Jun-Tao wakes before the ship's clock decides it is morning.

  The Jumpship hum shifts pitch almost imperceptibly, like a great metal beast turning in its sleep.

  A thin line of artificial light leaks through the seam above the door and paints the ceiling in diluted gray.

  He keeps his eyes closed and tries to relax.

  Below him, fabric rustles as Wei turns over.

  The air tastes faintly of recycled oxygen and industrial cleanser, sharp but not unpleasant.

  He counts his pulse for a while, then stops because the rhythm is not making him return to sleep.

  The bunk ceiling hovers a hand's breadth above his face, close enough to remind him of containment.

  He folds his hands over his stomach and waits.

  At precisely eight hundred hours, the door slides open.

  "Up," Caretaker Luo says loudly from the threshold.

  His voice carries no threat and no warmth.

  The boys rise in uneven sequence, blankets pulled tight and corners squared with varying degrees of discipline.

  Wei is already sitting upright before Jun-Tao can climb down the ladder, boots retrieved and laces drawn through practiced fingers.

  Jun-Tao descends from his top bunk carefully, making sure not to slip.

  The communal sinks run in short bursts; no one attempts conversation while they prepare themselves for inspection.

  The lesson room waits only a few steps away, separated from their sleeping quarters by a narrow corridor that smells of insulation.

  It was not born as a classroom, and the walls still show cobwebs.

  Desks of mismatched origin stand in even ranks, some scarred by old tools, others bearing faded inventory numbers.

  The noteputers resting upon them resemble a collection rather than a set, each machine bearing its own history of use.

  Each keyboard is polished smooth where fingers have worried the same keys for years.

  Jun-Tao studies the machine before him without touching it.

  The casing is thick, the ports limited, the cooling vents clogged with microscopic dust that has survived several owners.

  He presses a key gently, and the screen responds after a noticeable delay.

  Low processing power and limited memory allocation.

  The Capellan Confederation—hell, the whole Battletech Universe—is an operating environment that favors endurance over elegance.

  He kneels on the chair to reach the keyboard more comfortably, because the seat is designed for longer legs than his own.

  The posture is awkward but sustainable for a while.

  He considers, not for the first time, why this civilization still crawls when it has at least walked before.

  Maybe it is that the war has not ceased in centuries, not truly, so that even when peace is declared, it is only the quiet between preparations.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Revolutions in hardware invite sabotage before they achieve standardization.

  Anything brilliant becomes a target long before it becomes infrastructure and can be spread, if the owners even want it to.

  So industry favors reinforcement over reinvention and iteration over transformation.

  Caretaker Luo steps aside when two men enter the room with the confidence of those accustomed to being obeyed.

  The first carries himself with the subtle authority of someone born into expectation rather than appointed to it.

  His jacket fits with tailored precision, and his surname is displayed without apology.

  "I am Instructor Liao," he says, voice smooth and unhurried.

  The second man remains silent, hands folded behind his back, presence heavy without introduction.

  Instructor Liao surveys the boys.

  "For the duration of this transit," he begins, "you will complete a daily evaluation module."

  He gestures toward the noteputers with an economical movement.

  "The assessment is designated T-800. You will spend forty-five minutes each morning completing it."

  His gaze sweeps the room without lingering.

  "Following the assessment, there will be a brief recess. After that, mathematics and ethics. On alternating days, additional subjects will rotate: technical reasoning, political theory, planetary geography, civic law."

  He folds his hands lightly before him.

  "You will adapt to the schedule provided."

  Silence holds the room like a drawn curtain.

  "If there are questions," he adds, "ask them now."

  No one speaks.

  Jun-Tao studies the keyboard for a moment, then raises his hand with measured calm.

  Instructor Liao's attention settles upon him.

  "Yes?"

  "My chair is too low," Jun-Tao says evenly. "If I kneel for the entire duration, my knees will hurt. May I have a pillow?"

  A faint sound escapes Liao's nose.

  He glances sideways at the silent man beside him.

  The man inclines his head once and exits without comment.

  Jun-Tao lowers his hand and returns his attention to the machine.

  Ah, he thinks. Just as Father described them.

  They carry themselves with the quiet assurance of men who have never needed to question their place. Supremacy, to them, is not something to prove, but something inherited, reinforced by generations of expectation. Their influence extends outward like an invisible boundary they assume others can see, and they move within it without hesitation. Do not deny them; if you do, do not do so alone.

  Instructor Liao claps once, softly but decisively.

  "Begin," he says.

  The room fills with uneven keystrokes and the faint whir of aging processors.

  Jun-Tao does not immediately follow the printed instructions beside his screen.

  Instead, he enters a simple command to list directory contents.

  The system hesitates, then responds.

  He types another command and watches as installed programs reveal themselves line by line.

  One entry arrests his attention.

  Educator Model 101 - T-800 - Tiānwǎng Corp.

  He initiates it.

  The interface shifts into a more organized structure, presenting multiple-choice fields and a countdown timer.

  Across the room, Instructor Liao stands beside the tall boy who had spoken confidently in the showers.

  "Correct," Liao says quietly as the boy selects an answer.

  The boy nods, posture rigid as a cadet before inspection.

  Jun-Tao begins answering his own questions.

  Geography of Tikonov appears first.

  River systems.

  Industrial zones.

  Ethical prompts interrupt the geography.

  If a citizen delays reporting subversive speech, has he failed his duty?

  Yes or No.

  He answers with deliberate pacing, neither hurried nor hesitant.

  Instructor Liao's footsteps are controlled, deliberate, unhurried.

  When they stop behind him, Jun-Tao is answering a question about mineral deposits within the Gizhiga Mountain Range.

  He considers briefly whether to remain entirely focused on the screen.

  Instead, he pauses. I should consider this an opportunity.

  He lifts his eyes.

  Instructor Liao meets his gaze without visible reaction.

  Jun-Tao holds the eye contact for a few measured breaths, then returns to the quiz and selects his answer.

  Footsteps resume.

  The door opens quietly.

  The silent man returns carrying a thin cushion and sets it under Jun-Tao's knees without ceremony.