It had been another good morning. The sun bathed the courtyard in warm late autumn light, probably the last before winter set in. The MPD initiates were lathered in sweat beneath their fatigues as they marched through clouds of dust, rifles extended at arms length above their heads. The drill sergeant paced, his face chiseled into a sneer. He shouted his call and the walls of the Rock echoed the guards' response. One guard dropped to a knee and flipped up his facemask just before he retched. With hardly breaking stride, two initiates dragged him to his feet and propped him up until his feet obeyed, falling into their marching rhythm.

Scri—i—i—tch.

Meli scraped the whetstone down the Yarborough knife a final time and inspected his work. No nicks or dings. Beautiful. He laid down the stone and took up the ceramic rod for dressing the edge. He glanced at the seven more knives set to the side, as if at attention. The men who placed them there lounged ten paces away, playing cards for smokes, talking in low voices, and throwing the occasional glance Meli's way to see if he'd finished.

A bellowing command was followed with a clattering crescendo as the initiates dropped to their stomachs and began counting off pushups. Their bodies rose and fell as a single heaving mass, the panting breast of some fearsome beast.

Scri—i—i—tch.

It had been two weeks since the disastrous raid on the swap. The special ops crew executed the initial assault with textbook precision, their coordinated attack taking the scavengers by surprise. They neutralized the antagonists efficiently and without any casualties among the guards or prisoners. Perfection.

Until they turned from predator to prey.

The counterattack caught them napping, thinking the job was done. Their attackers were organized but imprecise. After the initial strike, they dallied, failing to press their advantage and allowed the special ops teams to regroup and retreat. Still, of the sixteen guards deployed, only eight returned home; the prisoners they meant to interrogate either fled into the night or fell dead in the crossfire.

And then there was that business with the boy, if you could call him that. He had been kept in reserve, intended to be a distraction if the scavengers gave them trouble. But he was quickly forgotten once they came under fire, and no one in Meli's squadron had seen or heard him as they made their getaway. Yet when they paused in the warehouse to catch their breath, he stood before them, helpless, almost pleading. Nervous hands gunned him down.

Something unhinged in Meli as he watched as David—that was the thing's name—drag himself to his feet and approach them again. He looked so lifelike. Confused. Defenseless. Abandoned. His eyes cried out. As though he were an automaton himself, Meli felt himself step forward and catch the shaking child in his arms and hold him until the shivering stopped.

Of course no one understood that, least of all Meli himself. They hunkered down until daybreak, when they double-timed it back to Summerland, with Meli clutching David to him, surprisingly heavy despite his size. The C.O. confined the crew for debriefing, all but Meli--they let him bring David back to the scientists. Their faces creased with concern at the robot's battered condition and they had to pry the child from Meli's cold hands.

Scri—i—i—tch.

Talk was rampant in the days that followed. The secret operation became common knowledge and everyone had questions and half-baked answers based on misinformation. Who had attacked the MPD? How had they known they were coming? Rumors grew like weeds in the cracks of official stories. The special ops had been outthought, outmaneuvered, outfought. It was a squad of four, eight, sixteen, and forty who had attacked them; some even said they left no survivors, despite the fact that every other guard claimed to know personally someone who had been at the skirmish.

"Hoi!" the guards in the courtyard cried as they leapt into the air, wheeling their arms. They crouched and repeated the process. Knees buckled and more than one initiate crumpled in the final sequence of the program. The sergeant barked encouragements and criticisms in equal measure, questioning their resolve, demanding they push through the end, help their fallen comrades, and to do it as one.

Rumors had it that an emergency operation was being planned, one to rival Project Unification. While the brass denied any such knowledge, Meli trusted his eyes. The current class had swelled to over twice its normal size, with the youngest recruits looking as though they had only begun shaving. Rumor also had it that the feather count for promotion to special ops had been slashed in half.

The initiates stood at attention, many swaying in exhaustion as the drill sergeant lectured them about discipline and honor. He paused to survey them and when he dismissed them to the barracks, they fell into each other for support, locking arms, the air alive with a cacophony of cursing, laughter, groans. Meli remembered those days.

He held the knife up. It gleamed in the sunlight. He had only suffered three nightmares in two weeks, and even visions had been tame. Now as he sat in the sunlight, Meli's mind felt quieted and at peace as he focused on the task for which he had volunteered. His companions still did not accept him—the strange incident with David ensured that—but word of his bravery at the ambush had also spread, and incredulity gave way to grudging admiration. And if the nightmares continued to wane and the good days outnumbered the bad, who knew what lay ahead for guardsman Symon Meli? Promotion back to full officer?

Project Unification had launched his career; perhaps this new rumored project would help him get back on track. If it came to be, he would volunteer once again to lead the line in even the most dangerous campaign. If history had been any indicator, the call would come and he would answer.