“So, why do you want to join the Union forces?” The interviewer is tall and thin, with a carefully neutral expression. Their dark skin contrasts with their buzzcut blonde hair. They're striking, but the woman across from them doesn’t seem to be intimidated by it.
“Well, there’s a lot of reasons, but I want to help people and the idea of joining a force that’s actually 100% volunteers is actually pretty enticing!”
The interviewer shuffled their papers. “Well, ideally, it’s 100% volunteer of course, but-”
The woman in the chair interrupted. “What do you mean ‘ideally’? I thought the Third Committee stopped the use of conscript forces!”
The interviewer sighed. “Well, there are unfortunately some special cases where consent is… tricky. How much do you know about the Second Committee’s supersoldier programs?”
The woman glared at them. “I know they’ve been shut down.”
“Yes, but they left people behind, and… it’s probably easier to use an example. Let me tell you about unit 1123.”
They shifted in their seat, rifled through the papers they were holding, and pulled out a folder to read. “Mech fights are often a battle of inches. The difference between half a second and a quarter of a second can make the difference between a dodged shot and a critical reactor hit. The trouble is, no matter how well trained you are, reacting to things takes time. A human eye has to see the situation, human nerves have to transmit the data, a human brain has to think about it, and a human hand has to pull the lever to make the mech do anything. Engineers have made huge advances in mech computers and fly-by-wire systems, but there’s not much you can do about the human. At least, not until one scientist had an idea.”
“Enter unit 1123. She joined the military for the same reason a lot of people used to - it was the only way out of a bad situation. Plus, they had recently offered medical care for- mm, that really ought to be redacted on here.” The interviewer pulled out a black marker and scribbled on the page they were looking at. “Anyway, she was brought in, tested, and then her recruiter told her she didn’t meet the requirements and would have to go back home. That is, unless she was willing to volunteer for an experimental supersoldier program. The old forces were just full of those wonderful ‘choices’.”
“So, she volunteers, and the scientists get to work. The scientist’s brilliant idea was that if the human mind was the limiting factor, then perhaps it’s the hardware that’s the problem. However, rather than cybernetically augmenting the brain, he proposed splitting off a chunk of it and actually uploading it to the mech itself.”
“So, this poor girl got her mind split in half. The lower, lizard-brain fight or flight reflex, the courage and bravery and the snarling beast of herself, that all got taken away from her and placed into her mech. What’s left - the parts that look human - became the perfect soldier. Obedient, fearless, and utterly without personhood. She lives to obey orders. She doesn’t have any other way to be.”
“And then the Third Committee takes over, and we find this poor girl, and what are we supposed to do with her? We ask her how she’s feeling and she doesn’t understand what we mean. We ask her what she wants to do and she says ‘follow orders like a good combatant!’. We don’t even know her name because it’s redacted from the records and she’s been conditioned not to say it. The mech doesn’t work for anyone else and gets violent if it’s left alone without her for too long - some kind of deep security measure in case she gets captured. Even if we could do something about the mech, this girl has a pathological need to follow orders. If we were to put her out there in civilian life, it would only take one bad actor to seriously take advantage of her.” The interviewer’s eyes darken. “We’ve got evidence that several incidents like that were quietly swept under the rug before the Third Committee got here. We could assign her a minder, but then she’d still be taking orders from us.”
The interviewer sighs and closes their eyes. “We’re attempting to do what we can for her, of course, but the hardware in the mech was really only designed to receive that part of her - it doesn’t want to give it up. Not to mention all the conditioning both sides got during the process. And in the meantime, frankly… we could really use her help. She’s one of the best pilots we have.”
The interviewer straightens up and looks at the woman across from them. “So, that’s her situation, and it’s hardly unique. We’ve discovered a lot of people who, for one reason or another, just can’t return to civilian life. We’re trying our hardest not to let them fall through the cracks.” They pull a paper out of the file and slide it across the desk.
The woman picks it up and looks at it. “Unit 1123” is emblazoned at the top of it, and a lot of the information is redacted, but there’s a picture. A light-skinned woman with black hair in medium length curls and a blank half-smile. She looks almost like a doll. Who would do something like this to someone who looks so sweet? Or, perhaps that’s how they wanted her to look, a thought which makes the woman’s face twist into a frown. She’s not exactly wearing a military standard issue uniform, although it’s hard to tell from the bust-up picture.
The woman looks across at her interviewer. “Why show me this?”
The interviewer leans forward, and perches their hand on the file. “Truth be told, I had something of an ulterior motive. See, we’ve done our research on you. Due diligence for all new potential pilots, you understand. We’ve noticed some worrying tendencies towards self-destruction. Every time we’ve asked you a question about your plans for after your tour of duty is complete, you’ve been evasive. You don’t have any strong connections to friends or family, and no real home to go back to. All warning signs, for us. Normally, we’d disqualify you.”
The woman’s mouth opens to protest, but the interviewer stops her. “But! There are special circumstances here. This woman - unit 1123 - what do you think of her?”
The woman blinks. “I can’t believe what they did to her. Well, I can, but I wish I didn’t. She needs… help, therapy, I don’t know, something! She doesn’t deserve to live like this forever.”
The interviewer nods, smiling for the first time. “I thought you’d say that. I’m approving your application, and I’m going to assign you to her squad.”
“What?!”
“I’ve met 1123. I think part of her problem is that she’s only really interacted with people who were authorized to give her orders. Even when she was deployed under the previous regime, she was always the lowest-ranking team member. She’s never had an actual peer. I believe that the only way she’s going to be able to get better is if she gets outside help, but nobody in our organization is qualified to do it - we all outrank her, in her mind. But if I were to assign you both to the same squad leader, she’d finally have someone to interact with without that power imbalance.”
“And,” the interviewer continued, “eventually, she’s going to get better. I have to believe that. And when she does, we’re going to give her as much leave as she wants. She may even decide to retire! And when she does, your contract with us expires as well. THAT’S the deal. You come in, we give you the training to be a real Lancer, you help us - and her - out for as long as she needs, and then you BOTH leave. Together.” They push a stack of paper across the table. “Just sign on the last page, there.”
The woman pauses, wanting to argue. She looks at the picture on the table, imagines this other woman and the hardships she’s been through. Then, she says, “can I borrow a pen?”
