Chapter 173. Between Flights and Assignments (Patreon)

Before me stretched the gaping entrance of an open hangar, packed with dozens of heavy vehicles and machines. A hundred tons of machinery coated in fuel oil and xeno-slime, all of it needing to be brought into perfect working order within six hours. For an ordinary person, or even a civilian maintenance crew, simply inspecting a Lockheed C-5 Galaxy would take an entire day.

But for someone with an overclocked processor like mine, this was practically a walk in the park. I might not have enough time to change the oil in every engine or overhaul every track assembly, but with a few carefully targeted adjustments, these machines would be tearing through hostile alien jungles without a single breakdown for another ten years. And I'd still have plenty of time left over to work on my own development.

Even so, I didn't enter the hangar.

I stayed outside beneath the blazing sun and cloudless sky. Nick stood beside me, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, clearly unsure how to start a conversation. Judging by the cold, objective facts, Nicholas Thompson was a stranger to me. We'd spent just one month at the same training camp. I'd had more contact with my mail carrier than with this kid. I could've said a curt goodbye and forgotten all about him. But that wouldn't have been right.

"Nick, you said you've still got an hour before they start boarding the plane, right?" I turned my back on my new workplace, pointedly ignoring the hangar full of filthy machinery.

"Forty-seven minutes, actually." He glanced at his phone. "Why? Got something you want to ask me, Tom?"

"Let's take a walk around the base and talk." I adjusted the strap of my bag on my shoulder. "You haven't exactly shown me much, considering you're officially supposed to be my guide."

"Sure, why not?" Nick shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his flight jacket and started walking along the concrete edge of the tarmac. "Besides, if you don't finish the maintenance work on time, you're the one who's gonna get chewed out by the boss, not me."

"That's a pretty cynical attitude for someone who's temporarily responsible for showing me around." I fell into step beside him. "You could get in trouble yourself for doing such a lousy job of helping the new guy settle in."

"I didn't sign up for this, and I'm not getting paid a single cent extra for showing you around." The teenager sighed as he stepped around a puddle of kerosene shimmering with rainbow colors. "The head of vehicle maintenance happened to notice in the database that we graduated from the same class, so he stuck me with you as your guide. If he hadn't gotten that bright idea, I'd be relaxing in my hotel room and reading the latest comics until my flight."

"All managers are assholes," I remarked casually.

Thompson let out a short, genuine laugh, clearly appreciating my dry delivery.

"Putting the daily grind aside, how do you like working for FEMA-P? You happy here?"

"Yeah, more or less." Nick stopped, squinting at a propeller plane descending toward the runway on a steep approach. "Think about it. In less than a month, the Corps has already sent me to almost half the countries in Latin America. Sure, I haven't exactly been sightseeing in the tourist districts of Lima or Bogotá. I've only seen the local scenery through a car window on the way from the airport to the Portal. Still, that's not bad for a sixteen-year-old kid from the suburbs."

"You're certainly making the best of it. Constant time-zone changes and endless flights, though. Doesn't the nomadic lifestyle get old?"

"A little, I won't lie. I'm not really into all that running around. I don't like being on my feet all day. My idea of a perfect vacation is locking myself in my room and enjoying some peace and quiet." Nick let out a long, satisfied yawn and pushed his slipping glasses back up his nose. "But you get used to pretty much anything. There's plenty of room aboard military transport planes, and I've figured out how to make myself a comfortable bed between the cargo containers. I can stretch out and read my comics in peace. And staying in hotels all the time has its perks, too. They bring your food straight to your room, and you don't have to clean up after yourself."

"What about the work itself? How do you like it?"

"It's a job. Not exactly my dream career, but far from the worst assignment the Corps has to offer." He shrugged and led me beneath the awning of a nearby maintenance building. "My team goes into a Portal that's already been cleared. I activate my shadow, absorb all the alien soil into it, walk back out, and unload everything. Then I do it all over again. There's nothing particularly impressive or heroic about it compared to what the guys on the front lines do. No grenades going off, no crazy chases, no adrenaline rushes. But I'm perfectly happy with that. I get more than enough action and badass heroes from my comic books."

I genuinely enjoyed listening to this laid-back teenager. Most of his peers, upon becoming Awakened, immediately developed an almost religious belief in their own exceptional status and invulnerability. They expected the system to treat them as something special.

Nick, on the other hand, had accepted his current place in the department's hierarchy with surprising maturity and clear-eyed pragmatism. He understood perfectly well that he was never going to become a general in this global war against the xenomorphs. Instead, he simply went with the flow, making the most of whatever small comforts his circumstances afforded him. Ordinary people rarely developed such a balanced outlook before their mid-twenties, usually after struggling to pay off their college loans.

We stepped into a small, isolated hangar. Inside were several plastic tables, a couple of benches, and a lone vending machine stocked with chilled drinks and snacks, its display glowing faintly. This was the airfield staff's break room.

"Are the mechanics at FEMA-P made of iron or something?" I gave the vending machine's dimly glowing display a skeptical look. "Do they run on solar power instead of eating actual protein? Why doesn't this facility have a proper military mess hall?"

"Guess the bigwigs upstairs decided there was no point paying a full kitchen staff just to feed the guys at a vehicle depot." Nick dropped some coins into the machine and retrieved a packaged croissant. "The people who work here are just regular guys. Pretty much everyone brings a lunch box from home and eats wherever they feel like it: on the curb, on a mechanic's creeper, or right on top of a half-dismantled engine. This vending machine is really just for people like me. Temporary passengers waiting around for their next flight with nothing better to do than sit on their bags."

"So you're not assigned any regular duties here?" I took a seat on a plastic chair.

"Well, officially, I'm assigned to this base, and I've already seen everything there is to see." Nick tore open the wrapper. The air immediately filled with the sweet smell of cheap chocolate filling and vanilla. "But in reality, I spend maybe ten percent of my working hours within these walls. I get off a plane, file a report on the job I just completed, receive my next assignment, and board another plane. The rest of the time, I'm constantly traveling all over the Americas."

"I see. From a logistical standpoint, your position is a lot like being a taxi driver. They spend ninety percent of their shifts on the road, returning to the depot only to change shifts and turn in their fares."

"Probably. I have no idea how taxi drivers work." He shrugged indifferently and took a substantial bite of his croissant. "By the way, Tom... Since we're talking about assignments, do you know where the others from our class ended up?"

"Mary's currently helping clean up the planet's orbital debris. Ted and I are with P-SWAT. I only found out about your assignment today. As for Louise, I don't know where she is yet, but I have a pretty good idea."

"Wait... Did you say you're in P-SWAT?" Nick froze, a piece of croissant halfway to his mouth. "I'm not surprised Ted ended up with the assault teams. But you, Tom?"

"Doesn't my uniform give you a clue?" I straightened the lapel of my immaculate dress jacket.

"No, I mean... I just figured you'd been assigned to P-EAR, the elite division." The kid awkwardly pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "So you're only working at FEMA-P on the side? Wait. If you've got multiple assignments, that means the Corps' system generated several available positions for you. Why would you choose the assault teams?"

"I didn't choose anything."

I briefly explained the unprecedented career trap I'd found myself in, courtesy of the Corps' software.

"That's insane..." Nick let out a bewildered breath, frantically adjusting his glasses. "So you're actually working in every Corps department at the same time? That's completely nuts. But damn, now your sudden appearance at our vehicle depot makes a lot more sense... Hey, Tom, I just noticed something. You've got a Bronze Star with a V device on your ribbon bar. That's for valor in combat, right? When did you manage to earn that?"

"After completing the training Portal."

"Seriously?!" He nearly choked on the last of his pastry, hurriedly swallowing a mouthful of chocolate filling. "How the hell did you pull off something heroic in there? The whole thing's designed so senior officers practically hold the recruits' hands!"

"I wouldn't say our experience was quite that safe and comfortable. How did your Portal exam go?"

"Nothing special." Nick shrugged. "Our group had veterans and scouts backing us up, so they did all the dirty work. They practically burned the entire perimeter to the ground, and I just followed behind them in complete safety. Anyway, you said you had a pretty good idea where Louise is. How?"

"I work for the FBA, so I have access to every Awakened recruit's personnel file. According to hers, the language barrier delayed her departure from camp longer than anyone else's in our class. She only completed the training Portal a week ago, and she's currently deciding where to serve."

"Wow. Your position definitely has its perks."

"I won't argue with that. But getting back to our conversation this morning, what's stopping you from getting a college degree? You could use those hours spent flying in the cargo hold to study university subjects instead of reading comic books."

"Well, honestly, Tom... I've never been particularly interested in becoming a scientist. With my current chaotic flight schedule, I physically wouldn't be able to do any serious research in a laboratory." He sighed and got up from the bench. "But what you told me about getting an immediate promotion just for presenting a college diploma has genuinely got me thinking."

"Thanks for the information, too, Nick. Good luck with your flight."

We shook hands firmly and said goodbye on a cordial, businesslike note. I hadn't learned anything critically important, but the conversation had been useful for strengthening professional connections. Besides, it had been a rare pleasure, given my current circumstances, to have an ordinary human conversation without Selina's poisonous sarcasm or Richard Castro's endless scheming.

Nick turned and headed briskly toward the airfield, where a duty crew was already waiting for him beside the loading ramp of a Lockheed C-5 Galaxy.

I was alone in the break room. My eyes drifted to the clock: noon. The time for conversation was over. I headed for Hangar Four, where a hundred tons of filthy machinery coated in fuel oil and xeno-slime awaited me. Time to roll up my sleeves, activate my body's hidden reserves, and show this organization what an accountant in hyperfocus mode could do.