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The klaxon sounded. The cadets tumbled out of their cots, feet hitting the floor as their eyes opened and they came awake.
The little dark-haired girl jostled for shower space amongst comrades who were growing faster then her. Gangling elbows edged her aside, but she wriggled between her comrades and got herself the morning's token wetting.
She dried, and pulled on a fresh black singlet, black undershorts, black shirt, black exercise bottoms, black gym shoes. She dragged a comb through her unruly hair, and dragged it back with a black band.
But she was not quite as alert as usual. The chatter at the long breakfast table passed over her head. There was a dream. An odd dream, which came from nowhere. Normally dreams were of flying, or weapons drill, or of the fables of long-ago heroes. Occasionally her sleeping brain would re-run one of the forbidden fables which the nursery guards used to tell - awesome, all-powerful, wrathful gods - who she knew could not exist.
But this time she felt she had been awakened, by a scarred warrior who could not possibly have been there. Her mind was leading her astray - and must be disciplined.
She threw down the quick breakfast meal, and took her place in the line-up for drill. The cohort were all of the same age, all born in the same cycle. They were ranked by height, and the youngster fretted impotently that day by day she found herself nearer the short end of the line. They were outgrowing her - and there was not a thing she could do about it. She must train harder. If she were fitter, maybe her limbs would grow faster.
This morning she was beside the pale, fair-haired kid called Henta. She had been part of this cohort long enough that it was easy to forget she was a conscript. As they stood shoulder to shoulder they shared a quick smile.
The Cadet-sergeant passed along the line, his parade stick tapping testily against his parade-shinned boot. He stopped before the two girls, tapping them both impatiently on the head. She was in a daydream. It took her a micro-microt to react. He tapped her harder. She looked up at him, puzzled. "Move," Henta hissed. Sharing a rueful look with each other, they swapped places. Henta, too, had outgrown her now. The sergeant passed on. "You'll catch up," Henta whispered, using the almost-silent whisper they shared during all their on-duty hours - and she reached for her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
It had been Henta, she remembered, who had cried silently night after night for the Mother she still remembered. Maybe that was where last night's disturbing dream had come from. But it was so real . . .
"Parade, shun!" came the command. "Sound off."
The cadets' names rolled down the line as one by one they announced their presence at roll call. It was her turn; "Cadet Aeryn Sun," she called out firmly. And I have a mother. And a father. And I am loved.
