---

“And that will end our brief lecture on the role of mecha preceding the Valkyrie Project.”

The gray-haired general education instructor waved his hand across the holoboard, shuttering the image in front of his classroom of fifty-two students. As one of the elder members of the faculty at Taiyotawa, he had seen his share of students longer than most of his colleagues. This group, as far as he could tell, were earnest and hard-working cadets. Each cadet wore the same streamlined uniform with the only difference between them being the color of their highlighted trim: red for engineers, yellow for operators, and green for pilots.

As his students collected their datapads and binders, the instructor’s eyes looked at each student as chatter filled the room as the alert for the beginning of lunch rung out on the speakers in the classroom as the clock struck 1200.

“And don't forget that I want your essays on Isao Taiyōtawa in my databanks by tuesday!”

The sliding doors swung open with a metallic ‘thunk’ as the sound of footsteps ushered in unison out of the room.

The food at Taiyotawa was around what one could expect of a confederate university that was fully funded by the admiralty. The food wasn’t luxurious and it didn’t particularly taste good. Food dispensers compounded proteins into liquid-solids with a flavor profile attributed to it to stave off any sensitive stomach. It had been thirty planetary cycles since the school year had begun so any first years that were used to more traditional food products were no longer surprised by what they were forced to consume for good of their health and physique. Some may have whined initially, but the window for that had long since passed. Generally.

The flashes of red, yellow, and green took their places in the gigantic mess hall. Among them stood two lone students bearing the color blue though they had decided to sit far from clear-view.

It wasn’t super public knowledge, but it had become clear that the confederacy was preparing to run through its next generation of special pilots—those who had the ability to link together and pilot the Special ICW’s known as Valkyries. Last year Xalese Hol and Heres Konicek had been attached as a operator and a piloting track respectively. They were the first of a new generation, among others, whom had been assigned to a pool of potential Valkyrie candidates. Some of their peers had failed out of the program after a few interstellar months, others hadn’t. Earlier in the morning, their supervisor, the assistant to Dr. Donati, had told them that the new string of tests would begin and hopefully that a batch with the right compatibility could qualify to join the program. Xalese remembered how it worked for her, though she wondered how they would adjust should they all check out. Her eyes scanned the hundredfold of students in the mess hall, wondering which of the many would make the cut and how they would react to being forced to move their quarters to an entirely different part of the ship with more regulations and rules.

You couldn’t quite hide a Zhenko Bar into your diet if they are checking your irregularities.

“Do you think they are going to finally clear us for tests anytime soon?”

Heres laughed, “What, are you sick of doing regular simulations?”

“Mhm.”

“I suppose once we are ready they will take us off-station and we'll see what the legends of the past went through.”

Legends. It was an interesting word to use in this case. Her parents were legends. Icons. But for Ese all they were was gravestones. She sighed, though she supposed her anticipation had gotten worse when a certain individual failed to make the grade and he was pushed out of the program. There were others, too. He wasn’t the only one. But she had a particular grudge against that specific fellow student. At least she was paired with Heres. The blond-haired boy was affable and charismatic. The antithesis to her. They hadn’t properly synchronized, but all of the tests since they made it into the Valkyrie Program had told them that they were perfectly in sync.

Dr. Donati had told her that once they were linked in-machine that they would have part of each other in their being all the time. Idle thoughts. Shared dreams. Fragments of memories. She was still a little offset by that idea, but she supposed it was all part of being a Valkyrie. Not that she wanted that responsibility or the veneration it garnered. After all, Ese absolutely loathed the Valkyrie Project and what the admiralty did to her parents. Told them to sit in place while the hero got to save the day while they burned into plasma and ion. It was just a cruel irony that she was good at the same thing her parents had been good at and she was not one to shy away from honoring their deaths. She wasn’t a Hero of the Confederacy. She was just a girl who was good at being an operator.

“All we can do is wait and see how things go.” Heres assured, “Besides, you should enjoy the time you have left as a normal student.”

She raised a brow, but decided not to retort.

Heres was dense, full of kindness and empathy, but dense. They and the few others who remained from last year’s induction into the Valkyrie Program were already micro-celebrities with the blue stripe on their uniforms shoulders. There were new students that she didn’t even know who knew her name. It was uncomfortable. But perhaps he was right in a way. Once they went off-station and suited up for real, her school days would be over.

She drove her spoon into the semi-solid matter that was deemed her “food” and took a bite.

What she couldn’t give for a Zhenko Bar right now…

---

Cinny had managed to balance the stylus of her data pad between her nose and upper lip for nearly five minutes when class suddenly ended, and she realized she’d missed most of the lecture. Oops. New record, but oops.

“And don't forget that I want your essays on Isao Taiyōtawa in my databanks by Tuesday!”

Right, she knew she’d forgotten something. Essays, important robot history, big ol’ chunk of her final grade; she hadn’t started it yet. Oops, again. Seemed like she was going to have a few late nights ahead of her, which wasn’t a big problem. Cinny had always been a bit of a night-owl—everyone back home was, really. This wouldn’t be the first assignment she’d cranked out on a tight-deadline, and like the others, it wouldn’t be pretty but it’d keep her afloat.

Some of her classmates enjoyed the history lessons, enjoyed learning about all of the egg-heads and big-wigs that’d built the mecha programs up, but Cinny just didn’t. It wasn’t why she was here. Isao Taiyōtawa was probably very smart, and very important—you didn’t name schools after idiot nobodies—and like every other hero and scientist they’d learned about, he wouldn’t matter when it came time to actually pilot. The bullets weren’t going to fly any faster because she knew Taiyōtawa’s favorite color.

The lot of them were herded into the cafeteria. She waited in line, never overly eager to get first-slop. They’d had weeks to adjust to the academy’s tailored-diet, and while the groaning had mostly stopped, she knew better than most that silence was not the same as complacence. Cinny hadn’t said anything the whole time, and she hated the paste. Every meal was a reminder of how nice she’d had it back on the farm. Sure, things were usually tight, dark, and miserable, but in addition to good company she could always count on a well-cooked meal at the end of the day. Not all of the invasive creatures introduced to her home were safe to eat, but some were. Some were downright delicious.

Finally seated, Cinny stared down at the goop on her tray, mouth twisted in distaste, and started to eat.

“Hey.”

Someone sat down across from her at the long table, an upper-classman she didn’t recognize. He had an untouched tray of his own goop, and he looked at her with the sort of muted intrigue of someone who didn’t want to appear desperate. But Cinny had been dealing with looks like that for weeks now, she knew exactly why he was here.

“I heard you, uh…” he mumbled. Cinny cocked a brow, feigning ignorance, and the student chewed his lip. “You’re Cincinna, right? Uh, sorry, I mean Cinny.”

She nodded, and he stared at her until it became clear that she wasn’t going to offer anything else. Something approaching frustration seeped onto his face. “This stuff tastes like solid-vomit,” he said, poking the goop with his fork. “And word is you…like…have stuff that doesn’t taste like that. Maybe. Right?”

Cinny put a finger on her chin and batted her lashes at him. Who, me? she seemed to say.

“Yeah,” he said. Most people were quick to pick up what she put down. A bit impatiently he added, “so do you or not?”

He was reaching a familiar point, she saw, contemplating whether or not that sweet, delectable contraband was worth putting up with her. Unlike most students who got their hands on—admittedly harmless—illicit goodies, Cinny didn’t charge, but people who came to her thinking that meant they got stuff for free were always sorely mistaken. The price was that they were subjected to Cinny’s weird bullshit.

Ugh, she loved it. It was so hard to find reasons to smile up here.

Cinny conceded, nodding, but just when he seemed ready to thank her, she held up a finger. He watched exasperated as she tugged down one of her sleeves, showing that it was empty, and then did the same to the other.

“What are you doing.”

She twinkled her fingers, waving her hands in mystical circles. Lem used to chant ridiculous incantations when he did parlor tricks, Cinny just turned up the gestures. He flinched when she reached out at him, but stilled at a placating look from her. Her hand went past his face and into his hair, and she screwed up her face with mock-puzzlement, only to pop her mouth into a little ‘o’ imitating discovery. Then, as if from thin air, she produced a Zhenko bar from behind his ear.

Lem would have said something like: “Now how did that get back there?” Cinny just mimed amazement. The student blinked. He was more than just unamused, he was now openly aggravated. Without so much as a thank-you, he snatched the bar from her, stuffed it into his pocket, and stalked off with his tray.

“Fuckin’ hell,” she heard him mutter under his breath.

Cinny was beaming. The next bite of goop didn’t taste quite so bad.

---

Just as the dopamine was wearing off, and the food was beginning to taste like the garbage slop that it was again, lo and behold, there be delivered before her another hungry sap to torture. He approached cautiously, with all the confidence of a lost fawn. His eyes were mile-a-minute between her and everywhere that wasn’t her, and she craned her head this way and that trying to snatch his gaze up in the brief instants they made eye-contact.

God, how come nobody’d told her it was her birthday?

There was a touch of command in his voice that the rest of him couldn’t back up, which was surprising coming from a red. As far as she’d seen in the past few weeks, the engineering students tended to keep to themselves, and she’d picked up a sort of toothless hostility from them towards the operators and, especially, the pilot-cadets. Of course, it didn’t help that the pilots played into it. Some of her peers relished in the envy, which seemed like a great way to utterly ruin things for themselves down the line, when their livelihoods would depend on those reds.

Of course, that didn’t mean Cinny was about to show the guy any mercy.

Cinny tapped her lips in feigned thought, then snapped her fingers and, at a prompt from her, he held out his hand. She dug into her pockets, miming excitement when she found what she was looking for. With the reverence and sincerity of someone bequeathing a precious family heirloom to a loved one, Cinny took his hand in hers, and gently closed his fingers around the prize that had been hiding amongst the lint in her pocket. When he opened his hand, there it was.

An empty, crumpled Zhenko wrapper.

Cinny pretended to be shocked. She quickly snatched the wrapper up, inspected it, sniffed it, pulled it flat and taut. She rolled her eyes and smacked her palm against her head, as if to say, Ah, of course, how silly. The wrapper was sealed at one end, so Cinny put the other end to her lips and with a quick breath, inflated it. Then she licked her finger, sealed the other end, and playfully bounced the ballooned wrapper between her hands.

This went on for some moments. Patience was a rope you could measure many times, but cut only once, so before too much time had been wasted, she signaled again for her victim to hold out his hand. She was surprised when he did, but not very. Taking the featherlight wrapper, she waved it about like a wand and tapped it three arbitrary times against her forehead, before holding it out over the red’s hand.

Lem would have said: “Now you really, really have to want it.” Cinny just waggled her eyebrows. She let go, and the wrapper dropped like a rock into Bel’s open palm, full of Zhenko-goodness.

Cinny did some mystical jazz-hands, then picked up her fork and let the serotonin persuade her to take a few more bites of slop.