He addressed the whole class again, but his presence seemed to fill the room even more. “Many of you are goblins. Goblins have very little trust because you have been trained since birth to make the best of bad situations. But you aren’t very good at handling GOOD situations. And some of you have come from some amazingly scrotty situations.”

  Snickering went around the room, not just from the goblins, but from the dwarves as well, who seemed to appreciate the blunt assessment.

  “Which means,” Wasserman continued, “that despite the fact that your primary manufacturing is absolutely unsafe crap, you can fix ANYTHING. Many commanders don’t understand that about you. You dwarves…” He nodded to a couple of stout, bearded figures in the front row. “…you will get some respect for innovations and upgrades, as well as incredibly solid production and work ethics. But you goblins? Even if you save a ship, people will take one look at your solutions and turn green… especially since you guys don’t give a scrot about environmental hazards or safety protocols as long as it works.”

  “That which does not kill us makes us stronger?” Taxon offered, still grinning.

  Wasserman chuckled. “No. You are known for not being loyal. Not even to your own, much. That tends to paint a poor military picture. But the Goblin Service—the MGC—does notice. Have you ever heard the expression ‘it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission’? Well, the dwarves can get permission. The elves can get permission. The baselines, weebs, and most of the other genemods can get permission… You can’t. So don’t bother asking. Take your licks for wasting money or violating regs if it keeps you, your ship, and your troops alive. You will gain advancement where it counts—in essence and in the respect of those who matter. And while you might never get a high rank, the MGC will watch your back. You are not expendable, even if you tend to breed in the dozens and your command treats you like you are.”

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  More chuckles, this time with a note of grim agreement from the goblin contingent.

  The warrant’s gaze swept over us, coming to rest on me once more, his expression turning serious. “Just remember that the troopers will appreciate you even if your own command doesn’t. Even if you never advance beyond third-class petty officer in military rank, if you can stick it out, you are going to be the baddest mother-scrotting gold-core or twin-core petty officer around. You’ll have stories to tell your hundreds of grandkids and a nest egg that would constipate an ostrich. You will make friends, allies, and gain life-debts by the score. Just remember that staying alive and keeping your people alive is the most important thing. Got it?”

  A unified “Yes, Chief!” echoed in the chamber.

  He gave a final, curt nod, his eyes lingering on me for a second longer, making my instincts scream with a mixture of trepidation and that unnerving, biological pull. “Now I am going to turn the time over to your control instructor, Sensei Ramuel. He is a civilian contractor, but he’s a twin-core master, which means he has forgotten more about psychic combat than most of us will ever learn. He is a Lepan, so he may look unexpectedly… furry. Respect him, or you will be pulling demerits while you are recovering in the infirmary.”

  The lights dimmed slightly, and the central holotank shimmered to life. But my attention wasn’t on the emerging simulation. It was on the retreating back of Warrant Officer Wasserman, and the terrifying, exhilarating prospect of trying to fix the unfixable.