinize. I’ll never live to see the Dynestrate rid of the monsters sitting in its golden walls.

He will make a fool out of me and everything I stand for.

“I want them all dead,” Delvar says. His voice is quiet, but his eyes are blazing. “Every one of those fire-breathing Dynestrate pigs who touched my mother.”

Justice. He craves it—needs it—more than anything. The other Martians have been beaten down over the years into a cautious but hopeful determination, but Delvar is young and ambitious. He plays a much tougher game than appeasing military officers or climbing walls. Who will he blame when he loses?

I should shoot him right here, within these soundproof walls, before this fire in his eyes spirals out of control. The captain in me sees that he’s a loaded gun, fueled by bloodlust. But that means he can be my downfall or my greatest asset.

An attack plan has been in the works for a long time, but I can already see it transforming, with this boy on the front lines.

I have the universe’s worst track record with honoring oaths and keeping promises. But I promise him anyway, “I’ll make sure you’re the one to set them alight.”

His nostrils flare. “I’m not some child to coddle with lies.”

“Good.” I come to a decision, and I reach for the door. “Because you’re a soldier now.”

He follows me, frowning as I head in the opposite direction of the training hall. “Where are we going?”

I look back at him. Already, the pain in my chest is beginning to loosen, and something else takes its place. The thrill of taming a beast. “I’m going to teach you how to climb.”