As if to insult her own cadets, she managed to get out ahead of them in the first stage of the course. Then she stopped on a hill to rally them with her own special brand of disparagement.

They swung over streams on ropes, went hand over hand along the raised ladder, crawled along a narrow log above a chasm, and climbed over a disabled 'Mech (just the model of one, made of light and flimsy material, Jorge noted this time through) into a fake minefield whose small charges could do no more harm than sting exposed skin. Jorge, whose memory was excellent, took the lead as he ran a path that avoided any of the fake explosive charges.

For a moment, he did not believe the loud blasts behind him, thinking they were some theatrical addition to the obstacle course. The screams convinced him otherwise.

Turning around, he saw the smoke rising, obscuring everyone behind him, then one of his fellow cadets come stumbling out of the smoke, his face already bloody and mangled, an arm dangling at his side, connected to the shoulder by the merest tissue. Jorge did not recognize whoever it was that suddenly fell at his feet. He saw no one else, but some of the bits and pieces flying through the air must surely be parts of bodies.

Something hit his arm, a piece of shrapnel that tore open a narrow wound. His mind churning in confusion, he turned and ran from the dreadful scene. What could have happened? This field was not supposed to be laid with active mines. It was all simulation. Were all the others dead? What in the name of hell was going on? What had happened? What had happened?

He ran right into the arms of someone who seized him, held him tight for a moment, then flung him away. Jorge stumbled across the ground, managed not to fall, and then turned around. The man in front of him, he realized, was Falconer Commander Ter Roshak. What could Ter Roshak be doing here? he wondered. Had he come at the sound of the explosions? But why would he be anywhere near a minor obstacle course in the first place?

"You are Jorge, are you not?" Roshak asked.

Astonished by the question and the fact that his commander knew him, Jorge merely responded: "Yes, I am. Sir."

"I am pleased."

"Pleased?" Jorge grimaced as the pain in his arm grew. He held onto the wound with his other hand and felt blood seep through his fingers.

"Yes. If someone was going to avoid my little sabotage, I am happy it was you. It shows how well I chose for the person who from now on will be you."

"Be . . . me? Sabotage. I do not understand."

"It is not necessary that you do."

Suddenly Jorge saw that Ter Roshak held a submachine gun at his side. Raising it quickly, the commander fired it point-blank at Jorge.

Jorge stared down at his chest. With his good hand, he tore open his fatigue shirt and saw the holes on his chest. The bullets had entered him at six or seven places, little bloody circles that seemed to grow as everything else began to fade out. Before he died, he thought he saw only the six or seven circles, growing larger as he, for the last time, wondered what had happened, what had happened, and then the circles abruptly disappeared.

33

All right, all right, hawkheads, stuff some bullets in your craw and listen to me," the training officer shouted from the door to the barracks. His name was Falconer Othy, and he had a gravelly voice that went well with his bulky, squat body. By the slovenliness of his uniform, one could guess why he had been relegated to train a freeborn unit.

His charges, the four of them still left at this late stage of training, quieted down gradually, going on a bit longer only to annoy Othy, for whom they held no great respect. Accustomed to their recalcitrance, Othy waited patiently, knowing that soon this duty would come to an end, freeing him from its prison.

"This barracks looks like you have been using it as the Cave. Nobody goes to sleep tonight before the place has been scrubbed down."

The group moaned in protest. Othy knew they would do the job perfunctorily, but at least the top layer of filth would be removed.

"As you know, a tragic accident occurred out on the Number Five Obstacle Run. Some frees were killed— only one survived, in fact. The commander has seen fit to transfer the single survivor to our unit. He will finish training with you four."

Looking at the quartet of sullen frees, Othy pitied the newcomer. If the young man had any potential, it would be disheartening to have to compete with this bunch. But being only a free, what potential could he have? Othy had heard of some freeborns who had distinguished themselves in Clan service, but he had yet to meet one.

"Jorge, get in here," Othy bellowed, stepping away from the doorway. As the newcomer came into the barracks, the others stood and clustered together, a combined force meant to isolate the intruder. "Cadets, this is Jorge, His scores so far have been impressive, and you should be on your toes."

Othy left the barracks, leaving his last statement as an exit line on purpose. He thought it might stir things up.

Aidan glanced casually around the room, suppressing (as Roshak had instructed him) his distaste for his new companions. He wondered how he would ever get through the weeks ahead. Knowing that his second chance at the Trial came at the end of the time gave him hope and even confidence.

One of the frees, a well-tanned young man with a strikingly handsome face, detached himself from the others and walked past Aidan to the doorway. He looked out for a moment, then turned to the others, saying, "All clear. The old bastard's gone."

Suddenly, the freeborns showed an obvious physical relaxation, an easing of tension in the shoulders, a relaxing of posture, at the news. Two of them even smiled at Aidan, while the remaining one held back, staring at the newcomer from across the room.

The freeborn at the doorway walked to Aidan, holding out his hand. "Welcome, mate. My name is Tom. I'm sort of the leader around here. Not boss, just leader. You want the job, it's yours."

Aidan had been warned that freeborns used contractions defiantly. Even though he had heard them so often around Nomad, it still made him tense. But he had to act the freeborn now, so he must watch his own language.

"I, that is, I'm glad to meet you, Tom."

"So—Hor-hay, that's your name, quiaff?"

"Aff. Sometimes they used to just call me George."

"They?"

"The others in my unit. They are . . . they're dead."

"Yes. We heard about it. Tragic."

"Yes, it was. I saw it happen."

"Tell us."

Tom gestured the others over. The two smiling ones came, but the other one still stood at a distance. Tom pointed to him. "That's Horse over there. He's never very friendly. He has a legitimate name that nobody remembers, but he's wild about horses, so therefore Horse. This here is Nigel." Tom indicated one of the smilers with a thatch of red hair and the lightest blue eyes Aidan had ever seen, but there was a toughness about his mouth that seemed threatening, especially when drawn into such a tight grin. "And the other is Spiro." The other smiler's look seemed to conceal nothing. He had dark hair, mud-brown eyes, and the most solid physique of the four free-borns.

"About the accident," Tom prodded. "What?" Aidan responded. "You were to tell us."

Ter Roshak had described the incident to Aidan, leaving out the part he had played in causing it. He also briefed him on Jorge's background. Aidan now gave his new colleagues an embellished recounting of the event. They listened with awe (again, with the exception of the one across the room) and seemed impressed with the pan describing his own escape from death. He got the impression that each envisioned his own death in Jorge's experience.