CHAPTER 1: THE RECKONING OF STEEL
“Maybe the alignment pins look different when your eyes aren’t tracking right, sir,” Specialist Miller said. He didn’t say sir like it was a title; he said it like an expiry date. He tapped the edge of his plastic-bound clipboard against the weapons table, the sharp, rhythmic clack cutting through the hum of the concrete training room’s fluorescent tubes. “This platform might actually predate your enlistment. We can handle the audit from here. No need to stress the memory.”
The two enlistees near the heavy blue exit doors shifted their boots, their silence a heavy, expectant weight in the closed room. The air tasted of floor wax, dry earth, and the distinct, bitter tang of low-grade machine oil.
I didn’t look up immediately. My thumbs stayed anchored on the cold, matte-gray receiver of the disassembled rifle. The steel was pitted in places, scarred by decades of hands that had scraped away rust with coins and pocket knives. Miller’s modern camouflage uniform was crisp, the digital patterns sharp and unweathered, casting a strange, synthetic contrast against the dull concrete floor.
“The feed cover,” I said, my voice dry, scraping out of my throat like gravel across tin. “You’ve got the latch spring seated backward.”
Miller let out a short, breathy laugh, looking back at the two recruits by the door to ensure they caught the performance. “The digital supplement says otherwise, chief. It’s an automated sequence now. We don’t really do the old muscle-memory routine anymore. The depot presets the tolerances.”
He stepped closer, his shadow blocking the harsh overhead utility light, his athletic frame leaning over the cluttered manuals. He reached out a clean, unscarred hand to take the bolt group, his posture dripping with the casual authority of a man who believed the world began the day he graduated basic.
My hand moved before his fingers could touch the metal.
It wasn’t fast—not the kind of speed that belongs to a twenty-year-old—but it was precise. My palm came down flat over the receiver, a solid, heavy thud that rattled the loose pins on the table. I stepped straight into his space, the worn brown wool of my VFW cap nearly brushing his chin. The smell of his cheap aftershave met the old canvas scent of my field jacket.
“I was setting the headspace on these platforms when your father was still wetting his bed,” I said. The silence from the door grew absolute. “The digital supplement doesn’t tell you what happens when a localized pulse rots your optoelectronic sight and you’re left with thirty rounds of five-six-six and a jammed extractor.”
Miller’s face went stiff, the color draining from the edge of his clean-shaven jawline. His fingers hovered in the air, twitching once before he dropped them to his side.
I didn’t give him the room to recover. I took the bolt group, my fingers finding the worn grooves without a single glance. Click. Slide. Thump. The metal spoke its own language, a heavy, mechanical cadence that filled the room. The feed cover snapped down, the latch engaging with a definitive, metallic bite that echoed off the bare concrete walls. I pulled the charging handle back; it moved with a hard, unyielding resistance that required the specific leverage of a calloused palm, then slammed forward with a clean, terrifying crack.
Miller looked down at the fully assembled weapon, his eyes locked on the precise seam where the receiver met the barrel group. His clipboard dipped slightly. The authority hadn’t just cracked; it had sunk into the table.
“Check the tolerance,” I told him, shoving the heavy piece of iron two inches toward his chest.
He didn’t take it. He lowered his gaze, his eyes tracking a thin, deep scratch near the safety selector switch—a mark that didn’t match any manual in his digital archive.
