Project Unnamed: Memories

by Ingvar Mattson

part 2 of 4

June, 2075

Johan bolted out of bed, thinking, I’m 17, I’m finally old enough to join! Now, let’s get cracking! He dressed quickly and got out of the house, heading for the train station.

The train was almost empty as Johan boarded. He was starting to feel queasy. Big step for a young man. He was looking at the landscape zipping past the window. Normally, he read when on trains or buses, but today it was impossible.

Johan stepped off the train at Stockholm Central and walked with feet that felt both leaden and light as feathers. He went out on the station concourse and looked at his target. The Free Stockholm Mercantile Corps recruitment office, just across the street. So close. I can still decide not to. I don’t have to walk through that door. Why am I doing this? Well... Here goes...

Johan opened the door and stepped in. The front office was empty, not even a receptionist behind the glass hatch. He walked up to the reception, looking at the little sign saying “There’s no one manning the reception right now. If you want to join, please ring the bell.”

Johan looked around, trying to spot the hidden camera. This just had to be a joke. He walked to one of the chairs lining the wall and sat down, grabbing a magazine from a nearby table. He flipped pages aimlessly, trying to decide. He could ring the bell, easy as pie. He could get up and leave and no one would be the wiser. Ring the bell, all changes; leave and nothing changes. But Johan would know.

Throwing the magazine on the floor, Johan shot out of the seat and took four rapid steps towards the reception. He pressed the button and thought Oooops. No turning back now. Why did I do that? As the sound of the bell dimmed, a door opened. A young woman looked at him and said, “So, you’re here to join the Corps, are you? Please follow me.”

Johan followed her, slightly dazed. They went in to an office, with a large wooden desk, filled with books and print-outs and a terminal in one corner, looking abandoned.

“Sit down, please. I’m Staff Sergeant Eriksson and I’ll be guiding you through the selection process and tests today. What is your name? And can I see some ID, please?”

“Eh, uh, Johan Svensson. Here’s my ID card.”

“Thank you. So, Johan, you’re seventeen years old, to the day. Hm. Could you tell me why you want to join the Corps?”

“Well, uh, my father... It... I’ve wanted to be in the Corps as long as I can remember. I’m a bit nervous, because, well...”

“Very natural, being nervous. In fact, not being nervous is what we’d call a ‘warning sign’. So, your father?” Sgt. Eriksson tapped on the keyboard and looked at the screen. “Ah, Sven Gustafsson. Hm. Hmmm... Hm. Yes...”

Sgt. Eriksson looked up from the screen. “Johan, if you please follow me, we shall start with some initial tests.”

He stood up and followed her out of the room.

“Our first battery of tests will be a medical examination, checking your eyesight, weight, height, and assorted other measurements. After that, there will be some more tests and we will provide some track-suit bottoms and a T-shirt for those. Ah, here we are, please enter and Dr. Svensson will take care of you.”

Johan spent the next hour being poked, prodded, needled, stretched, queried and examined. After having given up saliva, blood and urine to science, he was finally let loose.

As Johan stepped out from the examination room, he was met by Sgt. Eriksson. “Come here. Some more tests, but the poking and prodding should be over. A couple of people asking questions, one or two reflex tests and a written test. Nothing to worry about.”

Johan entered a room, where an exceptionally thin man was sitting. “Welcome, this will most probably be very quick. I am Dr. Söderberg. Just sit back and relax.”

“Uh? What’s this about?” Johan asked.

“Oh, nothing horrible, we’re just trying to decide if you have certain aptitudes we in the FSMC like to see. Do you see the propeller suspended in the glass cube?”

Johan nodded.

“Good, just lean back in the chair and relax. Concentrate on the propeller. Good. Now concentrate on the air around the propeller. Make it fall. Hmm. Are you concentrating? Good, make the propeller spin. Good.”

Johan’s forehead had sweat beaded on it and his eyes were screwed shut.

“Excellent. Well, Johan, you can relax. Linda, can you take this young man to room 7, please?”

Sgt. Eriksson looked surprised at first Dr, Söderberg, then at Johan. “OK, son, you follow me, I think this whole process just got short-circuited.” As she left the room, Johan hurried after. “What was all that about?”

“Well, I guess there’s no harm in telling you. Dr. Söderberg is our resident thaumaturge, he tests all recruits for magic potential. Not quite sure how he does it, but when he says someone has potential, he’s very rarely wrong . He says you have it and, frankly, I’m not surprised, I’ve checked the files we have on your father and he was one hell of a guy. Well, here we are, just walk in through that door.”

Johan opened the door to room 7 and stepped though. The room looked more or less like any other office he’d seen during the day. Big desk, comfortable chair for the office-user, a few less comfortable chairs for visitors and other transients. No one in the office, though. Johan shrugged and sat down in one of the visitor chairs.

As he was wondering what was happening the door opened. A woman entered and said, “Hello, I am Major Pallin. Welcome to the Corps. Please sign on the dotted line.” Johan looked at Major Pallin.

“What? Could someone please tell me what’s going on? I was expecting quite a few more tests. Now you tell me all I need to do is sign this paper and I’m in?”

“Yes, that’s the long and short of it. I’d suggest reading though the form before signing, though I see you’re a Stockholmer, so you should know the details anyway. Just to recap: if you sign, you’re part of the Free Stockholm Mercantile Corps staff for the next five years, no way out. After that, you can leave or stay, your choice. Nothing said, seen or done within the Corps leaves the Corps without our express permission.

You will start with basic training, then you will specialise. Your specialisation depends on what you show a proficiency in during Basic but also on what you want to do. Ready?”

Johan eyed through the contract. Major Pallin’s summary seemed to be accurate. “Yes, sign on the line? Then what?”

“You sign on the line, we get you in a car and drive you to basic training. There’s a new batch starting in two days. You’ll be boarded and fed until then. We’ll contact your mother and tell her what’s happened.”

Johan swallowed. Well, he could’ve backed out just before ringing the bell earlier today. All between him and a career in the Corps was a quick scribble. He looked up at Major Pallin. “Could you tell me how it is? Life with the Corps? My father was in the service, but I was too young when he passed away.”

“What can I say? It’s a long, boring, dull stretch, punctuated by moments of sheer terror. It’s the best job any woman can have. You’ll be fine.”

Johan put the pen to the paper and signed. “There. What now?”

“Just follow me to the car and you’ll be driven to the regiment. First, you’ll get a bunk assigned, then you’ll get clothes.”

2082-04-23 T00:23

They’re still up there. That’s almost five hours, if I read my watch correctly. I said “battle mage”; I should perhaps explain that. At least in the Corps, there are two types of mages. There are the office-working analyst mages, and there are battle mages. Primary tasks for analyst mages is experimentation, to come up with new, nifty techniques and teach them to battle mages.

We battle mages are assigned to a Special Operations group and follow that group on basically all their missions and training. Our task is to assist the group to achieve its objective, no matter what. Just like any other group member, really.

The main difference is that we carry some 25 kilos worth of high-density batteries strapped to us, to make sure we have a fair amount of spare energy around. This is good, because it means there’s a nearby supply of relatively clean energy. It’s also bad, because it means we’re easier to spot from a distance. Any power source is quite evident to a mage looking for it. Easier through air, harder through wet dirt, but...

This means that on occasion we act as decoys. It’s not quite approved, but it works fairly well. Scout the area in advance of a raid, note one good ambush point. Ideally it’s a dead-end, but you can’t always count on that. Set a trap and memorise where the trip-wire is. Go and do something flashy. In a combat zone, you’ll either get spotted by normals or by a mage — or, really, both — and they’ll give chase.

A mage is almost invariably a good prisoner, being high up in the command chain and all. So you run, run like hell. Get them to follow you. As you get close to the trip-wire, teleport to the other side and continue to run like hell. Hopefully, they’ll miss the trip-wire and set off the charges. Then the rest of the group can deal with them. If that doesn’t happen, you’re in trouble.

Oh, yes, assist... Opening doors, scanning for people approaching. If you concentrate, any living being larger than a fist or so will show up when you scan for power sources. Really faintly and doubly so if it’s a bird or snake. Once or twice I’ve ’ported my group from one side of a fence to the other — easier than lifting them over, I can tell you.

Proceed to part 3...