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right.
    But he finally was reloaded, and there were shapes in the bushes, and they were targets, and that was enough.
    Fire, pump, fire, pump, fire.
    It took a strong man to keep the barrel so level, so steady, but Dov was a very strong man.
    The only sad part was that Shimon, too busy barking out orders, didn't have time to give Dov a quick "Good boy."
    But the rest of it was pure simplicity.
    It was beautiful.

CHAPTER 3

    Warrior's Reflex

    It was one of the reasons that they were valuable, that other worlds paid them, and it was something a Metzadan was supposed to carry with him, inside him. Ari had always known he didn't have it.
    His Uncle Tzvi had explained it best, years ago, one night when Ari was guesting at his table. Ari had said something stupid—he didn't remember what—and the Sergeant had just smiled.
    "Lesson time," Tzvi Hanavi had said. He was a constant, the Sergeant was: he was always a big man, even after Ari had reached his full growth, always freshly shaven, his cheeks lightly dusted with talc. Always patient when Ari didn't understand. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, tenting stubby fingers in front of his thick lips. His eyes went vague and distant.
    "See," he said, slowly, carefully, "when it all hits the fan, most soldiers take cover. Instinct; built-in. Ninety-seven percent of green offworlders are useless as a bucket of warm piss in the first minute of a firefight, and only about ten percent get better in the first five minutes. Some of them don't use their guns at all, some fire blindly. Some freeze in place; most take cover and cower. A few take cover, then get hold of themselves, and then aim, but they're in the minority.
    "Blooded troops are better, but not much. Figure fifty percent of their riflemen return fire with any effectiveness—tops. It's instinct.
    "Which is why the real firepower from the opposition'll come from their autoguns and mortars. The crew-manned weapons, not their rifles—and for shit's sake, not the officers' pistols. You been taught about priority of fire?"
    Ari had nodded.
    "Right. The reason you go for their autoguns first isn't that they fire faster or have more ammo than the rifles—it's because the autogunners will usually aim and fire, so that's where their real firepower is.
    "We're different. From age eight you've been taught—what? Bap. Bap. Bap. Bap. What do you do, first thing when you're fired on? Quickly, now: Bap—"
    "Warrior's reflex: I return fire until—"
    "Bap."
    "—the weapon is cleared, while—"
    "Bap."
    "—seeking cover forward, reload and—"
    "Bap."
    "—empty the second magazine," Ari had said quickly.
    "Good boy. Damn straight you do."
    The drills and the training routines had driven in the words and the feel of it: of the lock-load-charge-auto-aim-fire if the weapon was unloaded, of the charge-auto-aim-fire if it was loaded, of diving to the ground, the slam of the rifle butt into the ground to break the fall, rolling over onto his side for cover while reloading, finding hasty targets while he emptied his second magazine. Each step had been analyzed, each step had been practiced thousands and thousands of times until it was the most natural thing in the world. And there had been more: the drugs and hypno sessions that he could only dimly recall, all to make the warrior's reflex as automatic and involuntary as the gag reflex.
    "It just might keep you alive," the Sergeant had said. "Sure to keep some of your cousins and brothers alive who'd be dead otherwise. Works in a lot of situations, not just charging an ambush. Indirect fire, too. Most of the time—"
    "Tzvi— enough . Let the boy eat," Aunt Tabe'in, the Sergeant's new wife, had interrupted. She was a small, dark woman from clan Aroni, mainly of Beta Yisroel stock. With a quick flick of her hand she tried to wave the discussion away.
    The Sergeant took her hand, gently but firmly, and put it in her lap. "No," he had said, speaking as patiently but adamantly as