A figure approached in the distance. Cromie, yawning as he reached his door, froze when he spotted Qianlong.
"What are you doing here?"
Qianlong lifted the shopping bag slightly in response.
Cromie's face darkened.
Minutes later, the two sat cross-legged on Cromie's metal bed, sharing a hotpot meal. Cromie alternated between ecstasy and agony with each bite.
"This is amazing! But my wallet..."
Qianlong remained impassive. "Your salary could afford better housing."
"Kid, what's a bachelor need fancy digs for? Money comes, money goes." Cromie sipped his cheap beer with exaggerated relish.
"If it's transient, why not enjoy it while you have it?" Qianlong tilted his head.
"Not in my DNA. Anyway, why the sudden generosity?" Cromie waved off the question.
Qianlong met his gaze. "I dislike debts. Also, I'm tired of nutrient bars."
Cromie burst out laughing. "You're hopeless! Who taught you to be so painfully literal?"
"My mother."
"Ahem. Excellent parenting." Cromie hastily backtracked.
Qianlong studied him. "Why help so many refugees?"
Cromie's expression sobered. "Legacy. You know despair? I was once a starving refugee too. Got lucky—someone gave me a chance. Now I return the favor."
"An unusual ideal," Qianlong mused.
"You'll understand someday. Can't change the world, but you can choose how to live in it."
"Like my mother said: 'Follow your heart without fear'?"
Cromie choked on his beer. "...Let's just eat."
At dawn, Qianlong arrived at the training site. Dozens of recruits filed inside. The classroom held rows of familiar egg-shaped simulators—practical lessons from day one. No wonder the entry bar was high.
A mountainous instructor with obsidian skin and bulging muscles stormed in.
"To your pods! Listen well or die crying later. Names are on the screens."
The hundred-plus trainees scattered. Some went straight to specific units—repeat students, likely. Qianlong found his pod and strapped in.
As the shell sealed, the instructor's voice crackled through the speakers:
"Newbies and washouts—pay attention. This isn't just about paychecks. It's about staying alive."
"Reaper Mechs are retrofitted Mark I light combat units. Stripped of weapons, upgraded thrusters for mining agility."
Gravity shifted abruptly. Temperature spiked. Adaptation training.
Hours passed. BANG! A pod ejected its vomiting occupant. Medics hauled him away. The lesson rolled on.
They drilled endlessly: piloting, resource scanning, survival tactics, predator evasion. A month was criminally short—but the Hyperion was desperate.
Qianlong thrived. For the first time in years, he felt purpose.
On Day 20, blue-uniformed officers barged in.
"Lieutenant Boroka, Resource Department. Conscription orders—new Reapers deploy immediately."
The instructor slammed his datapad. "This is sabotage!"
"Appeal to command. We just execute orders." Boroka turned to the recruits. "With me."
Pale-faced, the class looked to their teacher.
"...Go," he growled.
Boroka led them to a fortified D-sector gate where armored guards stood watch.
"Open E3 access."
The 10-meter alloy doors groaned upward. Beyond lay a cavernous elevator platform.
"Move out."
The steel plate shuddered as it began its descent into the ship's bowels.