For hours, Mike battled Cassandane in what was the equivalent of the hand slap game, only played with coronas instead of hands. The goal of the game was to get your corona upwise of the other person's and hold it there for three seconds, which would be more than long enough to brain push an opponent into oblivion. At first, Mike lost three out of five matches. Then Cassandane stopped humoring him and he lost all of the matches. There were times he managed to slide upwise, but each potential victory resolved into a sudden and undisputable loss.

Rather than becoming disheartened by the experience, Mike grew ever more excited. He had wrestled throughout high school, then when he missed the experience post graduation, he had found his way into an MMA gym that had grappling classes based on a combination of catch wrestling and Brazilian Jiu Jitsu. His first grappling class at the gym had been eye opening, to say the least. The instructor had recognized Mike as a wild one and made sure to claim Mike's first rolls himself. Mike must have tapped twenty times in those three minutes, during which he fell in love with a new sport. The fact that he could be shut down so totally had stirred a desire to gain that power for himself, and the depth of technique he had witnessed made him yearn to learn it all. The session with Cassandane made a perfect parallel. Less sweat, a lot less physical contact, but otherwise very similar. He was hooked.

But he remained conscious of the fact that it was very different from when he had begun grappling. He was not training an established art from a skilled hobbyist. He was working with the originator of a new art. Not just learning, but by his actions and reactions, he was providing feedback. With the open, loop, and three spatial dimensions, the possibilities for outmaneuvering a foe became complicated fast. One of the times he almost got the better of Cassandane happened because he innovated something new: he pushed counter-clockwise in the loop dimension, then rebounded off her corona in a clockwise direction while moving upwise. The trick was simple and Cassandane did not let it succeed a second time, instead giving in to the initial push to create space to vault above him. A simple trick with a simple counter. But knowing the likely counter meant he could set traps. On one of his followup attempts, Mike drove in hard when she relented to his initial push. A mad scramble resulted that Cassandane won by virtue of experience, but the nod she bestowed upon him when they reset let him know that it had been close.

In brief conversations between matches, he learned that Cassandane had never had a true sparring partner for this. She had dreamed up her martial techniques in isolation and 'trained' them on her coworkers as if she was showing off party tricks. No one had ever caught on to her purpose as she developed the art of corona wrestling beyond a simple strength contest. When he questioned how she could reach her current skill level without live sparring, she laughed and told him that her current skill level only appeared impressive to someone with his level of experience. They both shared the unspoken understanding that they were doing something momentous.

When the alarm clock on his phone alerted them that they were due to pick up lunch, Cassandane's serene features tightened into self-recrimination. "I had meant to cover full body hardening at the end of the session."

Mike shrugged. "I don't think it was a misuse of time. Corona wrestling seems like our secret weapon."

"Perhaps it should be secret," Cassandane said. "If we believe the Chekowan, it took years for kinetics to discover the two extra dimensions on their own. Your thoughts, Centurion?"

"So . . . there's a thing in sports. The statistics of birthdays are off, with more players being in certain months than you would expect. They came up with a theory to account for it, called the 'relative age effect'. Pretty much, you got specific cut off dates to start school or participate in youth sports leagues. Based on those cut offs, the kids who are older relative to the others do better. They can be almost an entire year older in some cases. So they're on average taller, heavier, and more coordinated. In other words, they are physically advantaged against their peers. But that's just the start of it. Cause who gets the most one-on-one coaching? The star players, of course. They also get more playing time, because the coaches field their best players. This goes on for years. Eventually they stop getting taller, but by that point the skill advantage might as well be set in stone.

"So that's where we are, boss. Right now, we are the kids born at the right time of the year. If we get a few years' head start, the rest of the world might never catch up. Only question is, how does that line up with our other goals? Can we keep the world safe from Nallit and fight off the Chekowan without giving our secrets away?"

Cassandane tilted her head. "Or does spreading our innovations result in Nallit learning them?"

"Good point, boss." He looked at the time on his phone. "I got to pick up lunch for the troops now. Let me know before I teach my combat class what techniques are classified." Mike checked that the rapidly dwindling wad of cash was in his pocket before walking out to the roof and launching himself into the air. He soared northeast, turning what would be a fifteen minute commute by road into a five minute flight by skipping the traffic and the bridges.

Inside the restaurant, he had to explain three times that he was there to pick up an order before the woman at the desk processed his words. She eventually pulled his order out and put his money into the register, but before he could leave, she asked if he was the guy from the television. Mike winked and used his corona to lift the four bags of food into the air. His return trip took ten minutes since he was conscious of the wind buffeting the lunch he had just paid for.

Mike placed the takeout boxes on a table in one of the meeting rooms and arranged the included silverware in a sloppy pile at one end atop the napkins. Then he went to crack open the door of the lecture hall and announce that lunch was ready whenever Sam wanted to dismiss her class. The girl seemed intent on a non-work-related conversation with Smith, but she immediately said everyone should eat and jumped up as if intending to rush to the food. Mike stepped into her path. "A word, Centurion?"

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"Can it wait until after I eat?"

"It cannot," Mike said.

"Fine. What is it?"

"Leaders are last through the serving line. Every time."

"Are you serious?"

"We push the troops hard, but we push ourselves harder. It's important that they see that. We eat last, we get fewer breaks during the day, and we get fewer hours of sleep. That's the job."

"Cassandane is already eating," Sam said.

"She's the equivalent of a general. The rules don't apply to her. We're senior enlisted, in US Army terms."

"And what if I ignore your suggestion?"

Mike shrugged. "Not much I could do to someone outside my chain of command. I won't undermine you in the performance of your duties either. The only argument I can make is that people will note any differences in how the two of us discharge our duties. If your actions in simple things like this are selfish and unprofessional, that will impact on how you are perceived as a leader."

"Mike?"

"Yeah?"

"You're really annoying."

He didn't respond, content with the fact that she had held herself back from the line. His peace was interrupted by the approach of Srinivas. "Mike, did you not get kibbie?"

"Sorry, Srinivas, I only got vegan options today."

"Are we not eating meat in army? This is terrible, Mike."

"I will make sure one meal a day has meat of some kind," Mike said.

Sam snorted. "Aren't Indians usually vegetarian?"

Srinivas folded his arms in stubborn silence, so Mike answered for him. "The dietary preferences of our friends from India depends a lot on their religion. Hindus don't eat beef. Muslims don't eat pork. Srinivas here is first and foremost a foodie. In accordance with his religion, he doesn't eat any food that he hasn't photographed."

"I don't take pictures of food," Srinivas said.

"You used to."

Srinivas stomped back to the food and Sam side-eyed him. "What did you get everyone for lunch?"

"Hummus, pita bread, falaffel, lentil soup, and rice and beans."

Sam shrugged. "I ate worse on the Angelship. Though it would be nice to get a burger. Like, a really unhealthy one."

"Fast food, casual dining, or gourmet?"

"Greasy and cheesy."

"You want bar food," Mike said as he moved into the empty serving line, motioning Sam to go before him. He realized there were no plates, looked around to see everyone else using the lids of takeout containers and the plastic bags the pita bread came in as makeshift eating surfaces, and studiously ignored Sam's critical expression as he began placing food on a plastic bag of his own. Fortunately, Sam ditched him to eat with her friend and Mike could sit down with Varanelli, Whittakher, and McGreary.

He didn't get even a moment of peace, however, as Varanelli had a complaint to air. "That bitch is all over Greg."

"You mean Sam?"

"I mean that bitch Sam."

"Why do you care, Varanelli? Smith is garbage. Just let him go."

Varanelli huffed. "Useful as always, Ski. Oh, and you forgot to get plates."

Whittaker laughed. "Ski, the two of you sound like me and my wife."

"Nothing going on here, Whittaker."

"In other words, exactly like me and my wife." Whittaker snorted as his laughter continued. "I don't know which one of us was happier that I decided to run off and join the EDA."

McGreary's eyes blinked owlishly behind thick glasses. "Don't you have two have kids?"

Whittaker scoffed at the question. "Debby has a boy from a previous marriage. I don't get involved in any of the parenting. So long as my disability checks keep coming, she could care less what I'm doing."

"Is your back still a problem?" McGreary sniffed as if insulted.

"Only when I lift something or sit too long or try to walk," Whittaker said.

McGreary rolled his eyes. "Then what are you doing here? Ski, you recruited a guy who can barely walk?"

"I recruited a legend who did the work of three men in the motor pool," Mike said. "And if things go right, he's going to be flying, not walking."

Whittaker wiped his mouth with a handkerchief from his pocket. "I ruined my back with hard work, both in the Guard and as a civilian. If my discs weren't bulging, I'd still be busting my ass. You only served a single enlistment and went to work as a male nurse. Tell me with a straight face you're more of a soldier than I am. Come on, McGreary, make me laugh."

Mike smacked the table. "God damn it. Could everyone knock off the posturing for ten minutes? We're building a brand new army from the ground up. All this petty bickering gets in the way of the mission."

"Sorry, Ski."

"Sorry."

He nodded in acceptance of the two apologies he had received, not bothering to even look in Varanelli's direction. He couldn't expect the two of them to have a professional relationship given their shared history with Susie and then living together. "Look, guys. I didn't randomly pick people to recruit. You were both hard workers with solid decision making skills. We're hurting for experienced soldiers who can set a professional example, so the two of you can't be feuding."

Varanelli leaned forward. "I don't want to be here, Ski. Not with Sam and definitely not with Spencer. I should be at work right now, not attending bullshit talent lessons."

Mike sighed. "Let me see what I can do for you."