Base Metal (The Sword Book 2)

an ass. He was arrogant, snide - the kind of too-smart-professor who asked 'impossible' questions on the first day of class to assert dominance over the classroom. Firenze had faced profs like this before, and he'd answered those questions, every time. Semester after semester, he'd endured the hazing that followed, proved himself, and then walked away with a four-point-oh and a 'fuck you' handshake.
But here?
For every mistake, miscalculation, or lousy call, Donegan was there to tell him exactly where he'd screwed up. It was one thing to be called by someone because they resented you. It was quite another when they were also right. The truth was evident: Firenze wasn't good enough.
He'd failed.
Firenze felt a tree-trunk arm loop under his shoulder, and he tried to protest, but Clause hauled him to his feet. The sergeant looked him dead in the eyes and said, "Once more."
"I can't-"
"I don't know those words." Clausen punched him on the shoulder just hard enough to hurt. "Step up."
All around them, the team waited. Some leaned on posts, others sat on prefab consoles, all of them filthy and drenched with sweat. Devallo chugged from a water bottle while Jennings sat beside him and scrubbed out his goggles. Kawalski and Hill shared a tersely-animated exchange about 'base of fire', mobility, and a split hallway. But all of them were watching. Rutman was obvious about it, glaring lasers while he chewed on a fist-sized chunk of dip. The others were more surreptitious, with aside glances and peripheral stares, but they watched, all the same.
Clausen whispered, "Ignore them. Focus on me. You can do this."
Firenze shook his head. Without thinking, without meaning, the traitorous truth slipped his lips, "I'm not good enough."
"Bullshit." Clausen replied. Even as a whisper, his voice was commanding enough he could have convinced Firenze that red was blue. "You're the best there is. You just can't get out of your own way. The chief's right. Forget perfect. Get it done."
Firenze wanted to scream back, 'You don't know anything about this!' but he was too honest for that. He admitted, "I'm a failure."
"No, you're failing." Clausen corrected. "Big difference. But we're gonna run this until you pass. So fix it, or we're gonna get real sick of this room."
All the eyes were on him, from the team pretending not to watch to Donegan's EWO's, plugged into the TACNET feed. The weight of it crushed him. Every breath was a struggle, a desperate battle against the urge to scream, run, or curl up - anything to avoid those judging eyes.
He whispered, "They hate me."
"Wrong." Clausen answered, in that implacable voice. "They're disappointed. They'll hate you if you quit."
"I can't-"
"Not an option. Run. It. Again."
Firenze wanted to cry. Not the 'cute' sorrow-tears from a holovid, but the ugly, desperate, I'm-fucked-and-I-can't-stop-it sob. He wanted to tunnel back in time and stab himself for prying open that damned box. Why had he been so damned stupid? Why did he 'have to know'?
In any other place or time, he would have run. He would have tucked inside the bosom of the net and washed away the horror of this world with his curated, digital revision. He would have closed his eyes and escaped the nightmare.
But this wasn't any other place. This wasn't any other time.
Clausen shoved a water bottle into his hands, and he grabbed it. The green plastic crumpled under his fingers, cold and slick. He drank on instinct. The icy spike pushed through him, washed out his screaming muscles and anxious mind.
He had no choice. It had to be done.
He wiped the last of the water from his lips and passed back the bottle. Clausen gave him a nod, just a slight tip of the head, part instruction and part approval of the unspoken decision. Firenze picked up his kit.
Clausen called out, "Alright, people! Stack up! We go on mark!"
When Firenze got back into starting position, Kawalski was waiting, her green eyes stabbing out from under a garrison cap. "You ready, Princess?" She asked. Her voice was rough, like she'd gargled gin from the age of seven, but there was genuine earnestness beneath. She wanted him to succeed.
He almost crumbled, the fear threatening to bubble over, once more.
She snapped, "Hey! You with me?"
The world seemed to hang, frozen. Donegan and Poole whispered on the balcony, Kawalski waited for his answer, and across the room, Clausen gave him another of those assured nods. At that moment, it dawned on him, ugly truth revealed by the light of day. There was no running, there was no hiding, and he had no choice. In some perverse way, that was liberating. With understanding came tranquility, focus, and the peace of the damned. He had only one way out.
He almost wanted to laugh, if only in defiance of tears.
Time un-froze, and he gave a curt nod. He forced enthusiasm up from his gut, pretended he meant it, and said, "Yeah. I'm good. Let's do this."
Kawalski flashed a shark-tooth grin in reply. She clapped his shoulder and declared, "Fucking A, Princess! Let's hit this bitch running."
He took up his position, lined up behind the breach-team, and braced for the buzzer. What was it the colonel had told him? It had to get easier. It had to get better. He just had to remember: today was the hardest day.

The Hardest Day
Hours became days, days became weeks, and then weeks ceased to have meaning.
Life was a blur of gunfire and code. Morning came with 'PT', runs through warehouses that Firenze couldn't avoid, pull-ups and jumps and weights and crunches that left him dead tired before he was awake. He puked up his guts a dozen times. Day after day, he'd dry heave in the abandoned silo while everyone ran circles around him rather than leave him behind. He'd escape to breakfast and attempt to eat alone, so no one would have to deal with the FNG that kept getting them killed. Each day, he'd hope for thirty minutes without the stares, without Rutman and Hill and the