Chapter Thirteen: "Orphan Grit, Classroom Glory, and a Dangerous Dare"
The oath-taking rally had barely ended before the "Orphanage Trio" became campus legend, their bold declarations rippling through the West District prep school like a rogue signal. At first, their peers scoffed. Lanslow Star was a graveyard of dreams, where the poor pinned hopes on cosmic jackpots—riches, status, escape—only to carry those fantasies to the grave. Baisha, Yaning, and Jingyi's vow to storm Central Military Academy struck most as lunacy, their orphanage roots fodder for cruel laughs. Whispers spread: Three nobodies chasing stars? A joke.
But within days, the snickers faltered. The trio wasn't just talk—they had teeth.
Prep school hit like a meteor. The first year's curriculum was a gauntlet: basic combat, marksmanship, flyer piloting, plus military mechanics, war history, and mock command drills. For most students, it was alien terrain. Raised in poverty, few had access to private coaches, target ranges, or cockpits for practice. The schedule was relentless, a deluge of lessons that left kids reeling, their bodies and minds stretched thin. By week one, talent gaps yawned wide, the grind exposing who could hack it.
In a cramped faculty room, the instructors gathered post-week, their usual stoicism cracking over mugs of cheap synth-coffee. The cold-faced combat teacher, stern as iron with students, grinned like a kid with a new toy. "Those orphanage brats are uncanny," he said, leaning back, his voice bright with rare glee. New-student logistics piled high, but talk kept circling back to Baisha, Yaning, and Jingyi. "Their fighting's rock-solid—big, clean moves, like they were born in a barracks. Flyer skills? Too early to call; the top kids, like that Luzi girl, look like they've got jets in their blood. But shooting…"
His grin stretched, almost comical, his weathered face creasing like an old map. "Baisha's a freak."
He slapped down score sheets, the holo-prints flickering. "Day one, static targets: all bullseyes, ten rings every shot. Day two, moving targets: perfect hits. Day three, aerial shooting—she obliterated every drone we loosed, not one left buzzing. I asked her, half-joking, if she'd trained before. Guess what? Never set foot in a range. Girl's a natural, eyes sharper than a hawk's—hell, sharper than any bird in the galaxy."
The room went quiet, teachers exchanging looks. A nobody shining that bright usually meant one thing: mental aptitude. The word hung unspoken, their faces softening with a mix of awe and envy. Even a C-grade would all but guarantee Baisha an academy slot.
The head instructor, the rally's firebrand speaker, stayed cool, his voice a low anchor. "She's good, sure. Let's say she's got aptitude." He folded his arms, his uniform creased from hours at the desk. "But mech designer? We've got no mechs to train her on. Lanslow's last ones—retired relics—are gathering dust in a museum, batteries dead. Can we build a designer from scratch?"
His words doused the room's spark. The combat teacher shifted, defensive. "She's young. Talk sense into her—she'll pivot for her future."
The head instructor's eyes narrowed, unyielding. "You think you can sway her? You saw her at the rally. She's the type to ram a wall head-on and keep going."
The other teacher fell silent, out of moves.
"But you're right about their talent," the head continued. "All three are rare. I've coached here years—kids like them don't come often. Solid foundations, each with a strength, no glaring flaws. Teach them right, they'll soar. We can't slack just because they're gifted. Ruin raw jade like that, and it's on us."
He paused, his tone firming. "They're geniuses, yeah, but they're up at five, drilling like beasts till ten at night. We owe them our best."
Beyond Baisha, Yaning and Jingyi proved their rally cries weren't hot air. Yaning, all brash charm, was a walking war archive. He'd memorized every major Federation campaign, from dusty skirmishes to star-shattering sieges, making history class feel like a warm-up. His teacher, half-annoyed, half-impressed, piled on extra assignments to keep him challenged. In command sims, Yaning's gut calls bordered on psychic, raw but promising—a seedling commander with room to grow.
Jingyi? She was a force of nature. By week's end, nicknames swirled: "Yama Yi," "Human Combat Rig," "Meat Grinder." They sprouted after Parfen Luzi, the golden-haired noble, rallied a dozen students to jump Jingyi in a free-sparring session. Big mistake. Jingyi dismantled them, her moves a blur of precision and power. Parfen's crew limped away, some so rattled that "Yan Jingyi" alone sent shivers. Seven or eight quit outright, fleeing home within days—a record. Normally, dropouts trickled in after a month, pride forcing kids to grit through at least that long. Not this time. Jingyi's wrath was a storm.
The teachers sighed over Parfen's feud with the trio. Mediation crossed their minds, but Parfen's father, a top Kangheng Biotech engineer, sat high in Lanslow's elite First District. Even instructors tread lightly around that clout. Still, Baisha's crew held their own, winning clashes with brains and brawn, keeping the drama from boiling over.
The faculty moved on, filing student stats and drafting training plans. The class was a marathon—early standouts like the trio didn't guarantee victory. Duty demanded they coach all three hundred fairly, no favorites. The school's staff was sized for the sixty or so who'd survive three years, not the current swarm. Teachers pulled late nights, packing schedules tight to weed out the weak. They pushed hard but stopped shy of breaking kids—death was the line, and they clung to it.
Two months in, even Baisha felt flayed. Her muscles ached, her mind buzzed, like she'd shed a layer of herself in the grind.
One Sunday, back at the orphanage for routine checkups, Baisha stepped onto the height scanner, its hum familiar. "Did I grow?" she asked, glancing at the readout.
"We all did," Yaning yawned, slouching nearby. "Jingyi's even tanner."
Jingyi's glare was instant, her elbow jabbing Yaning's ribs. He yelped, crumpling dramatically.
Baisha shook her head, half-laughing. "Why do you keep poking her? You're begging for it."
She stepped off, her boots scuffing the floor as younger kids darted past, giggling and dodging the height check. Baisha snagged two runaways, their shirts bunched in her fists, and handed them to a harried caretaker. The kids clung to her legs, whining for play, but the caretaker hoisted them like sacks, ignoring their protests.
"Not as many kids with mental disabilities lately," Baisha mused, watching them go, her blue eyes thoughtful.
Jingyi joined her, arms crossed. "Orphanage is stretched thin—can't handle many high-needs kids. Plus, Kangheng's been pushing cheap radiation tests. Parents screen fetuses now; those with issues often don't make it. Fewer born with defects."
Radiation sickness was the Federation's shadow, a curse tied to its star-faring past. Cosmic rays, unpredictable and cruel, scarred human genes despite shields and serums. Lanslow's cases spiked after T-crystal mining boomed, whispers blaming the ore's "genetic pollution." No proof ever surfaced—T-crystals weren't unique to Lanslow, and other worlds mined without plagues. Decades back, the crystals fueled a golden age, but now, with veins nearly tapped, Lanslow shriveled, survival trumping old debates.
Dinner neared after checkups. Two familiar faces strolled in: Wei'an and Keleizha, the boys Jingyi had once thrashed bloody years ago. Now free of the orphanage, they worked factory jobs, returning now and then with snacks and toys. Kids swarmed them, a joyful mob, their generosity a rarity among "graduates."
"Teacher Bai!" Wei'an spotted Baisha, his grin wide as he and Keleizha elbowed through, thrusting a box of pastries her way like an offering. "Been ages! Heard you hit prep school and snagged a scholarship—absolute legend!"
Baisha took the box, her smile wry. "You don't have to call me 'teacher' every time."
"No way," Wei'an insisted, his stocky frame leaning in. "Your mech lessons got us here. Without that, we'd be scraping by."
Back when they started factory work, older hands had iced them out, hoarding tricks to stay irreplaceable. Baisha, fresh from Liao's shop, shared her knowledge—circuits, welds, the works. Earlier that year, both passed the junior mechanic exam, a modest badge but enough to outshine their old mentors, securing steady pay. They were content, even scheming to bundle their notes with Baisha's into a Junior Mechanic Prep Guide for orphanage teens.
"Teacher Bai," Keleizha added, his tone smooth as ever, "you'd breeze through a mid-level mechanic cert, no sweat."
"My sights are on mech designer," Baisha said, her voice soft but firm, a wistful edge creeping in.
The air stilled. Wei'an and Keleizha froze, their smiles twitching into awkward masks. Mech designer—noble, sure, but a dream for kids with empty pockets. Orphans knew each other's limits too well.
Huoman appeared, clapping Baisha's shoulder, his jacket rumpled as always. "You two back again?" he said to the boys, his grin easy. "Mechanics now, strutting home like kings. Baisha's still young—her path's wide open. Don't sour her dreams with those long faces."
Wei'an and Keleizha mumbled apologies, shrinking under Huoman's gaze, their old fear of him flaring. They slipped away, citing errands.
Huoman chuckled, turning to Baisha, his breath faintly spiked with liquor. "Heard about your rally stunt. Gutsy move. Liao's been hammering you to pick mechanics—went in one ear, out the other?"
Baisha opened her mouth, fumbling for words, but Huoman waved her off, his eyes glinting with knowing. "Knew you wouldn't drop mech design."
He leaned closer, voice dropping, a spark of something wild in his tone. "How about this? I know a place to test your mental aptitude. If you've got it, sky's the limit. I'm behind you, mechs or bust. One catch—test's risky. Could kill you."
His words hung heavy, starlight and gunpowder flickering in his weathered stare—a broke teacher with the aura of a man who'd seen wars. Baisha's pulse quickened, her answer rising before doubt could catch it.
"Count me in."