Recreation hour begins with a long period of unsupervised freedom. Even the Capellan State can't make a grown man watch a group of teenagers for more than half the day.

  Wei and the other boys sit cross-legged on a folded blanket between bunks, a miniature noteputer balanced on his thigh. The tall boy from the showers—Han, Jun-Tao has learned—leans against the locker unit, speaking in low tones about placement tracks on Yangtze. Han produces a deck of cards. Another boy laughs loudly. Those not sitting already do so when he starts playing with them on the blanket.

  Jun-Tao watches the small circle form.

  Wei notices. "You joining?" he asks, not unfriendly.

  "In a minute," Jun-Tao replies.

  Han flicks a card onto the blanket. "Careful wandering the corridors."

  A few boys smile at that.

  Jun-Tao tilts his head. "I only plan to walk."

  Wei studies him for a few seconds. "Don't get lost."

  "I won't."

  He leaves before anyone can decide to laugh at the insinuation that it matters how long he is there.

  The civilian-access corridors feel different from the sleeping quarters. More human noise and less mechanical breath. Bulkheads curve inwards and away from the corridors, rivets spaced unevenly and bare without decoration. Directional markings stencil the walls: STORAGE, GALLEY, MAINTENANCE ACCESS.

  He walks without hesitation to make sure he is seen as a curious child and nothing more. His gaze purposefully glides everywhere, as if trying to memorize every corner of a mundane hallway.

  He heads toward the section with human voices and sees a cargo hatch that stands ajar. Beyond it, the corridor widens into a space that feels almost cavernous compared to the ship's narrow arteries.

  One of the five cargo bays of a Mammoth-class Dropship.

  The smell hits first—machine oil, coolant, scorched alloy. Floodlights cast hard white angles across armored hulls.

  A BattleMech's leg fills his vision. Armor plating removed. Actuators exposed and vital myomer lines bundled like muscle.

  "Who are you, kid?"

  The voice is rough, not unkind.

  Jun-Tao turns at once.

  An older technician stands near a tool cart, sleeves rolled, hands blackened with grease. His hair has gone silver at the temples. A Technical Corps patch sits over his heart.

  Jun-Tao arranges his expression into polite openness.

  "Jun-Tao, sir. Educational transfer. I saw the door open and wanted to look."

  The technician squints at him. "This isn't a viewing gallery."

  Jun-Tao nods quickly. "I won't cross the line."

  The man gestures with a wrench toward a painted stripe on the floor. "Stay behind that."

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  Jun-Tao obeys immediately.

  The technician then jerks his chin toward the machine. "Know what you're looking at?"

  Jun-Tao studies the silhouette carefully, as though uncertain.

  "A medium BattleMech," he says. Then, after a small pause, "Vindicator."

  The technician's brows lift slightly. "That so?"

  "There's also a Shadow Hawk there," Jun-Tao adds, pointing with restraint. "And a Centurion."

  The technician follows his gaze. "You've got good eyes."

  "I read manuals, and my father is a technician," Jun-Tao says, pride clear in his words.

  The old man snorts faintly. "Manuals don't teach you what you need to know."

  So he clearly places more importance on pedigree.

  Jun-Tao steps half a pace closer to the painted line, studying the exposed right arm of the Vindicator.

  "You're repairing the PPC assembly," he says.

  The technician stops wiping his hands.

  "Am I?"

  "The purge loop is disconnected," Jun-Tao explains. "And the coolant manifold has been replaced. The welds are shop-clean, not field slag."

  The old man's expression shifts. Indulgence gives way to attention.

  "Come here," he says, then corrects himself. "To the line. Not over."

  Jun-Tao complies.

  "Tell me what else you see."

  Jun-Tao scans slowly, deliberately.

  "The armor damage is shallow," he says. "Scoring, not penetration. No visible impact deformation around the torso joints. Internal heat spike, maybe."

  The technician folds his arms. "Maybe."

  "The coupling bracket on the PPC feed line is new," Jun-Tao continues. "Different alloy composition. The finish is slightly darker."

  The old man glances back at the bracket, then at the boy.

  "And what does that tell you?"

  Jun-Tao hesitates. He lets the silence stretch just long enough.

  "It didn't fail because of enemy fire," he says carefully. "It failed before it ever met an enemy."

  The technician's jaw tightens.

  "That's a bold claim."

  Jun-Tao lowers his gaze slightly, as though unsure whether he has gone too far.

  "If something overheats without combat stress," he says, "then either maintenance was insufficient or…" He lets the sentence hang.

  "Or what?" the technician presses.

  "Or someone wanted it to fail."

  The word sabotage does not leave his mouth this time.

  The technician studies him for several long seconds. The hangar noise seems to recede around them.

  "You shouldn't talk like that," the old man says quietly.

  Jun-Tao bows his head at once. "Yes, sir. I apologize."

  The technician exhales through his nose.

  "Your father in maintenance?"

  "Yes, sir. Depot repair. Tikograd."

  "That explains it." The old man rubs his chin with grease-stained fingers. "Capellan standard Vindicator. Workhorse machine. PPC, medium laser, LRM rack. Designed to stand its ground and keep firing."

  Jun-Tao nods with open admiration. "It's reliable."

  "It has to be," the technician replies. "Anything less will get pilots killed."

  Jun-Tao glances back at the replaced bracket. "Will this one deploy again?"

  The technician looks at him sidelong. "It will. After we make sure it can do its job."

  Bootsteps strike the deck behind them.

  "What's going on here?"

  A trooper approaches from the far side of the hangar. Naval security insignia. Uniform crisp. Expression tighter than the technician's.

  The trooper's gaze lands on Jun-Tao.

  "Minors aren't cleared for hangar access."

  The technician doesn't fully turn. "He is an educational transfer with relevant questions."

  "That's not the point," the trooper replies.

  Jun-Tao steps back another inch without being told.

  "I was only observing," he says politely.

  The trooper's eyes flick between them. "Observation privileges are not self-assigned."

  The technician wipes his hands slowly on a cloth. "He asked questions. I answered."

  "Your authority is technical," the trooper says evenly. "Not custodial."

  A faint edge threads into the exchange.

  Jun-Tao watches both men carefully.

  "He's educational transfer," the technician adds. "Better he sees what keeps him alive."

  "And better he learns to follow protocol," the trooper counters. "Curiosity doesn't outrank regulation."

  Jun-Tao bows to both, precise and small.

  "I should not have entered without permission," he says. "Thank you for correcting me."

  The trooper gestures toward the corridor. "Return to your assigned quarters."

  Jun-Tao nods. "Yes, sir."

  As he turns, the technician calls out, gruff but not loud.

  "Kid."

  Jun-Tao pauses and looks back.

  "If you're going to speculate about mechanical failure," the old man says, "learn to do it without saying words that make people nervous."

  Jun-Tao inclines his head. "Understood."

  The technician adds, after a beat, "Come back during maintenance shift. Ask your caretaker first."

  The trooper exhales sharply but does not countermand the invitation.

  Jun-Tao bows once more.

  "I will, sir."

  He leaves the hangar at a measured pace, aware of both gazes on his back.