Jack watched the new recruits drill and thought back to his days in the recon camp—those brutal “Bear” instructors, the cruel training, the desperate urge to run that you didn’t dare act on… and that humiliating time he got caught peeking at the female soldiers showering and was chased and beaten by them.

  The memory pulled a strange grin across his face. His eyes went glassy and the corner of his mouth caught the sun—there was drool on his lip.

  At that moment a group of female soldiers thundered past, breathing hard. They clearly hadn’t expected training to be this brutal; they cursed as they ran. Then they saw a pale, chubby guy standing there with a stupid expression—and some sharp-eyed ones noticed he was drooling. Word flashed down the line like electricity. Rage turned toward Jack; a few raised middle fingers. In their heads they all muttered the same thing: “You disgusting pig—fuck you!”

  Jack had no idea. He was lost in his own world. By now he’d become public enemy number one among the female soldiers.

  The routine at the mech repair camp wrapped up. These recruits weren’t special-forces types; their training focused on learning the structure and maintenance of current weapons and equipment. In real combat, a repairman who only knew theory but lacked hands-on experience would be torn apart by furious soldiers—if you couldn’t fix it, you got yelled at; if you fixed it but took too long, you got yelled at even harder.

  Major Hank was a short, rough-looking officer—almost ten years in uniform, a crack mechanic. He looked more like a middle-aged farmer than a major: big hands, clumsy gait, honest face. He’d watched Jack grinning during the exercises and tolerated it for a while, but when the drill ended he handed the recruits over to Jack and cheerfully dragged a chair to the side to watch the special-forces unit train.

  The special-forces recruits were furious: first they’d had to deal with one crude bully, now they had to deal with this goofy one too. The grudge deepened.

  Most of the mech-repair recruits were fresh students from the mech design and weapons fabrication department—only a few were old soldiers who’d joined later. Their hands-on repair practice had been minimal; most of their learning was theoretical. So the practical sessions were shallow introductions—enough to recognize and feel the parts.

  This was Jack’s first time as an instructor, and his teaching style didn’t follow the manual at all. It was all him—loose, casual, seemingly irresponsible.

  He grabbed an electronic pen and sketched the disassembly of a TSR-9standard energy rifle on the virtual board, demonstrating step by step. Then he left the rest to the recruits: watch the diagram, fumble with the parts, take it apart and put it back together.

  That’s how Jack had trained himself. The BG-17’s parts fit together well—one of the simpler standard weapons. The rule was: each assembly must be more familiar than the last. On day one, they had to do one hundred cycles of disassembly and reassembly until they could take it apart in 15 seconds and reassemble in 18.

  Simple by design—except the rifle was heavy. The recruits had just been put through a grueling, mind-numbing drill by Major Hank; their backs ached, their hands tingled and limbs felt leaden. Now this lazy-looking Jack was taking it easy at the far side, drawing diagrams and leaving the miserable, repetitive work to them. Resentment brewed fast.

  Recruits and instructors are naturally at odds—one orders, the other resists. Jack had been beaten by the “Bear” instructor so many times when he was a recruit that this kind of friction was almost expected. Usually things smoothed out only after the ordeal.

  So when Jack measured only two timed cycles and then relaxed, someone snapped.

  First a group of female soldiers broke down at the bench and refused to move. Jack walked over and sucked in a breath—there, among them, was that Big White Rabbit girl.

  Jack put on a saintly expression and jabbed a finger at her chest with theatrical gravitas. “If you want to graduate as a competent design-and-manufacture student, you need not only grand ideals and broad vision, but also practiced skill. Get to it—I’ll be watching.”

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  Inside, Jack felt pleased. Nice line—serious, yet cheeky. He almost smugly laughed to himself.

  But Big White Rabbit hadn’t known that the dazed slob who’d been loitering by the girls’ dorm was now her repair instructor. Perhaps seeing a familiar face unnerved her; her sobs intensified and with each gasping breath her chest heaved wildly.

  Jack’s mind went blank.

  He told himself desperately: I’m the instructor. Keep your image. Keep your image. But his eyes betrayed him.

  Big White Rabbit’s bouncing chest made Jack dizzy. He muttered in his head: “Black magic—this must be witchcraft… two demons in there!”

  Riveting his gaze away with all the discipline he could muster, Jack asked the other recruits, “What’s wrong? This is only two cycles—ninety-eight more to go.”

  One female recruit sobbed, “My hands hurt. I can’t lift them.”

  Some of the boys seized the chance to rile the group: “This rifle’s heavy—do a hundred cycles and you’ll die from exhaustion!”

  “Right! The instructor’s torturing us!”

  “Who set that 15/18 standard anyway? Impossible.”

  “See—this fatso is no good. Look at him, he’s filthy!”

  A chorus of anger swelled and the crying got louder.

  Jack startled and barked, “Quiet!”

  An instructor’s command silenced them; even the crying stopped. Jack had been a recruit once—he knew how they felt—so he put on a conciliatory smile: “You were all selected from thousands of candidates for Garipan Military Academy. In intelligence and ability, you’re the best…”

  Everybody likes a compliment. The words softened them; Jack didn’t seem quite so awful anymore.

  Riding that shift, he dropped the pleasant mask and added, “But you’re not ready for hardship. If you want success without hardship, this isn’t the place. What do you take the army for?”

  He leveled his tone and looked stern. The psychological drop knocked the recruits off balance—one moment puffed up, the next thrown into a pit. They were speechless.

  Jack didn’t give them time to react; he smiled again, friendly: “Compared to me, you’ve got bright futures! Look here—” he tapped his temple, “I’m not on your level. Soon you’ll be calling me ‘sir’.”

  Then, with sudden seriousness: “A soldier is a soldier. From the first day you step into this school, you’re bound by duty. I’m your instructor now, and my word is an order. Refuse and you can pack up and go home—or face a court-martial.”

  Those words had weight. Faces went white.

  The loudest boys looked as if they wanted to bury their heads in the ground. The crying girls stood frozen, tears still on their cheeks, staring at Jack.

  Big White Rabbit was thoroughly terrified—her chest heaved, and this time Jack didn’t dare look. He was the stern instructor now, not the slob who’d been drooling outside the dorm.

  Major Hank watched from the side, a little smile at the corner of his mouth. This fat guy actually had something.

  Jack picked up a TSR-9and said, “This is one of the simplest rifles in the Federation. Master the technique and you can do it. Technique comes from hard practice—use your brains.”

  Then, in a blink, the assembled rifle in his hands exploded into parts across the table with a sharp clatter.

  The recruits gaped.

  “Watch.” Jack’s hands moved like a blur—he didn’t bother picking up parts; they streamed and snapped into place on the table, and in less than seven seconds the TSR-9was whole again.

  Thousands of mech-repair recruits fell silent, stunned and awestruck. This was real skill—the kind of work they could spend a minute doing and he’d do in seven seconds. He was a master.

  People submit to the strong, and soon the recruits worshiped Jack.

  Those closest to him gaped at the disassembly technique—the rifle exploded like a magician’s trick, every part flying precisely into place. Too cool.

  The few female recruits in front were utterly conquered; they clutched their hair, pupils blown wide, mouths agape, gasping.

  Jack was startled by the intensity—he’d never seen this reaction before. He felt a private thrill: this trick worked.

  He remembered how the old “Bear” instructor had used intimidation first, then shown skill—then the recruits obediently fell in. Jack had endured the same beatings to acquire his speed: blistered fingers, once even a crushed bone. Night after night he’d trained until his hands cramped, until he could find every part by feel with his eyes closed.

  Now those sacrifices had paid off.

  The recruits’ admiration warmed Jack. Being an instructor wasn’t so bad—certainly easier than being a recruit.

  The small commotion subsided. Jack next taught them tricks for saving effort—how to strip weapons on the bench, on the ground, even using the thigh as a brace. From that moment the whole repair camp treated Jack like an idol. When some of them checked public records for TSR-9benchmarks, they went ballistic: the official standard listed 15 seconds/18 seconds—Jack did 3 and 4, seven seconds total. He was a pro.

  That night the repair camp practiced furiously. “Click-click-click” filled the dorms until late. Next door, the special-forces recruits ground their teeth—the drooling fatso didn’t deserve such adulation.

  Major Hank stood at the training field’s edge, looking between the bright windows of the repair dorm and his own sullen barracks, and shook his head.

  “This fatso really does have something.”

  He lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and watched the twin stars in the night sky.

  War was coming. How many of these kids would survive?

  At least, the fat instructor might give them a slightly better chance.