One Good Soldier

academy in the Sol System. And while there were plenty of skeptics out there, Alexander had never once needed to use their family's political pull to help her. Moore hated that Dee had been living in a dorm at the Sea of Waves Powered Armor and Mecha Academy for the past four years instead of at the White House with him and Sehera.

But Dee had put in the work and Alexander was proud of her. Fortunately, Air Force One often made trips to the Moon. He wished that Dee would have taken up lion wrestling, or football, or shark baiting, or chainsaw juggling, or anything less dangerous instead. But she hadn't. For the past six years, since that incident in Orlando, she had thought of nothing but being a goddamned U.S. Marine mecha pilot. When she saw those marines tromping around Disney World in bot-mode mecha, bringing all kinds of hell to the robot AIs that were trying to capture the First Family, her life changed. U.S. Marine Major Alexander Moore wanted to say 'Oorah!' President of the United States of America Alexander Moore wanted to say, 'Good work, and your country would be proud to have you serve!' But for just plain old Alexander Moore, hick from Mississippi, daddy to a little girl, it was his little girl, his princess. He didn't ever want to see her in harm's way.

But Alexander knew that Dee was gonna be Dee, and the best he could do was support her and try to make her as damned good a marine as he could manage. That might just keep her alive in the future. He still had three years to talk her out of it. He wasn't giving that much of a chance—snowballs and Hell came to mind.

'Goddamned gutsy, if stupid,' USMC retired Colonel Walter 'Rat Bastard' Fink III stood at ease behind the president, with his hands behind his back.

'I agree.' Moore turned to the mecha pilot instructor and frowned at the former marine. Of course, Moore knew well and good himself that there was no such thing as a former marine. 'She is no good to anybody dead. And she can't move on to the final rounds of the competition, either.'

'Permission to speak freely, Mr. President?' Colonel Fink asked.

'Go ahead, Rat.'

'She isn't thinking of life and death at all, only about killing her opponent to win a competition. She still thinks of this as a game, sir. A game with a reset button. Oh, she is damned good at it, and with her and her wingman there we'll probably snag the trophy at Ross 128 next week. But I'm here to train marines, sir, not just simulation-competition winners. And like you said, she's no good to anybody dead, sir,' Fink said without moving a muscle or changing the expression on his face.

'I think somebody should make her . . . aware . . . of her problem, Colonel Fink. Don't you?' Moore smiled at the instructor.

'Yes, sir,' Fink replied as a large toothy grin covered his face. 'And I think I know just the person, sir.'

The 'box,' as it was affectionately referred to by mecha trainees, or 'nuggets,' drifted to a resting spot on the floor of the sim center, and the side opened up by folding over into steps. Two instructor techs rushed into the box to help Dee out of the pilot's couch. The box for her wingman a few meters to the left of hers had already been opened. Moore could see the young man's face was pale, and when he stood his legs were shaky.

Deanna managed to walk upright down the ramp but only with the support of the instructor techs under each arm. Once she made it to the bottom of the ramp she motioned that she could support herself and then twisted off her helmet. Alexander could tell by the look on her face that she was physically exhausted but proud of herself for having killed her pursuers. Fink was right. She still didn't understand the life and death of the predicament that she was considering getting herself into—the predicament of being a United States Marine.

'Cadet Moore!' Rat shouted with a rough, gravelly tone at the 'First Nugget,' as Dee was known.

'Sir!' Dee snapped-to tightly, her exhaustion showing through her expressionless face. She and her flight gear were soaked in sweat from her shortly cropped Martian-dark hair to her toes, which were a long, athletic, and curvy one hundred seventy-six centimeters down.

'How do you think you performed on that mission, Nugget?'

'I killed the enemy, sir.' Dee didn't move or flinch or even blink.

'Your wingman is dead!'

'Yes, sir.'

'You are dead!'

'Yes, sir.'

'The entire nation is going on a week of mourning because the First Nugget