[Location: United Earth Federation Naval Academy - San Francisco Sector] [Time: Subjective Year Zero. 100 Years Ago.]
I didn't always want to be a god of war.
I didn't want to be a martyr, or a glitch in the universe, or a weapon built of scavenged metal and false memories.
When I was eighteen years old, I just wanted to fly.
"Cadet! Pull up! You're coming in too hot!"
The alarms in the cockpit were screaming. Red warning lights bathed my face as I yanked back on the control yoke with both hands—both of my real, flesh-and-blood hands.
Outside the canopy of the flight simulator, a digital projection of a Federation Star-Cruiser was rushing up to meet me at Mach 3.
"I have it! I have the trajectory!" I shouted into my headset, gritting my teeth as the simulated G-force pushed me back into my seat.
"Negative, Cadet Caelum. Your approach vector is off by four degrees. Abort the landing!"
"I can make it!"
I slammed the thrusters into reverse. The yoke shuddered violently. For a split second, I thought I was going to stick the landing on the carrier deck.
Then, the digital cruiser's anti-air battery clipped my left wing.
CRASH.
The simulation screens instantly went black. The word [FAILED] flashed in neon yellow across the primary monitor.
The cockpit hissed open, letting in the cool, sterilized air of the Academy testing center. I pulled off my helmet, my black hair matted with sweat, and let out a long, frustrated groan.
"Three seconds," I muttered to myself. "I was off by three seconds."
"You were off by three seconds, four degrees, and a total lack of spatial awareness, Cadet."
I looked down. Standing at the base of the simulator rig was Instructor Silas. She was younger—much younger. There were no scars on her face, and her eyes weren't haunted by a thousand dead friends. She was sharp, strict, and wore the pristine blue uniform of an Academy flight instructor.
I scrambled out of the pod and snapped a sloppy salute. "Sir. I can run it again. I just overcompensated on the yaw—"
"You're done, Caelum," Silas interrupted, holding up a datapad. "That was your third strike on the carrier landing exam. You don't have the reaction time for atmospheric flight. The computer says you're statistically incompatible with the cockpit of an F-22 Wraith."
My heart sank into my boots. "So... what happens now? Infantry?"
"Worse," Silas sighed, tapping the pad. "Sanitation detail. Or mechanized repair. You're a grease monkey, Caelum. You don't belong in the sky."
She turned and walked away, her boots clicking sharply on the hangar floor.
I stood there, staring at my hands. I felt like my life was over. I had no idea how right I was.
"Instructor Silas lacks imagination."
I jumped.
Standing in the shadows of the next simulator pod was a man in a white lab coat. He looked like a civilian, but he wore a High Command clearance badge on his lapel. He had a smooth, unscarred face and a chillingly calm demeanor.
"Reaction time is a biological limit," the man said, stepping into the light. "But neuro-plasticity... the ability of the brain to adapt, map out probability, and process trauma? That is a rare gift. And your scores in those categories are off the charts, Cadet."
"Who are you?" I asked, eyeing him suspiciously.
"My name is Dr. Aris," he smiled warmly. It was a lie of a smile. "I'm looking for a few good men for a highly classified project. We aren't looking for pilots, Caelum. We are looking for pioneers."
He held out a hand.
"Tell me, Cadet. How much are you willing to sacrifice to win this war?"
I looked at his outstretched hand. I didn't know it yet, but that was the exact moment I died for the very first time.
I reached out, and shook his hand.
"Everything, sir."