Chapter Nine: Debt, Dreams, and Dazzling Mechs

Huoman stood frozen, his weathered face caught in a rare moment of disbelief, as if the universe had just played a prank on him.

Lao Liao—Liao Xingping, the tightfisted mechanic of District Nineteen—had sent him credits. Without being hounded, threatened, or bribed. Voluntarily. The notification blinked on Huoman's wrist terminal, a modest sum but a screaming testament to the impossible.

Liao wasn't hurting for cash, not by slum standards. His knack for coaxing life back into broken machines—be it a mining bot or a junked flyer—put him leagues ahead of most in Lanslow's grimy underbelly. The man's workshop, cluttered with half-repaired gadgets and glowing tools, was proof of his hustle. Yet Liao's business sense was as sharp as his soldering iron. He didn't part with a single credit unless it served him—generosity wasn't in his wiring. Huoman, no stranger to pinching pennies himself (poverty's oldest trick), knew this better than anyone. For Liao to toss money his way without a fight meant one thing: he was downright dazzled by Baisha.

A master mechanic in the making, no less.

The Interstellar Federation sprawled across countless stars, home to billions, yet master mechanics numbered only in the tens of thousands—a rare breed. Unlike the beginner or mid-tier certifications, slapped together by local guilds or trade schools, the master title was a beast. It demanded rigorous vetting by the Federation's own examiners, held only on major hub worlds like Loden Star, a gleaming planet of bureaucracy and prestige. Lanslow, a forgotten speck in the frontier, didn't even qualify to host a test. Baisha would need to board a starship, cross the void to Loden, and prove herself among the galaxy's sharpest to claim that badge.

If she did? The payoff was seismic. Poverty would be a faint echo, replaced by steady work—maybe even cushy contracts with megacorporations or Federation agencies. She could leap from scraping by to middle-class comfort, a life where food wasn't rationed and roofs didn't leak. A pipe dream for most Lanslow kids.

Huoman let out a low whistle, his cracked lips curling into a grin. "Kid's got some kinda magic in her, huh? You're that sure she's the real deal?"

Liao glanced up from his workbench, his mechanical eye-lens whirring softly, catching the dim light of the shop's flickering tubes. His white hair was tied back, streaked with grease, and his tattooed back—petals or gears, still hard to pin down—flexed as he crossed his arms. "Weren't you the one hyping her as a genius when you hauled her in here?" he shot back, voice dry as a desert wind.

Huoman choked on his own bravado, masking it with a cough that rattled his chest. He shuffled toward Baisha, boots scuffing the oil-stained floor. She sat perched on a creaky stool with wheels, a battered green toolbox yawning open at her side. Her small hands, snug in oversized work gloves, sifted through a pile of tools—wrenches, drivers, things she barely recognized. She held up a spudger, tilting it toward Guagua, Liao's round little assistant bot, its chassis no bigger than a soccer ball. "This one's for prying circuits, right?" she asked, voice earnest.

Guagua's green headlamp blinked like it was winking, its tinny voice reciting, "Correct. Spudger, model X-7, used for delicate component separation." The bot rolled closer, wheels humming, as Baisha nodded and grabbed another tool—a hex key this time—quizzing it again. The scene felt like a classroom tucked inside a junkyard, all grit and curiosity.

Huoman scratched his stubbled jaw, quietly impressed. She didn't know half these tools yesterday, yet she'd floored Liao with that hand-drawn blueprint. Hundred percent accuracy, he'd said, like she'd cracked some galactic code. Kid had grit and luck.

"Yo, time to roll," he called, striding over and mussing her hair with a rough hand. He pulled the vending-machine sandwich from his jacket—fake meat and tomato, still warm in its foil wrap—and passed it over. "Liao's officially your boss now. Got high hopes for you, too."

Baisha took the sandwich, her fingers brushing the wrapper. She peeled it back, and a wave of tangy tomato hit her—a scent that tugged at memories she couldn't quite place, maybe from her old world. "Liao says I'm here Wednesdays and Fridays," she said, glancing up. "You're stuck with taxi duty."

Huoman barked a laugh, his broad shoulders shaking. "Fine by me, kid."

"Oh, and Liao wants you to snag me an optic-link," he added, leaning against a rusted shelf. "For studying, sending homework, that sorta thing. If you're gonna model designs, we'll need a couple extra mods—more credits, naturally. Too late to shop now. Tomorrow morning good? Bet you're buzzing too hard to sleep tonight."

He grinned, remembering how kids worked. Dangle a new gadget in front of them—a toy, a tool, whatever—and they'd lie awake, mind racing with possibilities. He'd been that way once, before Lanslow's grind wore him down.

"Definitely," Baisha said, her deep blue eyes glinting like twin supernovas. "Modeling's… wilder than I expected."

No kidding. Tech was the galaxy's great leveler, and this world's mechanical modeling was light-years beyond anything she'd imagined. It didn't scare her—it thrilled her. Every new trick she learned was a key to unlocking bigger, bolder creations in this strange new life.

Morning broke, gray and hazy over District Eleven. Huoman fired up the flyer—still creaky, still skull-graffiti chic—and hauled Baisha to the commercial district. The place was a step up from their usual haunts: neon signs flickered above shops, drones zipped with deliveries, and the air hummed with the chatter of haggling vendors. Baisha's eyes sparkled like a kid in a candy store, and under that relentless gaze, Huoman caved. He burned through Liao's credits, then dug into his own meager stash to buy her a premium optic-link—a sleek, palm-sized device with a holographic display and enough processing power to shame a starship console.

The clerk, a wiry woman with a permagrin, handed over the box with a wink. "Not many go for this model. You must really dote on your daughter."

Huoman's face froze, caught between a wince and a laugh. "…"

Baisha, standing beside him, mirrored his silence. "…"

He shook off the awkwardness and helped Baisha sync the optic-link, but the setup hit a wall at account creation. The screen kept spitting errors—Invalid ID, No Record Found. He tried again, muttering curses under his breath.

Baisha frowned, tapping the device. "What, this thing's got a lousy connection?" After that price tag, a glitch felt like a personal insult.

Huoman sucked air through his teeth, then smacked his forehead so hard it echoed. "Dammit. Forgot to get you registered when I found you."

Translation: Baisha was a ghost in the system. No ID, no legal existence. No wonder the optic-link couldn't log her onto the galactic web.

Baisha raised an eyebrow. "So… register me."

Huoman's expression turned grim, like she'd asked him to arm-wrestle a mech. "Orphanage kids usually have birth records—free to file. You? Total blank slate. Costs two thousand credits for a new ID."

He knelt to her level, hands gripping her shoulders, voice low and deliberate. "We're tapped out."

Baisha's mouth opened, then shut. "…"

Huoman groaned, pinged Liao, and ate crow to borrow another two grand. He knew the orphanage's paperwork dance by heart—years of wrangling forms for kids like Yaning and Jingyi. The government office, a squat building with peeling paint, didn't give them grief. Credits changed hands, and the clerk—a bored man with a coffee-stained tie—punched Baisha's details into the system with robotic efficiency. Name: Baisha. Origin: Unknown. Status: Orphan, Ward of District Eleven. Done.

Baisha linked her fresh ID to the optic-link, its screen finally purring to life. Huoman, meanwhile, weathered a blistering lecture from Liao over the comms and tacked another two thousand onto his debt. Total damage? Five grand, staring him down like a loan shark. All to be repaid with his junkyard runs, one rusty bolt at a time.

They stepped out of the registration hall into Lanslow's smoky air. Baisha trailed behind as Huoman slowed, his hand drifting to his belt. He fished out a cigarette—cheap, acrid, the kind sold in dented packs at corner stalls—lit it, and exhaled a shaky cloud. In the dim streetlight, his face looked carved from stone, lines deeper, eyes distant. He'd aged ten years in ten minutes.

"Can't shortchange a kid," he mumbled, the words half to himself, half a mantra. "Can't skimp on their future…"

He leaned against the wall, eyes squeezing shut, and started thumping it with a fist. Slow, rhythmic, like he was pounding out his regrets. Baisha edged closer, catching his low chant: "Five thousand credits. Five thousand credits."

Baisha bit her lip. Yeah, better not poke the bear.

Baisha's life became a whirlwind, fuller than she'd ever thought possible.

Her days were a blur: morning classes at the orphanage, where she memorized Federation history and basic math alongside other kids; afternoons in the kitchen, scrubbing pots or peeling synth-vegetables that tasted like cardboard; evenings sparring with Jingyi and Yaning, dodging Jingyi's lightning-fast kicks and Yaning's sneaky grabs. Wednesdays and Fridays, she rode with Huoman to Liao's shop, diving into greasy, glorious mechanics—disassembling engines, mapping circuits, learning the pulse of machines. Every other moment, she studied. The galactic web was her playground: textbooks on physics, holo-tutorials on alloy stress tests, even grainy vids of old-school gearheads welding starship hulls.

Her North Star? The master mechanic cert. But the bar was stratospheric. To pass, she'd need to master elite design skills—stuff so groundbreaking that most candidates were already field legends before they tested. Liao fed her the foundations: power dynamics, material properties, fabrication techniques, design theory. It was like learning the alphabet of a language she'd one day write poetry in. Soon, she'd need to pick a focus—maybe propulsion systems, maybe robotics. For now, her youth bought her time to dabble. But Liao's warning echoed: specialize, or end up like him, tinkering in a junk shop, living off scraps (his words stung, but she felt their truth).

Baisha rationed herself five hours of sleep. The rest was pure hustle. Miraculously, despite the grind—mental marathon, physical beatdowns—she hadn't collapsed again. Those nutrient vials must've rewired her, turning her from a flickering bulb to a steady glow.

So she pushed harder. In the kitchen, suds up to her elbows, she'd have the optic-link drone on, narrating engineering journals in its crisp voice. While mopping floors, she'd quiz herself on tensile strengths. Every task was a chance to learn.

Jingyi and Yaning noticed first. "She's gonna implode," Yaning whispered one night, watching Baisha scribble equations on a borrowed slate. They tried distractions—card games, ghost stories, even a prank involving a rigged water bucket. Nothing worked. Baisha was a machine, and not the kind you could unplug.

Out of options, they got creative.

One afternoon, Yaning ambushed her outside the dining hall, deploying his ultimate weapon: the sad-puppy stare, all wide eyes and quivering lip. "Baisha, you're the only one here with an optic-link," he said, voice trembling just enough to sell it. "Can me and Jingyi borrow it? We're dying to scope out military academies—need all the intel we can get!"

Baisha stopped dead, a pang of guilt hitting her like a rogue wrench. Her best friends were scheming for their futures—big dreams, high stakes—and she'd been so buried in her own grind she hadn't spared them a thought. The optic-link, her prized tech, could've been their ticket to answers.

"Done," she said, no hesitation. "After dinner, hit my room."

That evening, Jingyi and Yaning filed into Baisha's cramped quarters—a narrow bed, a wobbly desk, and a single bulb casting long shadows. Baisha sat cross-legged on the mattress, waving them over with a grin. She flicked on the optic-link, its hologram blooming like a tiny starfield. With a swipe, she split the display, sliding half to them—a glowing panel hovering at eye level.

"Dual-screen mode," she said, casual as ever. "Surf the web to your heart's content. I'll mess with my models over here."

Jingyi and Yaning exchanged a glance, sweat beading on their brows. This wasn't the plan! They'd come to yank Baisha out of her study spiral, not enable it!

Jingyi's eyes narrowed, shooting Yaning a look that screamed fix this. He coughed, voice pitching up. "Uh, hold off on the modeling! Come check academy stuff with us! Their forums have old cadet sparring vids—total adrenaline rush!"

"We could steal some moves," Jingyi added, leaning in. "Every school's got its own fight style, command tricks—different flavors of badass."

Baisha's interest stayed flat. Military academies, combat, strategy? Not her scene. She'd rather debug a servo than watch cadets trade punches.

"And mechs!" Yaning blurted, grasping at the last straw he could think of. "Forget propaganda reels—academy forums are the only place you'll see combat mechs in all their glory!"

Baisha's finger, poised over her modeling app, froze mid-tap.

Yaning smelled blood in the water. He lunged for the screen, fingers flying as he typed in search terms. A video loaded, and he shoved it under Baisha's nose. "Mechs, Baisha. Look!"

The footage was from the Federation Central Military Academy's freshman festival—a glitzy affair, less about brawls and more about flexing muscle. No gritty fights here; the academy rolled out its mechs like parade floats, each one a gleaming titan of engineering. They towered over the crowd, polished to a mirror shine, hydraulic joints hissing softly as they struck poses for the holo-cams. These weren't just weapons—they were legends, forged for war and draped in swagger.

Baisha had heard of Central. The Federation boasted nine major academies, each with its own rep, ranked by raw power. Central and Saint-Cyr were the untouchable kings, trading the top spot like rival siblings, while the others ate their dust. Jingyi and Yaning could spend hours debating which was better—Central's cutting-edge tech or Saint-Cyr's iron discipline—bickering like kids picking sides in a street game.

Baisha had never cared about academies. Too much pomp, too many rules. But now? Her gaze locked onto the screen, drinking in every angle of those mechs—their sleek curves, the faint hum of their reactors, the way their armor caught the light like molten silver. Each frame was a promise of power, precision, and possibility.

She leaned closer, breath shallow, and forgot the world existed.