Chapter 1- The Test

Evan Eriksson was a solidly-built, stocky boy, of average height, and he was easily one of the most respected boys in the Class of 2016. Not the most well-known, but everybody who did either liked him or knew better than to trifle with him. He was even-tempered, difficult to make angry, but the mere threat of his anger was nearly always enough to make the one it was directed at reconsider. Eriksson was a Cadet Staff Sergeant, a squad leader within Charlie Company, and he was working on a history class assignment in his room during 1st CQ, Call to Quarters or simply study hall in civilian terms, when Nicholas Golan came in.

Blond, green/gray-eyed and standing at five-foot-nine, Nicholas Golan might not have been the strongest member of the Corps of Cadets, but he was beyond a doubt one of the smartest. He was well-known for his idealistic, emotional embrace of the military lifestyle, and he was an outspoken, tenacious opponent of bullies in the barracks. He had first come to prominence in his first semester three years ago, when he had squared off with a football player a foot taller and considerably stronger than he was.

XX

The football player had been cruelly mocking a skinny younger cadet in a side room under the main administration and mess hall building, Collins Hall, knocking the boy's head against one of the vending machines while two of his buddies looked on, laughing.

Up till then, Golan, leaning up against the wall near a window, had gone unnoticed. He was the only other boy in the room, and he hadn't even merited a glance when the three athletes had come in.

But the blond had pushed off the wall, crossed the room in an incredibly short time, and placed one outstretched hand against the lead athlete's shoulder. The taller boy was considerably stronger, and yet Golan had caught him off guard and pushed plenty hard enough to send him staggering- he almost fell down.

And when the big football player, standing less than a foot from him and flanked by two of his friends, had begun to bluster and make threats of what would happen if Golan did that again, Golan stared up at him, hands on his hips, looking him straight in the eye. And he'd said, "You'll have to kill me to mess with that kid again."

It wasn't something you heard a teenage boy say every day. The incident had been heard of by practically every one of the one hundred and fifty boys there that summer, and it had made Golan famous within their ranks overnight. Like it or not, he had suddenly become a public figure, a boy every other cadet knew. He was all over the school in a day, it seemed, and never failed to step in when he felt something needed to be done.

Many younger cadets loved him, and barracks bullies soon found it much more convenient to pick on somebody when Nicholas Golan wasn't in the room. Golan could be difficult to get along with, and he had fewer friends than the typical cadet did. But he was generally respected, and his good relations with the faculty and staff made him difficult to touch, though Golan wasn't seen as a teacher's pet or a snitch. He was just someone the staff liked and most cadets respected, and if that came at the price of being a little distant compared to the other boys, that was fine. In fact, Golan preferred it that way.

XX

Tonight, wearing his blue-gray Class B service uniform, Golan came into Eriksson's room without hardly making a sound. He weighed 155 pounds and stepped lightly; he sometimes startled even staff members by how quietly he could come into the room. It wasn't even intentional much of the time; Golan just stepped with a light foot. Eriksson noticed him, though; with the lights in the room and in the hallway on, filling the whole barracks with white light, it was hard to sneak up on anybody.

Golan walked over to the first desk, dropping easily into the padded wooden chair Eriksson's roommate usually occupied. He held a textbook in his hands, and smiled at Eriksson as the stocky boy glanced his way.

"You busy right now, Eriksson?" he asked.

"Working on this paper for Major Harrison," Eriksson answered, somewhat hoping Golan wouldn't take too much time with whatever he wanted. And he did seem to want something; his eyes were alive, dancing with an oddly intense energy; it was a look he only got if he had something on his mind that really, really interested him.

"Well, actually," Golan answered, taking a moment to check for dust on his black cloth shoulderboards, each bearing the three silver discs of a Cadet Captain, "It was Major Harrison I wanted to talk to you about. Sort of."

Giving up on his writing for the moment, Eriksson set down his pencil, brown eyes regarding Golan's green/gray ones. "So what's up?"

The blond threw a glance back toward the door. "Mind if I close that?"

"It's second CQ's, man," Eriksson answered. "Captain Finch isn't gonna go for it."

"Well, good thing I asked Captain Finch about it when I stopped by the Commandant's Office after 3rd Mess this afternoon," Golan grinned, winking. He got up and closed the door, came over to the chair he'd been sitting in and sat back down.

"Seriously, man," Eriksson said, a little patience starting to slip. "I got homework I gotta do. What's up?"

"Oh, don't worry," the blond answered quickly. "I won't take much of your time." He paused, staring at the floor for a moment. He seemed to be gathering his thoughts. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his thighs, and glanced up at Eriksson.

"You like Major Harrison, Eriksson?"

"Sure. He's pretty cool."

Golan smiled. "I think he is, too. He's so smart, man, knows his shit like nobody else, but he's never boring. I like history, I'm into that shit, you know I am. But even if I fucking hated it, he'd make me love it."

Eriksson smiled, laughing a little. Golan could be pretty good with words sometimes. "True enough."

Another pause. "Did you know he's writing a history of the school?"

Eriksson shook his head. "Nah."

"He is," Golan nodded. "And he's working through it right now. Probably be publishing it pretty soon. He's saying he might be sending a complete draft of it off to the printers before we graduate this summer."

"Sounds good," Eriksson said with a shrug. "Sorry, man, but why should I care about this?"

Golan leaned forward just a little more, lowering his voice. "He's got this section in it, man. A footnote in one of the chapters. And he's got some stuff in it that…" Golan trailed off, looking away. He laughed. "Dude, it isn't true at all. But Major Harrison, somehow or another, he's convinced himself it is. And if he publishes this book with that little sub-chapter in it, man, he's gonna look like a fuckin' idiot." Golan paused again. "Okay, Eriksson. Here's… here's what I need. There's some cadets at this school, guys I know. We really respect Major Harrison, you know? We admire him. And we don't wanna see him embarrassed, especially not with his first book."

Another pause. "Eriksson, there's a letter, okay? In his office, in the second drawer on the left side of his desk. Supposedly it's a letter from one Remington grad to another; it talks about some fucking-" Golan laughed again- "secret society of cadets!" He shook his head, laughing again. "Well, that letter's bullshit, man. I know. I've done as much research as Major Harrison has, and that letter's a fake. You know some guy wrote a letter to the London police way back, claiming he was Jack the Ripper? A while later they proved it was fake. This is the same thing."

Quietly, Golan looked intently at Eriksson and began to speak. "I need you to do me a favor, man. You don't have to if you don't want to. But me, some guys I know, we're trying to help Major Harrison and there's only one way we can do it. If you can find an excuse to get out of the barracks next Thursday, I think you'll find the door on the far south end of Kusinis Hall unlocked. Janitor forgets to lock that one sometimes, you know. Go up to Major Harrison's classroom, go in his office, second drawer, left side of the desk. He keeps his papers for his book in there. That's where the letter is. You'll know it when you see it. Trust me."

Raising his eyebrows, the dark-haired Eriksson looked at Golan. "So… you want me to destroy this letter?"

Eyes suddenly jumping wide with alarm, the blond held up his hands. "No!" He lowered his voice, took a moment to calm himself. "No, don't do that. It's, uh, better if you bring it to me. Next Thursday's my shift for duty down at the TAC office. I'm gonna be out of the barracks that night. My room'll be open. Just leave it in the drawer for me."

A long pause. Golan looked curiously at Eriksson again. "So. You think you can do it?"

"Sure."

Golan looked surprised. "Really?"

"Yep. Sure. I'll do it."

The blond cadet grinned, taking his textbook in one hand and getting up. "Great, man. Really, I appreciate it."

"No problem."

Golan paused at the door. "Oh, uh, you do this, man? Some guys at this school are gonna be real happy with you. Just think about that, okay?"

XX

The following Thursday, after sitting at a desk and pretty much just shooting the bull with Captain Finch and Master Gunnery Sergeant Thompson for an hour and a half, Nicholas Golan gathered up his notebooks, binder and textbooks, stuffed them in his backpack and headed back to Singer Hall barracks. His cramped- but single bed- third-floor room was indeed open. Golan had deliberately forgotten to close it completely when he'd left for 3rd Mess formation at 1700. Since only other Battalion Staff cadets occupied the narrow confines of the 3rd floor of Singer Hall, little mistakes like this, rare as they were, usually went unnoticed and unpunished.

It had been an exciting day. Ordinary in all respects, except for one thing, and that one thing was enough to keep the blond teenager practically bouncing on his feet from Reveille to clear through the rest of the day.

And as he entered his room, closing the door shut behind him, Golan's heart-rate picked up as he crossed the room and flicked on the lamp at his desk. Its low buzz filled the otherwise silent room- silent, that is, except for the Battalion XO's contraband stereo thumping down the hall.

Finally, unable to take the suspense any longer, the blond seventeen-year-old reached down to his simple, aging wooden desk and pulled the drawer out. He saw a single white envelope sitting on top of his notebooks and paper, and as he picked the envelope up and looked at it, Golan smiled.

The envelope was there. Eriksson had done just what Golan had asked. Inside were the Remington graduate's letter, and a draft of Major Harrison's chapter on Honor Corps. Too curious not to, the blond took out and unfolded the draft sheet and began to read.

XX

On the outside, an extremely short haircut is rarely something that draws positive attention. It makes people nervous, especially when the individual concerned is a physically fit young man. People will think of rebels, of "skin-heads", neo-Nazis and fascists, individuals with little discipline, no respectable occupation or role in society. No matter what term is used, what label applied, the connotations of a next-to-nonexistent haircut are nearly always negative in the civilian world.

In military culture, however, the complete opposite is true. New recruits of all services go through basic training having their hair routinely cut down to nothing, and some keep it that way even after graduation. Drill instructors and special forces operatives will sometimes go for the look.

And in the world of the military school cadet, the story is much the same. Among cadets, teenage boys who in most cases are not happy about being there, the common sight is someone trying to break haircut regulations any way possible. To rebel against the rigidness of life at a military boarding school, to regain their lost freedom. Equally common is a cadet staying within regulations, his hair shorter than average but still plenty visible.

But at many a military boarding school, there is a clear sense of pride among those boys who specifically ask the barber to cut their hair shorter than is even required. These are the rarest of the rare. The boys who have either accepted and even come to enjoy their new life despite being forced into it, and the volunteers- boys who actually asked and in some cases even fought to convince their parents to send them to a military boarding school.

They wear their hair as short as possible, and even among the most disgruntled cadets it has a clear symbolism- embracement of the school's military lifestyle. The shorter your haircut, the more dedicated you are. Though unpopular among the rebellious and dissatisfied cadets that comprise a good portion of the Corps of Cadets, these boys are often left alone, for a few reasons.

They are often in good shape, able and willing to defend themselves in a scuffle. Those that are not have friends willing to help, as such boys all know one another. They are loyal to their school and to the highly-charismatic war hero, the colonel or general who typically leads it- some to the point of fanaticism. But at a Tiverton, Rhode Island school called Remington Military Academy, there is one other reason.

The boys with the shortest hair are, more often than not, members of the Honor Corps.

Rumors, myths and barracks legends of the Corps have existed for most of RMA's history. They are said to be the unofficial, ghostly MPs of the school, "policing" the barracks and dealing with the most rebellious and unrepentant boys. Coming up with ways to get rid of them, make them examples, 'encouraging' everyone else to shape up.

One of the most persistent rumors is that Honor Corps are always among the top 10% of a given graduating class. The most physically and mentally fit, militarily and academically proficient, loyal cadets in the school. They are connected, influential, and each new generation of alumni brings them greater strength in the world outside of Remington.

If one assembles enough of the pieces, lists each rumor and each claimed fact, a remarkably detailed picture of a supposedly-nonexistent organization appears. The first rumors date back to 1941, when-

"Fucking bullshit," Golan hissed, tearing his eyes away and crumpling the paper. Major Harrison was a good man, but he was too fucking smart for his own good. And for somebody who was as accepted and liked by the cadets at Remington as he was, Harrison sure didn't know when to keep his mouth shut. Or when not to ask questions.

The blond shoved the draft paper of Major Harrison's book chapter in his pocket and pulled the actual letter itself, dated September 1st, 1957, out of the envelope. It was pretty interesting, and unsettling when you looked at how much crap this Class of 1951 grad had gone and written down. Definitely against the rules, and at the same time a nice piece of source material for somebody writing a book.

But suddenly, with no source, with no physical evidence to show or present, Major Harrison would be left without a choice. He'd have to cut his brief, mostly-speculative but much too accurate 'history' of the Honor Corps out of the upcoming "Years of Change, Years of Growth: A History of Remington Military Academy 1973-2013".

Because it would just be unprofessional, sourcelessly talking about something that already didn't exist.

The boys attending Remington today liked Major Harrison. He made history class interesting, made it personal. He could make you feel what it was like to have been on General Lee's staff when he commanded the Army of Northern Virginia- the endless supply, manpower, and strategic problems you would've faced. He could tell you not just how many bullets an AK-47's magazine carried or how fast and far it could shoot- the facts- but the personal stuff. Its toughness, its near-flawless reliability. How it inspired confidence, gave strength and courage to entire armies of rebels and professional fighting men alike. The personal things, what you'd have seen, thought and felt if you were actually there.

But the old men who had gone to Remington in years past, men like Golan's father- they didn't know Major Harrison. There were wealthy, successful, influential men among them, men who simply wouldn't care how nice a guy Major Walter Harrison was if he published a book with lying, slanderous bullshit in even one chapter of it. Some of these men would not be amused, would be much worse than just not amused. Losing his job here so abruptly would be a personal loss for Major Harrison, and a blow for his career. Yet the boys had been deadlocked when a Formation was called; nobody could make up their minds about what action to take.

So together with a fellow Battalion Staff member, a boy named St. Esprit, Nicholas Golan had acted instead.

He'd asked a friend of his, a potential candidate for initiation before the end of the year, to help. All the help that was provided to him in turn was a few unlocked doors, courtesy of an arranged extra paid week's vacation for Mr. Gordon, one of the janitors. Both individuals had come through magnificently.

XX

Puzzlingly, though, when Golan paid him a visit that night just before "Taps" and thanked him, Eriksson declined the offer to "meet some guys I know," as Golan had put it. He'd been polite in saying no, but hadn't really given a reason. Why did he say no, though? Golan knew Eriksson was a smart guy, as smart as he was. Eriksson had to know what the blond had 'really' been offering him there.

How could anybody say no to that?