I slam my tray down onto the table and sit down. The other recruits barely glance up as I heave myself into my seat. They are barely picking at their food. A few of the girls haven’t even touched their trays. It’s weird. Space-sickness maybe. The Magnolia has been out of Osiris for almost three days. They should be over it already.

I’m starving. After saying a hurried grace, I start into the vary-coloured assortment of tasteless slop in front of me. Ta ma duh, that sergeant in the serving line was sure taking his gorram time! The rest of my bunk had already got their food and been sitting down for a good ten minutes by the time I got there! Gorram military. We’re only on the way to Basic Training, and already there’s a line for everything! A slow line. A hundred other stupid kids, every head shaved to the skin so you can’t even tell what colour their hair was, standing stupidly in line like idiot sheep, barely saying anything. People are sheep. I forget who said that, but they were right. This is a seriously boring bunch. Hardly anyone talks. The foot tastes like mi tian gohn, but no one’s complaining. What the hump?! What is wrong with these kids?

My left hand won’t stop shaking. I try to pick up my glass, and the water starts spilling. Some slops on Carl’s plate. I look at him and mutter ‘Sorry.’ He glances my way, nods slowly, and picks up his fork. Kid carefully selects one bean and places it in his mouth. One bean! It almost makes me want to stab my chopsticks in his eye. Stupid white kid, gets to eat full quarter hour before me, then takes his gorram time. Makes me sick.

But then, I’ve been in the weirdest mood all day. Irritable as hell. I barely slept last night, not that we had long to sleep. Apparently basic training starts shipboard, on the way to the boot camp. Woke up too early, had crap to eat for breakfast, now crap for lunch; the other recruits are all a bunch of indolent losers. Sino-Anglic Alliance Mobile Infantry sucks and the sergeants haven’t even started screaming at us yet. I realize suddenly that I’m grinding my teeth together, hard. Why the hell am I so angry? It’s tearing me apart, I can barely sit still. My leg is twitching so hard, it shakes the entire table. No one seems to notice. I need to eat. I’m dangerously hungry.

I’m almost finished when the horn sounds for mess to end. Gorram! I slam my fist on the table, hard enough to knock over cups and launch the chopsticks of the kid across the table. I jump to my feet, the speed and vehemence of my actions betraying my rage. Since no one seems to care, I kick the table, furious, and keep eating as I head for the disposals. I’m still starving. Other kids start shuffling for the exits. They’re all moving so slow! Most of the kids at my table don’t even get up. The cute girl across the aisle is asleep. Okay, something’s wrong. What the ruttin hell? Then I bump into the recruit ahead of me, an Anglo, gangly, lumpy head without his hair. He’s just stopped dead in his tracks for no gorram reason.

“Move it, chwen!” I snarl. Fury boils up inside of me. What’s this idiot doing? He turns around, frowning slightly. “Uh, hey, watch it.” He looks like he’s trying to remember something. “Um, where are you going in such a hurry?”

Something snaps in me. I shove him, harder than I intend to. My tray clatters to the floor, next to his, splattering food everywhere. He goes down hard. His head hits the floor with a hollow thud, and he doesn’t move. And why shouldn’t he? Ruttin idiot. There’s a low murmur behind me, pushing my rage higher. It’s coursing through my veins now, singing its siren song in my head. I spin around, spreading my focus, looking for his friends to bring their inevitable attack. No one looks too concerned. No one looks me in the eye.

“Somebody wanna make something of this?” I challenge. The guy who was right behind me cocks his head to the side. I hope one of them moves, even twitches in my direction. Somebody needs to die for… this. For what? What am I so angry about?

They just stare at me. Then a Sinic guy lays down on the floor and falls asleep.

Okay, something’s really wrong here. Suddenly I’m afraid. Too afraid. Almost panicked. Am I the only person who gives a hump in the whole room? The thought hits me ‘What if the army put something in the food? Maybe it takes time to kick in; I got the food next to last - I need to get to the bathroom.’ Gorram army! Why the hell did I sign up?

I jump onto a long table and run for the door. There are four kids just lying there, heads on the table. I hop over them in stride. No one turns a head to look as I run down the length of the table, kicking dishes and cups out of the way. The officer at the door looks up as I near the end. He doesn’t look bored. Or sound bored.

“Hey, get down. What the hump are you doing?” He raised his submachine gun. Of course. The officers don’t get the drug, only the recruits. They don’t want me to barf the poison. This freak’s going to shoot me. He wants to stop me. Hatred fills me. I hate this man. He is my enemy. I don’t just want him to die - I want him to die in pain.

I also don’t want him to shoot me. Someone’s left a tray on the table. I kick it, hard. It shoots off the end of the table and hits him in the shoulder, and I jump right after it. As the tray hits him, he cries out and involuntarily fires his gun. The muzzle flash almost blinds me. A few screams ring out, not enough though. My jump carries me across the intervening space, and I kick the Lieutenant in the face. My momentum gives force to my kick. He flies back, blood gouting from his nose and mouth. I land next to him, on my knees. His submachine gun is right next to my right knee. He’s rolling over, raising the gun. I grab it in both hands and put my foot on his wrist and wrench at the gun. There is a cracking sensation from his wrist, and I pull the gun free, scrambling to my feet. The Lieutenant’s wrist dangles at a wrong angle, but he’s going for his pistol with the other hand. The gun is heavy in my hands; feels good. The gun is bucking - I’m firing, holding down the trigger and unleashing a storm of white-hot tungsten into a commanding officer. Dear God, this is mutiny! I’m so humped. This is great!

The lieutenant’s body jerks wildly with the impact of the bullets, blood splattering the wall and doorway behind him. I walk the bullets in a line up his chest to his face. The shots are smashing that horror-filled human visage into a bloody mess of bone and grey matter and blood everywhere, everywhere. The gun runs out of ammo, the bolt clicking open with a finality that brings some semblance of reality back to my wild delight. I need to puke - the poison! I shove my finger down my throat desperately. I can feel the bile rising, okay, there go the heaves. It looks much the same coming up as going down. I vomit over the Lieutenant’s corpse until nothing else comes up.

Then a fiery pain explodes in my side, and I fall, splattering blood and vomit. I look up in surprise. The recruits are moving, scattering without hurry out of the way of the cook. He’s got a revolver out, and he’s thumbing back the hammer for another shot. He’s moving slowly, almost nonchalant. I move fast, swinging the nearly useless gun. It makes a decent club though. The sergeant tries to block my blow, and I shatter his left arm at the elbow. The gun goes off in my ear. Something sears the side of my face. I grab his gun arm. Blood is running into my left eye - I can barely see. There’s nothing to do. I lunge around and bite down into the sergeant’s wrist. He yells and brings up a knee. I take it in the groin, grunting. I bite down, grinding my teeth into the bones in his wrist. Something cracks. The gun clatters to the floor, and I drop and scoop it up. The pain of the groin strike is starting to hit me. The sergeant looks at me, both hands useless. The terrible realization fills his eyes. He will die. His blood fills my mouth. It tastes good, hot and coppery - like revenge. I need more. Some trickles out of my mouth, down my chin. I wipe it off and lick my fingers. The sergeant is backing away, cradling his broken wrist to his chest, the other arm dangling limp.

I shoot him in the groin. He goes down, screaming. Finally, some noise from one of these freaks that begins to match the way I feel. Too much rage. I let the sergeant scream and turn to the room. The other recruits are standing pretty much where they were, just staring. One girl is laughing, quietly, stupidly. I shoot her in the gut. No thought, just cold fury. She’s stupid, she dies. It’s awesome. She’s whimpering on the floor. One of her friends looks down at her for a second, then sits down and stares into space. There’s a dull muttering in the room. No sound except the sergeant’s painful moans and the sobbing breaths of the dying girl. Fools. Sheep. Lamb to the slaughter. Four more shots, head shots every one. Then the gun is empty. No one is ducking for cover. Like cattle. Too stupid to live.

The fury is taking me now. I want to scream at them, to make them care, to make them afraid. They don’t run, they don’t hide. Oh God, all these people, dead inside! I want to laugh at the absurdity of it all. This can’t be happening! I want to cry - Good Lord, what have I done? I need to move. I’m shaking violently, in the grip of adrenaline shock. It’s going to kill me, I need to move. So I do, toward the food prep counter, vaulting the serving line, punching some kid out of the way. He doesn’t get up.

There they are, hanging under the counter. Knives. Such pretty knives. Gleaming blades. Big ones. I seize two, spinning them in my hands. Beautiful things. Perfect for slaughtering sheep.

Almost three years before the Miranda Incident, the Alliance conducted its first large-scale test of the Pax aboard a Ulysses-class troop transport headed from Osiris to Whitehall. The vessel was named Magnolia, and she carried 743 Alliance Mobile Infantry recruits, as well as a crew of eighty-six, and a research team of eleven. The senior officers were issued an antidote, as were the entire research team. The results of the test were never known. All contact with the Magnolia was lost twenty hours after The Pax was released into the life support system. A subsequent sweep of the system turned up no trace of the transport vessel. In the Alliance Fleet’s recent action against the Reavers, a heavily modified Ulysses-class transport hull was identified among the Reaver ships, but positive analysis is impossible due to the near annihilation of the Alliance Combat Group and the destruction of any resultant sensor data. The final resting place of the Magnolia may never be known.