After Harlan moved the cube for the first time, it was like someone swapped the old man out. Re clearly had a goal: find out how far the boy could go. And every time the limit came into view, Re shoved it farther, stubbornly, like it offended him.

  Re grumbled and snapped, and he became inseparable from a special notebook—No. 57. He scribbled something down every session, but he never let Harlan read a single line.

  Week followed week. Month followed month.

  First “Millimeter-Man” became “Centimeter-Man.” Then that gave way to “One-Cube-Man.” Sometimes, when Re was in an especially good mood, he even called Harlan by his actual name.

  Re flipped through the notes and frowned. Where other students would have weeks between sessions, Harlan had days. Sometimes hours.

  “Ready again?” Re raised an eyebrow at the boy, who was already warming up his shoulders.

  “Why not?”

  Re shook his head. In thirty years at the Academy, he’d never met anyone who could train twice a day without frying their brain.

  Sure, Harlan’s head ached sometimes—but more often from lack of sleep than resonance. The real drawback of his unusual trait was simpler: if he lost focus for even a second, he shut down.

  Re examined him daily and found no other symptoms.

  “You know some people don’t feel pain?” Re asked one day, offhand.

  “Really? That happens?” Harlan looked genuinely surprised. “I’d love it if nothing ever hurt.”

  From nonstop chores, his whole body ached—back, arms, shoulders.

  “You realize they don’t live long,” the old man said, thoughtful.

  “Uhm? But why?”

  “Lack of self-preservation. Pain isn’t there for decoration.” Re shaped the thought into another question, as usual. “How do you know you’re doing something wrong if nothing hurts?”

  Harlan’s expression tightened. “What are you getting at?”

  “At exactly what you think.” Re’s voice turned flat. "Be careful. You'll fry your brain and won't even notice. Don't try to jump straight into something that’s several times harder than what you can already do.” He paused, thinking. “I don’t know—lifting twenty cubes at once, for example.”

  “Come on. That’s impossible. You can’t control multiple objects at the same time,” Harlan protested.

  Re said nothing.

  “…Right?” Harlan asked again, suddenly uneasy.

  ?

  Almost a year had passed since anyone called him “Millimeter-Man.” Re still couldn’t find a new nickname that fit—one that made sense and sounded right.

  “Again,” Re drawled lazily, lounging on the only chair in the training room, cup of tea in hand. “And don’t wrinkle your forehead like you’re about to crack your skull.”

  Harlan sat on the floor. Four cubes hovered before him. They trembled, fighting the invisible strings holding them. Sweat ran down his temples. His breathing broke.

  One cube slipped and hit the floor with a dull thud.

  “Weak,” Re said. “Again.”

  Harlan clenched his teeth.

  One cube. Second. Third. Fourth.

  All four rose and began to circle. Then the pattern shifted; their trajectories changed. On the third loop, the world started to drift—but the cubes didn’t fall.

  “Not bad,” Re nodded. “Now add rotation. And talk to me. Don’t lock onto the Field like it’s everything. It’s just part of the world.”

  “Seriously…?” Harlan rasped.

  He split his focus—and lost control instantly. Everything crashed to the floor.

  “And you thought you’d learn a couple tricks and you’re a mage?” Re snorted. “Again.”

  Harlan tried one more time, and almost immediately collapsed himself from exhaustion.

  “As usual,” the old man made a face. “What a weakling.”

  ?

  Harlan woke up on a rug in the dim light. Only after he looked around did he realize he was in the guest room. The light was low, logs crackled softly in the fireplace, and Re stared into the flames, pensive. Pinky dozed in his spot.

  “Why am I here?” Harlan groaned.

  "Got tired of hauling you around," Re said without looking away from the fire. "You're wearing an old man out. No shame at all."

  Harlan glanced aside. In the firelight, Re looked older than usual.

  “Old man, come on.” Harlan tried to lighten it. “We both know you’d give any young guy a head start. Want me to make you some tea?”

  “No.” Re reached for the notebook. “I've been thinking. I mapped out your training plan for next year. Considering where we are, you need the basics of combat magic.”

  “Like Thorren used? Kinetic impulses?” Harlan perked up at once.

  "Thorren? The prospector you mentioned—the one who worked with Garret?" Re asked. “No idea what he did, but it probably wasn’t anything complicated.”

  He lifted his mug and took a sip. So that was why he didn’t need tea—he already had some.

  “But yes. Telekinesis is used in combat, among other things.” Re’s eyes glinted. “I’m not the greatest master, but I picked material. Starting tomorrow, I’m dealing with you for real.”

  “Don’t scare me,” Harlan muttered, but still flinched.

  ?

  On the very first day of the new course, Harlan realized the old man wasn’t joking.

  “Re, enough. I can’t,” Harlan begged. “Let me breathe!”

  “You little bastard,” Re snapped. “Field operators train for years. Decades. It’s hard work. You think because you skipped a couple steps you’re allowed to slack off now?”

  He paced the room, rhythmic, arms cutting the air.

  “If you’re not ready, grab a rag and go scrub floors. I’ve let everything go to hell because of you!” He stomped.

  “But Re…” Harlan was gasping. “I didn’t say I’m quitting. I asked for a break.”

  “Shut it.” A stick flew from nowhere and cracked against Harlan’s shoulder. “Again. Or I’m not joking—march off and wash floors.”

  Harlan clenched his jaw.

  *Field operators train for decades. I’ve had two years. Still have time.*

  He started again.

  He extended a hand. It didn’t affect the Field, not directly, but lately it helped him focus. The air thickened. The Field responded, teasing hydrogen and oxygen atoms out of the atmosphere.

  “Careful with the hydrogen,” Re grumbled. “Don’t blow the whole place up.”

  Harlan exhaled.

  With another impulse, he separated hydrogen and oxygen from the gas mixture, then combined them into water molecules. Right in front of him, the first bead appeared—about the size of a nut. Then three. Then four.

  “That’s more like it. Freeze them.” Re’s tone sharpened. “And count: eighty-one minus twenty-five. Fast.”

  “Fifty-six,” Harlan hissed, holding his concentration.

  "You have to burn it into reflexes. Not think—generate impulses almost automatically." Re’s eyes flicked over the floating beads. “Where’s the ice?”

  “Now…” Harlan breathed out.

  Inside the beads, tiny bubbles flashed. Then they turned white at once, crackled, and filmed over with frost.

  “Good. Attack.” Re pointed at the target.

  The ice spheres tore free and flew.

  Slowly. A running man could’ve outpaced them. Still, one reached the target and hit somewhere near the center. The second passed close. The third sphere broke apart midair. The fourth lost its path entirely and smacked into the wall.

  “One out of four,” Re snorted. “And they’re tiny. You’ll scare spiders with those.”

  Harlan dropped to his knees, choking for air.

  “This is impossible…”

  “Blah-blah-blah.” Re cut him off. “You said that about the cubes. You said it about water from air. Then you did it. So why should I listen to your whining? Again. And make them fly faster.”

  Harlan repeated it.

  This time two out of four hit the target—barely. They struck and bounced.

  But Re finally let him breathe.

  “Feel how hard it is to launch multiple objects and control their trajectories?” he asked.

  “Very hard,” Harlan admitted.

  “Exactly. That’s why almost nobody can.” Re’s voice turned matter-of-fact. “In my memory, maybe a couple professors at the Academy.”

  “And you?”

  Re’s lip curled. “Comparing someone like that to the great Re.”

  Then he turned toward the targets.

  This time it wasn’t droplets or spheres. Three ice wedges formed almost instantly, shaped like arrowheads. They shot forward at real arrow speed.

  They buried themselves in the center. The target swayed.

  Re’s face twisted for a moment from Backlash, but he straightened at once and lifted his chin, triumphant.

  “Learn, prospector.”

  Then, as if unhurried, he walked out of the training room and left a stunned Harlan staring after him.

  Behind the closed door, the old man folded in half, breathing hard.

  ?

  The next morning, Re made Harlan get dressed and pick up a massive black bag. They went outside. Re carried a matching pack—about a meter and a half long and maybe sixty centimeters wide.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “What’s in there?” Harlan hadn’t expected it to be literally unliftable.

  “You’ll see. Follow me,” Re said shortly.

  They walked out past the gate. Harlan didn’t leave the fence often.

  “Don’t tell me we’re going ‘fishing’ again,” Harlan said. “Last time was plenty.”

  “No,” Re said, and kept walking.

  Harlan exhaled in relief. The memory of that “fishing”—checking a huge trap and finishing the catch—made his heart speed up.

  They went about two hundred meters from the house. A narrow path between rocks led them to a sort of plateau with sparse conifers. Snow covered everything. Silence and biting cold. Your breath felt like it froze in the air.

  “This works.” Re stopped with a hand gesture. “Unpack.”

  Harlan set the bag down and opened the double zipper.

  “Damn.” He whistled. “You sure you’re a scientist? Or did you rob someone and go into hiding?”

  The bag was packed to the top with weapons and ammunition.

  Some were familiar: revolvers, a couple rifles like the ones he’d seen others carry, even though he’d never shot. Several pieces were rifle-length but looked nothing like rifles.

  “Shut your mouth and shoot,” Re snapped. “See that tree? Hit it.”

  Harlan grabbed a revolver, checked it was loaded, and fired three shots immediately. At least one hit—he saw the trunk shudder and snow spill off the branches.

  “Good. Now from the hip,” the old man ordered.

  “Why?”

  “Because no one’s going to wait while Your Majesty draws and takes careful aim,” Re mimicked.

  Harlan tried again and missed.

  “You need more practice,” Re said, serious now. “But there’s another trick I want you to try.”

  “What trick?”

  “Remember how we said launching something with telekinesis over a long distance is hard? Serious calculations. Prep.”

  “Of course. Where are you going with this?” Harlan asked.

  “What do you think about a bullet?” Re countered.

  Harlan thought for a minute.

  “You’re suggesting… changing the bullet’s trajectory?” he said carefully.

  “Bullseye.” Re sounded almost pleased. “Didn’t even expect you to get it right away.” He aimed a rifle but didn’t shoot yet. “As long as the object is in your line of sight, distance doesn’t matter much for resonance. But the bullet’s speed does. Your reaction time is the bottleneck. You won’t have time to issue the command.”

  “So what do I do?”

  “Start forming the impulse before you fire.” Re shrugged. “That’s the theory. I can’t do it myself. Not yet.”

  He pulled the trigger. The bullet tore out and slammed into the tree.

  “That worked?” Harlan stared.

  “Hah. No.” Re laughed. “I didn’t even try. I’m just a decent marksman. You'll be the one learning. Not today, though. Too cold.”

  Re reached into Harlan’s open bag and took out one of the weapons Harlan hadn’t recognized. It was as long as a standard rifle, but the barrel and body were four times thicker.

  “I want to show you something else.” He glanced at Harlan. “Step back.”

  Harlan stepped back.

  “Farther.”

  Once he was sure Harlan was at a safe distance, Re crouched and braced the heavy weapon on his knee. He aimed carefully and fired.

  A huge bright beam shot out—almost silent.

  The flash blinded Harlan.

  When he blinked his vision back, the tree was gone. Completely.

  The rock face about fifty meters behind it was charred and crumbling. Re coughed.

  “What was that? Are you okay?” Harlan ran to him.

  “That,” Re said, setting the weapon down in the snow, “is a plasma rifle. Impressive, no?”

  The snow around it started to melt at once. The rifle radiated heat.

  “I’ve never even heard of that.” Harlan stared at the blackened rock. “What is it?”

  “Standard Federation weapon.” Re’s voice turned dry. “But here the Field devours energy and a lot of technology becomes useless. Still…” He paused. “Modified samples powered by local crystals exist. Like this one. They’re about ten times weaker than true plasma. And even the fact they exist is a big secret. So—” he made a small gesture, “keep it quiet.”

  “Then how do you have one?” Harlan asked, baffled.

  “I held a high post at the Academy. I worked on the dev team.”

  Harlan swallowed. “Maybe I shouldn’t know that.”

  “I’m trusting your judgment.” Re spat into the snow. “Because they can kill you for that knowledge alone.”

  Then his eyes locked on Harlan’s.

  “And the most important lesson…” Re said slowly. “Look at that tree. You can guide bullets all you want—against plasma, it means nothing. Got it?”

  ?

  They trained a little more on the improvised range. Re showed Harlan several other rifles. Then Harlan practiced hip firing until his fingers went numb from the cold, and they went home.

  Now they sat in the guest room.

  Despite the crystal heating, the wood fireplace burned bright. Smoke drifted into the room, adding a soft, domestic scent of burning wood.

  “Re…” Harlan hesitated, then pushed through. “If plasma exists, what’s the point of all this?”

  “All of what?” Re looked away from the fire. “Science? Magic? Survival? Revolvers?”

  “Magic,” Harlan said.

  “What do you know about Proxima?” Re asked. “And I’m not talking about the colony. I mean the planet.”

  He was dodging again—answering with a question.

  “Same as everyone.” Harlan frowned. “It’s a Federation planet. One of the ones that colonized Ghentuva.”

  “Formally.” Re took a sip of tea. “Not very informative. Did you know Proxima was a colony itself, a long time ago?”

  Harlan leaned in, interested.

  “We covered it in school. Barely.”

  “They were a colony, yes. Then they revolted, and the Federation had to accept them as an independent planet.”

  “And the Federation just… caved?” Harlan asked.

  “Of course not. There was a war first.” Re’s voice stayed calm, almost academic. “But the distance was too great. Too expensive to send ships and armies. And by then Proxima was already developed—wealthy, industrial, strong.” He smirked. “Now they’re among the ones colonizing this place. Ironic.”

  “Ironic.” Harlan fell silent for a few seconds, then asked, “What does that have to do with plasma?”

  Re let the silence hang, then spoke quietly:

  “Did you ever ask yourself why, while the Federation flies interstellar ships run by robots and artificial intelligence, you crawl around in the cold with a revolver?”

  Harlan thought.

  “The obvious answer is the Field won’t let that tech work here,” he said slowly. “But you said it’s possible to modify equipment to run on crystals…” His face went pale. “So…?”

  “That’s right.” Re didn’t soften it. “We’re a raw-material appendage that’s supposed to sit quietly. Nobody wants another Proxima.” He shrugged. “It’s business. Get used to it.”

  “Get used to it?” Harlan’s head snapped up. “So we just accept getting robbed while people die in the mines?”

  “And what do you suggest?” Re raised an eyebrow. “An uprising? A revolution?”

  “Maybe.” Harlan’s voice hardened. “If Proxima could—”

  “Before or after feeding the crocodile?” Re cut in.

  “What?” Harlan blinked.

  “Nothing.” Re’s tone flattened. “Proxima was a developed planet with industry and an army. And we’re what? A handful of prospectors with revolvers? Against plasma weapons and battle mages? There are no prerequisites.”

  “So we sit and wait while they drain every last crystal?” Harlan stood up, fists tight. “You were the one talking about ‘injustice.’ About how they’re killing science.”

  “I was talking about facts,” Re said. “Emotion won’t help.”

  He sipped his tea and stared into the fire.

  “There’s always a way out. The question is the price.” His eyes lifted to Harlan’s. “Are you ready to die for an idea? Are your friends? Their families?”

  Harlan went quiet.

  “Exactly.” Re nodded once. “It’s easy to talk about justice when you have nothing to lose. When the lives of people you care about are on the table—everyone turns pragmatic.”

  “But if everyone thinks like that—”

  “Then nothing changes,” Re finished for him, indifferent. “Revolutions need heroes and the right conditions. Ghentuva has neither.”

  “I don't accept that,” Harlan said, stubborn.

  Re smiled faintly. “Look at that. We’ve got a hero.”

  He drained his tea and set the mug down.

  “So how are you planning to knock twenty plasma destroyers out of orbit?” Re asked. “By grunting and turning purple?”

  Harlan stared at the fire.

  “Re,” he said loudly. “When’s the next training session?”

  The old man’s eyes widened, then narrowed. A grin crept into his beard.

  “We can do it right now.”

  He set his half-finished mug aside and stood.