The Prince and the Punk [EDITING]

Chapter 17

Janice

I run a hand through my hair—or rather, lack thereof—feeling the newly shaven stubble on the left side of my head.

I can't believe this, I think to myself for the millionth time as I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. They cut off half my hair.

The first thing that happened when my group got to the training center was haircuts. The men got their standard low-fade military buzz cuts, and the women were allowed to keep their hair as long as they could tie it back.

But not me!

Apparently, dyed hair isn't allowed in the Space Corps, so my green split-dye had to go. Rather than taking the time to change the color, the guy doing the haircuts decided to just shave all the color out of my hair.

Also not allowed are piercings and my cell phone, both are which are currently sitting in a locker I don't have access to. This place is really cramping my style.

Someone knocks on the bathroom door, pulling me out of my thoughts.

I step back into the main bunker, letting in the next person. It's only 21:30, but nearly everyone asleep already, and the lights are out in the large room.

I feel around in the dark and eventually find my bed. I have a bottom bunk, and the girl above me must be 6'2" and well over 200 pounds. I keep expecting the rusty metal bed frame to break and send her crashing down on top of me.

Eventually, despite the scratchy sheets, hard mattress, and lack of privacy, I manage to fall asleep. The chorus of snores and breath from the few dozen other people in the room is extremely off-putting, but it all fades as blissful sleep envelopes me.

- - - -

The next day, training begins.

Generally, Space Corps boot camp is thirteen weeks, but due to the demand for soldiers, it's apparently been shortened to just eight. Which says a lot about the quality of the training we'll receive.

Each day, we're supposed to make our beds as soon as we wake up, then kick off the morning with a casual five-mile jog. Walking is my primary mode of transportation, but even I find the running torturous, especially in the snow. The drill sergeants' argument is that it's cold on the moon, so we should get used to it, but that may be one of the worst excuses I've ever heard. No one's even bothered to shovel the path, and God knows there are all kinds of trip hazards hidden under the snow.

I'm exhausted by the end of the run, and the only thing keeping me towards the middle of the group is the drill instructor berating the people behind me.

Afterwards, we're herded into the mess hall for breakfast and given just fifteen minutes to eat our scrambled eggs and sausages. No one speaks, but the room is still loud, full of clanking silverware and quiet shuffles. The food is surprisingly decent for a place like this, so choking down the food isn't as difficult as I thought. We eat quickly and clear out of the room.

The next few hours are spent in various classes, the first of which is Zinnan history. During the grueling hour, the phrase "know your enemy" is taken to new extremes. To be fair, though, some of the information seems like it's probably important to know. For example, Zinnans can't breathe in Earth's atmosphere, and they've mastered both terraforming and intergalactic travel well enough to have conquered 36 planets and their moons.

Next is tactics, which takes twice as long as it should thanks to the instructor, who stops the lesson to yell at anyone who averts their attention for more than half a second.

By lunch, I'm over everything and ready for bed—until I catch a glimpse of dirty blond hair in the mess hall.

I step out of line, duck under a drill sergeant trying to stop me, and dash into the kitchen.