*        *          *

          I came into the Ready Room howling like a freshly shaved dog.  Three bright-looking second lieutenants that had been playing poker on a wood crate by the door managed to fumble their side-arms out and point them roughly in my direction, but their training to obey orders kept them from taking the initiative and shooting my ass off (even though the Colonel probably would have given them a medal for doing so).  I hopped up on the crate, spilling the chips all over the floor, and roared at the top of my lungs.

          "CAPTAIN FERGUSON!"

          The lieutenants tried to crawl for cover, but the Ready Room (as always) was spic and span.  They settled for letting off a few wild rounds.  Two whizzed over my head and pinged off of the blaststeel door, but one struck the crate I was standing on.  There was a fizzing sound that I recognized immediately.

          "FIRE IN THE HOLE!  EVERYBODY DOWN!"

          I leapt off the carton, grabbed the nearest one by the collar, and dragged him behind the partition between the entrance room and the briefing room.  One of them got the idea (second lieutenants have a fairly good self-preservation instinct) and dove for it, but the other one stood transfixed as the carton began to jitter and squeal.  The carton read 'CRYOGENICALLY FROZEN JANARIAN JELLO' in screaming orange letters, which, as anybody who had graduated boot camp should know, is the Dragon equivalent of napalm.  Why they were playing poker on it I will never know.

          I tackled the third one and threw him into the briefing room, hearing something snap as he hit the table.  Then I followed him.

          The one who had dove of his own free will punched the close door button just as I came through, sealing the blaststeel door (at least the architect had believed in decent materials).  For a moment, nothing happened.

          Then there was a muffled whoomf and a sucking sound.  The door bent inward but held.  After another moment, the klaxon alarm went off, and there was a flood of majors and captains and lieutenants (and even a brigadier general, I think) from the inner room, waving guns and shouting orders at each other.  In the excitement, my three lieutenants snuck off, leaving me the lowest ranking person in the room (and therefore the one to blame).

          A few majors got it into their heads that I was a saboteur from a rival division, so I got sat on and handcuffed.  The brigadier general yelled at the colonels in the room about lax security, so I got my nose broken and shackles put on.  The colonels screamed at the captains, and I got hauled off to a closet until such time as they could court-marshal me (or find their own asses with a flashlight and both hands, whichever one came first).  Two lieutenants were set to guard me, and the ass-chewing went on.

           A few hours later, Captain Ferguson intimidated her way into the inner room.  They had finally found a blowtorch and removed the briefing room door, which had been warped by the explosion, and everybody except the lieutenants outside the door had wandered off to bother their subordinates.

          The Captain is not a threatening-looking person from a distance.  She's thirty-something, has teased blond hair, watery blue eyes, and a rather chubby physique.  Underneath that stay-at-home-mom exterior, however, is a born warrior.  I'd gotten along well with her since I transferred in from 3rd Infiltration.  She's not a bull-shitter.

          But right now she was pissed at me, and rightfully so.  I had forgotten she was going to be on assignment for the week, and now she had been called back to take care of her delinquent Specialist.  Master Sergeant.  Whatever.

          "You're a mess, kid," she said, eyeing my singed bloody fatigues.

          "Thank you.  I hadn't noticed, but now I think I'll go take a shower.  Oh, that's right, I can't!   The Idiot Patrol shoved me in a locked closet!  Now I remember what I'm doing in a janitor's closet in the Ready Room.  Damn, I thought I was just insane."

          "You are insane.  What in the hell were you thinking?"

          "I came to discuss my dumb-ass orders, is what I was thinking."

          She stared blankly.  "What orders?"

          "What orders?!  The stupid orders you issued me not three hours ago!  The ones telling me to call now and get my squad of oblivious recruits while supplies last!"

          "Recruits…?  What are you babbling about?"

          "Are you going insane, Captain?  You promoted me and told me to come here to pick up four kids from boot camp."

          "No, I didn't.  Where did you get these 'orders'?"

          I made quotation marks.  "'Orders'?  Rimes delivered them this morning during first watch.  They were official docs- had the seal and everything."

          She hit her forehead with the heel of her hand.  "Did you check to see who they were addressed to?"

          Oh, shit.  "No.  But Rimes-"

          "Can't read that well, and has it in for you besides."

          "I'm going to kill him."

          "You should, but you're not going to.  Major Halbert wouldn't like it if I sicced you on his officers.  Where are the orders now?"

          "Sitting on my bed back in C wing."

          "I'll go get them," she said, starting to close the door.

          "Hey!  Handcuffs and shackles off, please!"

          She sighed and motioned to one of the lieutenants.  He unlocked my shackles and cuffs and backed out cautiously.  I stood up, rubbing my wrists.  "Besides, don't you have your ASS with you?  You can check it from here."

          She gave me dirty look for using the acronym (most of the officers call it the "thingy"), but nodded and pulled out the pager-sized device.  I followed her out to the briefing room, which was deserted.  Central is wired every which way and most of its capabilities aren't even usable yet (like the Remote Ice Maker Activator function), but the Access Sentry Server is the best handheld gadget Gear has come up with yet.  She put it on the table, and an interface that reminded me of Windows was projected onto the wall.  The whole thing worked by muscle impulse, so the Captain began wiggling her fingers in midair.  I couldn't help snickering.

          "They say they're going to switch over to telepathy control soon," she said.  She accessed the Personnel database quickly and scrolled down to my name.  It popped open, and there it was in all its pixilated glory.

          "Master Sergeant Zen [insert surname here]," she said, "I always thought Zen was your last name."

          "Well, it isn't," I said, "So lay off."

          She raised an eyebrow.  "Fine by me.  I just thought it was interesting."

          "How about staying to the task at hand?"

          "You've been promoted, but you still don't outrank me, Sergeant.  Shut it."

          Boy, did that sound weird.  Sergeant.  Three stripes and a star.

          "I eat bullets for breakfast and wrestle Ardeens for fun," I said.

          "What?" she snorted.

          "Just trying it on for size."

          She didn't answer, opening my Orders file.  There it was again- 'Master Sergeant Zen is ordered to report to Ready Room 343 in order to pick up four recruits.  She is then ordered to train them to be combat effective in all situations.'

          "Isn't that what boot camp is supposed to do?" she asked, finishing reading.

          "What did you learn in boot camp that you have actually used in the line of duty?"

          "Oh.  Never mind.  But who in the hell issued these orders?" she said, scrolling to the bottom, "It doesn't say, but I'm going to stuff whoever it is in a trash compactor."

          "Would have to be a higher-up," I said, "Otherwise it would give them an error message and tell them to go through the proper channels."

          "Well, you better follow these until we can get it sorted out, though I don't see any recruit-looking people around here."

          Neither did I.  The lieutenants were gone now, and the only other person in the room was a major snoring gently on a couch shoved in a corner.  I remembered there being some personnel files in the packet, but that was all the way back in C wing.  "How am I supposed to find these alleged recruits, then?"

          She shrugged.  "I don't know.  But I would go get showered and changed before they catch up to you- trust me, recruits leave you no peace at all."

          I snapped to attention and saluted.  "Requesting permission to fall out and get deloused, Captain."

          "Permission granted, Master Sergeant."  She laughed.  "I never thought I would call you that.  Next thing you know you'll outrank me and I'll be the one saluting."

          "God forbid, Captain."  I performed a parade-ground turn and marched towards the door.  When I was just about to leave, I turned again and poked my head in the door.  "Thanks for bailing me out, Fergy."

          "No problem.  But call me Fergy again and I'll show you new and interesting ways for your arm to bend."

*        *          *

          The lifts had been slow and the shuttle to C wing had been even slower (it being a Saturday), but that hadn't compared to the eons I had spent waiting in line at the security checkpoint.  A squad of Assaults had set up a blockade around the snack bar on the fourth floor to protest the quality of the hot dogs, and I had to dislocate one of their arms to get through.  Just another day at Central.

          At least the water was hot- you could never fault Central's heating system.  I toweled off quickly and ran a cursory brush through my hair, but it remained a wet dirty-blond mop sitting on my head.  A fresh pair of fatigues felt wonderful, though they weren't as broken in as the ones I had worn on the ill-fated raid on Ready Room 343.  I dialed into the safe on the wall and pulled my 10 mm and its leather holster out.  I was not going to get caught without a weapon again.

          I was adjusting the fit of the straps when the fateful knock came.  I sighed, gave a final tug to the strap that went under my arms, and padded over to the door.

          "Yeah?" I said, opening it.  There was nobody there.  I squinted hard (some of the species around B wing are pretty hard to see), but not even a glimmer became evident.  I started to close the door, and-

          ZZT.  ZZT.  ZZT.

          The familiar sound of camo suits unshielding.  I drew and was in a shooting crouch before the five figures flickered into view (though the process takes only .15 seconds according to the specs).  Recognizing Lorry, I sighed and holstered my gun.

          "What is it, Lorry?  And why the hell were you shielded in here?  To scare the shit out of me?"

          He grimaced and scratched his crotch.  "Naw.  Coupla crazy assholes from 15th Assault are off the reservation around here.  MP's broke up the some sorta bunker around eighth floor B wing, but there's still three or four of 'em running loose."  His backwoods accent made it sound like he was talking about a football game rather than a squad of deranged killing specialists.

          The four accompanying him stood at stiff attention.  I sized them up lazily.  "Who're they?"

          "Well, they ain't Santa's elves, hon."

          "Seriously."

          "Seriously, they're the pride an' joy of the drill instructors down at boot camp, and they sent 'em to you to be given the rest of their eddication."

          "Ah," I gave them a wolfish smile, "I've been expecting you."

          They gave no answer.  They didn't even twitch.

          "They ain't so talkative, but they can wipe themselves after they visit the latrine," Lorry drawled.  For him, that was high praise.

          "That's good, 'cause I ain't gonna nursemaid 'em," I said.  Lorry always brought out the Down-East accent in me.

          "Fine.  Well, good luck, hon." He saluted and trotted off down the corridor.

          "Well then," I said, and smiled at the (my) recruits.  "I guess I really am a sergeant now.  Got my own squad and everything."

          Their eyes didn't move.  Spooky.

          "I guess you guys don't have additional orders, do you?  Like what I'm supposed to do for barracks?"

          I thought I saw the slight rise and fall of chests as they breathed, but I couldn't be sure.  Stupid parade ground discipline.  I frowned at them and looked skeptically around my room.  Small even by Central standards and certainly not big enough to house five Dragons; yet another example of how much Colonel Evers loves me.

"Give me a second to round up some stuff and we'll go find better digs.  We won't all fit in my Broom Closet From Hell."

Silence.  Not entirely unexpected.

I shoved my feet into a pair of boots and grabbed my camo suit.  I'm a pretty light traveler, but I would have liked to have at least a little time to prepare for this.  Who knew when I'd be back?  I shuffled around the closet and came up with my ready pack (30 pounds of standard issue gear plus 10 more of somewhat less sanctioned equipment; I could come back for the rest later).  I swiped the orders off my bed and shoved them in a pocket too.  I crooked a finger at them, turned the corner, and began trotting down the northern corridor (I thought the lifts were that way).

It took me twenty feet before I realized I couldn't hear the pitter-patter of combat-booted feet behind me.  I went back and peered around the corner.  Yep, they were still in a ruler straight line, at attention.  I should have known.  I heaved in a gulping breath.

"DOUBLE TIME AND FOLLOW ME!" I roared, trying to remember more drill-instructor-like ways of saying things that could be said perfectly well in a more normal tone of voice as I trotted back down the featureless corridor.  They sprang into action, sprinting after me in neat double-column formation.  Finally, something they understood.

When they caught up, I increased the pace.  I ran flat out for three hallway-junctions (about a half-mile; whoever designed this wing of Central didn't believe in easy access.  Or any other aspect of architecture, for that matter), easily outrunning them.  I had less gear, but I was also very accomplished in running.  Running away, running to food- you name it, I was a pro. 

I spun around.  They slid to a stop, panting just a bit.  Good, for fresh out of boot camp.  "DROP AND GIVE ME THREE HUNDRED!" I bellowed like a stuck bull calf.  Even I could remember that phrase from old army movies, but it usually had a more reasonable number in front of it.

They immediately threw themselves to the ground and set to work like crazed woodchucks.  Jeeze, I had expected at least a look or two.

They did it.  Sure, their eyes bulged and they collapsed in a heap afterwards, but they did it.

          The only thing boot camp gave me was slightly broader shoulders and a hatred for anybody with three stripes on their shoulder.  These kids, however, were TOUGH.  I could do three hundred now (grumbling the entire time), but out of boot camp?  Not a chance in hell.  Standards must have been raised even though we were more starved for numbers than ever.

          The only way you can become a Dragon is if you are both (a) a Pivotal and (b) have had contact with the Central timeline (meaning direct contact with a preexisting Dragon).  While the first is hard enough to find, the second is even rarer.   A face-to-face with a Pivotal can really screw you up (their position gives them extra pull on reality, so if they don't want you to be there, you can cease to exist) and most timelines require only a nudge to balance.  If they fill both of the conditions, the poor sucker is yanked from their timeline as soon as they fulfill their Pivotal role, whether voluntarily or kicking and screaming.  It also hurts like a mother.