Loralynn Kennakris 2: The Morning Which Breaks by Owen R. O'Neill, Jordan Leah Hunter

Huron’s character could not resist. It was equally inconceivable that a young colonial woman, especially one seeking a military career, would resist the advances of the eldest son of the Huron family, for in addition to his social standing, Rafe Huron was one of the CEF’s most decorated active fighter pilots.
    Which fact conveniently explained Kris being placed in the elite fighter program. The cadets in the fighter track tended towards cliquishness, especially the upperclassmen who’d made it into the Advanced Fighter Program, and while hazing was strictly forbidden, a few saw it as their duty to ensure that the SRF was not overburdened with those they considered to be ‘the wrong sort.’ With her outlandish accent, obscure origins, and wholly improper lack of a decent sense of subordination, Kris was indisputably wronger than most. Accordingly, a month into the term, one of these self-appointed social guardians decided to question Kris publicly on her relationship with Rafe Huron, and when she failed to rise to the bait, began to loudly speculate on the sexual gymnastics she must have employed to purchase her admittance. Kris instantly rounded on the burly young man with a look of such undiluted savagery in her hazel eyes, which had turned a shocking lambent yellow, that he fell back, dribbling apologies, while his friends urged him to the nearest exit.
    This incident raised her star in some quarters, raised hackles in others, and deepened the air of mystery surrounding her origins. Those seeking answers might have applied to Sergeant Major Yu. Yu had spent most of his career in the Strike Rangers, officially the 101 st Marine Special Operations Brigade, where he was still on the strength as brigade sergeant major, and thus had access to private and confidential sources of information. But they did not know to do so, and it was well they did not, for that could have created some painfully awkward circumstances. For his part, Yu kept his own council and his eye on his gifted and anomalous cadet.
    Just how gifted and anomalous became apparent six weeks into the quarter, when new cadets were introduced to ship drill. Although the members of Class 1861 were destined to become fighter pilots, the Academy took an ecumenical approach to education and for the first three months, everyone followed the same curriculum. This included, starting that sixth week and then every third week thereafter, being bundled into a mock-up where the whole class spent five days living in a berth, sleeping in a rack instead of a bunk, eating in the mess, and fulfilling the duties of every rank from junior officer to the lowest enlisted man. Instructors—senior officers all—guided them through those duties: anything from replacing equipment modules to cleaning the recyclers to inspecting weapons to sensor drills and long hours of watch standing. It was an intensely odd feeling—at home and not, familiar and unreal—and Kris woke up in a cold sweat twice during her first night.
    Those first five days were expected to be something of a shambles as the class struggled with getting used to their suits, maneuvering in null-gee and learning up from down, all too often literally. Only minimal direction was initially given and it was not anticipated they would complete the tasks assigned to them with any degree of competence. The real purpose was to assess how they dealt with new and stressful surroundings and tackled problems for which they were manifestly unprepared.
    Her instructors had already noted how much at home Kris was in null-gee during the periodic safety drills, but it was they who were unprepared for how quickly she grasped the basic elements of ship-duty. When she was assigned to replace the CO 2 absorbers on her third day, the officer in charge of the drill left to get a leisurely cup of coffee, expecting on his return to find her fumbling through the operation, perplexed and annoyed. And Kris, floating at her station, was perplexed