Chapter 6 - The New Evaluation Didn’t Care Whether I Looked Impressive
Sergeant First Class Warren took over the block.
She did not pair me with the biggest person in the room.
That annoyed me.
I realized why.
Then became annoyed at myself.
“Problem?”
she asked.
“No.”
“Your face says problem.”
“I thought this was advanced combatives.”
“It is.”
I looked at my partner.
Same height.
Similar weight.
Warren understood.
“Oh.”
“What?”
“You want the visual.”
“I don’t.”
“You do a little.”
I hated her.
Excellent instructor.
She continued.
“We're evaluating control, judgment, recovery and technique.”
“Yes.”
“Not whether a woman with a prosthetic can throw the largest man we can find.”
“When you say it like that, it sounds stupid.”
“It was stupid before I said it.”
Fair.
I did not say fair.
The assessment was harder than fighting Mason.
Not because of physical intensity.
Because nobody cared about the story.
I performed well in some segments.
Average in others.
My prosthetic created a limitation during repeated lateral movement.
Not failure.
Real limitation.
The evaluator noted it.
I felt the old heat rise.
Four years earlier Rachel would have hidden it.
Or pushed until somebody else had to stop me.
This time I said:
“It’s beginning to rotate.”
Warren nodded.
“Stop.”
I stopped.
That was all.
No shame.
No applause.
The prosthetist adjusted the fit.
I returned the next day.
We continued.
I failed one timed sequence.
A twenty-three-year-old corporal without a prosthesis failed the same one.
Nobody built a philosophy around either of us.
Wonderful.
At the end of the week, Warren sat across from me.
“You passed the combatives standard.”
I exhaled.
Then she continued.
“You are not cleared for the entire advanced mobility package yet.”
There it was.
Old instinct.
Fight.
“Why?”
“Repeated-impact tolerance.”
“My scores—”
“Are fine.”
“Then?”
“Your residual-limb tissue response isn't.”
I hated medical language when it told me something I did not want.
“How long?”
“We reassess in six weeks.”
“That could cost me the next course.”
“Yes.”
I looked away.
Four years ago, this was the moment where I would have bargained.
Maybe lied.
Maybe said pain was a two when it was a five.
Warren waited.
I asked:
“Can I do the other modules?”
“Yes.”
“Without changing the standard?”
“Yes.”
“Then do that.”
She nodded.
No inspirational look.
Thank God.
Six weeks later, my tissue response had improved.
I passed.
Not because I proved the first review wrong.
Because I was ready now.
The amended report from the old accident arrived during the same week.
It was three pages.
Disappointingly dry.
The new language stated that experimental telemetry recorded unresolved mechanical irregularities before the training fall and that a separate service note documented a reset requested by me after a reported issue.
It also stated that I had minimized recurring symptoms before the assessment.
No confirmed singular cause could be assigned.
Perfect.
Maddening.
True.
The old sentence—
NO EQUIPMENT MALFUNCTION IDENTIFIED—
was supplemented.
Not erased.
Claire sent me one message.
Saw the amendment.
I replied:
Me too.
She wrote:
How do you feel?
I stared at the screen.
Then:
Less certain.
Her response came quickly.
Good.
I called her.
“Don’t get smug.”
“I’ve waited four years.”
“No.”
She laughed.
Then I asked:
“What happens to Kestrel?”
“The program?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing.”
“Dead?”
“Mostly.”
“Does that bother you?”
Claire thought.
“Less than it used to.”
“Why?”
“Because I spent years wanting Kestrel to be vindicated by your accident.”
I frowned.
“Meaning?”
“If the module proved a hardware problem, then I was right to fight everybody.”
“Yes.”
“And if it didn't…”
“You were wrong.”
“That’s what I thought.”
She exhaled.
“Turns out the device did its job.”
“What was the job?”
“Raise a question.”
I looked at my prosthetic.
“And everybody wanted an answer.”
“Yes.”
“That sounds familiar.”
“Very.”
Then:
“Mason says he’s in remediation.”
“He is.”
“Do you think he should teach again?”
“Not my decision.”
Claire laughed softly.
“That is new for you, apparently.”
“What did he tell you?”
“Enough.”
“Traitor.”
“He's my brother.”
“Unfortunately.”
She laughed harder.
Their relationship was still damaged.
But they were speaking.
Not because K-17 reconciled them.
Because a small piece of metal forced them to discover they had spent years using a stranger as shorthand for things they were afraid to say directly.
Claire had felt Mason dismissed her work.
Mason felt Claire treated any training standard as cruelty whenever technology was involved.
Both had turned me into evidence.
Neither knew me.
Now they did.
May you like
That was less convenient.
Better.
