Tales from the Academy

Chapter 4

"Nine ring! Two o'clock!"

Anny lay on her stomach and squinted through the sight of her rifle at the distant target. She steadied the weapon, slowly let out her breath, and then squeezed the trigger. The slug-thrower slammed her shoulder and let out a sharp crack.

"Eight ring! Five o-clock!" said the spotter.

"Keep the weapon tight against your shoulder, cadet," said Sergeant Byrne from behind her.

"Yes, sir," she answered without looking up. Byrne was strolling up and down the firing line giving those helpful little bits of advice to all the shooters. Naturally, he couldn't have been behind her three shots earlier when she scored a dead-center bulls-eye! She knew that she wasn't an especially good shot, but as the Commodore had told her, marksmanship was ninety percent technique and only ten percent raw talent. Of course, that ten percent was the difference between an average shooter and a truly great one, but Anny didn't need to be great—just a bit better than average. She took another breath and aimed very carefully…

"Bulls-eye! Three-o'clock! All right, you're done." Anny rolled over and sat up. She got to her feet and handed the rifle to the spotter, who was an upperclassman. He seemed bored but not hostile—which was all Anny could hope for. "Your total score is ninety-two out of a hundred, cadet," he announced. "Not bad."

Anny retreated from the firing line to make room for the next section from her company. She sat down on the grass and was strangely pleased when Jer Naddel sat down next to her. "How'd you do?" he asked.

"Ninety-two."

Jer whistled. "I only managed an eighty-four. You're a sharpshooter!"

"Not really."

"Yes you are. Any score over ninety rates a sharpshooter ribbon." Anny looked at him in surprise. She had known that, but somehow it had never occurred to her that she might actually get one. Anny glanced around at the other cadets.

"You're taking a risk talking with me like this," she whispered.

"Why? Because I might make myself unpopular with our comrades? I've got news for you, Anny: I made myself unpopular with my friends and family back home just by coming here. And our esteemed colleagues in C Company don't like me because I'm a Komarran. So to hell with the lot of them, I'll talk to whomever I please." Jer spoke in a normal tone of voice and didn't seem to care that there were dozens of cadets within earshot.

"I hope they don't treat you as badly as… as…"

"As they treat you? No, with you to focus on they don't pay much attention to me. It's no worse than I expected."

Anny continued to whisper: "I've never been… hated before."

"It's not who you are, it's what you are. Any other woman in your spot would be treated exactly the same way. It's not personal it's just… just…"

"Barrayaran."

Jer snorted. "I was going to say stupid, but that will do just as well."

They had a few rare minutes of free time while the remaining two section of the company took their turn on the firing range. Anny decided to take advantage of it. "So what are you doing here, Jer?"

He shrugged. "Trying to stay ahead of the curve."

"What?"

"Oh, that's just a Komarran expression. Basically, I'm taking advantage of an opportunity to get ahead. No one back home would ever admit it, but Komarran society is nearly as stratified as Barrayar is with its Vors. If you're not born into a family with a lot of planetary shares, there's damn little chance to ever claw your way to the top. Oh, you can make money, that's every Komarran's birthright, but to really get ahead is about as rare as to become a Vor."

"It does happen from time to time," said Anny.

"Yeah, about once a generation, from what I've read. The Vors dangle that possibility in front of you just to keep the peasants in line. But it hardly ever happens. It's not that different on Komarr. But military service is a way to outflank it all if you're good enough." He paused and smiled at her. "Besides, I have this thing for shiny black boots."

Anny laughed out loud, the first real laugh she'd had since she got here. It felt good. A number of heads turned in her direction. "Yes, I'm rather partial to the boots, myself. I hope they actually let us wear them soon." She had a full set of the cadet dress grays in her quarters, but they had not been issued to the other cadets yet: full-dress formations were still a ways off. She grew more serious. "So you are just an opportunist?"

Jer shrugged again. "I'm a loyal citizen of the Empire. Komarr is a part of the Empire and likely to stay that way. Only a fool would think otherwise. And despite what my neighbors think, there are some good people on Barrayar. The Emperor seems like someone… worth following. And there is something about all of this," he paused and waved his hand at the cadets, but Anny sensed he meant far more than just the company in front of them, "which is rather… grand."

"Yes. Yes, I know what you mean. I want to become a part of it but… but I don't know if they'll ever let me in."

Jer said nothing.

They sat in silence as the third section finished its target practice. The fourth section took their place and they noted that Alby Vorsworth was at the position right in front of them. He seemed to be having trouble getting his rifle set properly. Eventually, he was ready and fired off a round. "Miss!" declared the spotter, staring into his telescope.

"You'll have better success if you keep your eyes open when you fire," said Sergeant Byrne, who came up behind Alby.

"Really, sir? Who would have guessed? I'll give it a try." Alby fired again.

"Two ring! Eight o'clock!"

"Heavens, that does make a difference, doesn't it? Let me try that again." Alby took aim, but just as he fired, his whole body twitched, pulling the muzzle of the rifle sharply to the side.

"Miss!" said the spotter.

"Are you sure? I could have sworn I hit the target."

"You did!" snarled the cadet at the firing position to Alby's right. "You hit mine!"

"Oh, dear." Sergeant Byrne knelt down beside Alby and Anny couldn't hear what he said.

"So what's the story with Alby?" she asked Jer. "He seems as out of place here as… well, as me."

"The word around the barracks is that he's the grandson of Admiral Vorsworth and the son of General Vorsworth," said Jer.

"Ah. Wait, the Admiral Vorsworth? But he must be nearly a hundred years old."

"Yes, that one. Retired and nearly dead, apparently. But I heard some of the Vors in the company talking about it. The Vorsworths have a military tradition going back a long time…"

"Yes! Centuries!"

"Right. Well, the tradition nearly came to an end when the Admiral's two grandsons were both killed in action a few decades back—before they had produced any little vorlings of their own. It seems that the General and his wife, both of them in their sixties, used uterine replicator technology to whip up Alby, there, to carry on the tradition."

"Oh, my." Anny stared at Alby, who was busy blowing holes in the ground in front of the target. Almost exactly the same situation as me! Except… except…

Except she was here because she wanted to be. Alby was here because someone else wanted him to be.

"He seems awfully young."

"They say he's only fifteen."

"What? But you have to be eighteen to come to the Academy!"

"You also have to be male—and yet here you are," said Jer with a grin. "With the right connections, anything is possible."

"True."

"As you pointed out, the Admiral is nearly a hundred years old. I guess they wanted to get Alby into uniform before the old man died."

"That's… that's not fair."

"Welcome to Barrayar."

Alby finished his fusilade and got up. "Your total score is… nine, cadet," said the spotter. "A record, if I'm not mistaken."

"Ah, well, we can't all be destined for the ground forces, can we?" replied Alby. "I see myself more suited for a desk job, anyway." Alby sauntered over to where Anny and Jer were sitting and plopped down next to them. "I think I'll stick to weapons where the computer does the aiming."

"It might be safer—for everyone," said Jer. Alby grinned and didn't seem the least offended at this slur on his marksmanship. Sergeant Byrne was conferring with the spotters and the NCO in charge of the firing range, so the whole company had a few moments free.

"So, how are you today, Miss Payne?" asked Alby. "We see so little of you around the barracks."

"I've never been in the barracks. And please call me Anny."

"I've noticed that, Anny. And I must confess that I'm a little mystified by the…"

"Hey, Worth!" shouted one of the cadets. "You're wasting your time! She don't like men—not that you qualify, anyway!" He laughed, as did a number of others.

"Well, that was rude," said Alby. "Do you wish to give him a thrashing, or should I?"

Anny snorted a laugh despite her anger at the remark. "Fighting is against the rules, Alby."

"I've heard that. Rather odd for soldiers, don't you think? I mean what else are they good for?"

Anny laughed again. For some reason Alby's irreverent manner lifted her spirits. He's a misfit—just like me.

"How are your feet, Alby?" It had been nearly two weeks since their Death March and he seemed to be getting around with no trouble.

"Oh, very well, thank you. They have some amazing remedies at the Infirmary. One of the techs there gave me a complete history of the Imperium's long struggle against blisters. I'm right as rain now. And the tech endorsed your advice about wearing two pairs of socks. I have on two right now. You did mean two on each foot, didn't you?"

"All right! Enough goldbricking!" shouted Sergeant Byrne. "Fall in! We've got work to do!" They scrambled to their feet and fell into ranks and Byrne marched them away from the firing range and back toward the main part of the campus. When they reached the parade ground he halted them and stood out in front.

"The easy part is over gentlemen! It's time to start turning you into soldiers. The first step is to get you to march like soldiers. To do that we have to get the company properly organized. For the purpose of this instruction I'm going to appoint some temporary officers and NCOs. Those of you who are selected, don't get a swelled head! These aren't even brevet promotions. You will just be placeholders until the company rates real officers and NCOs. You cannot give orders to anyone, so don't try. Got that?"

"Yes, sir!" Everyone looked on with interest. Anny began to get excited over the prospect of doing some real close order drill. Byrne took out his computer pad and looked it over.

"I'm going to be placing you based on a number of factors including your scores on those things for which you've received scores. For those of you who aren't named right now, don't get your noses out of joint! Everyone will have a turn over the next few weeks. As I call your name, step out of ranks and wait over there. Levis! Lompoc! Maddan…!"

As Byrne called off their names, the cadets went where they were told. Most had large grins on their faces. "Naddel!" Oh good, Jer got chosen. "Payne!"

What? She was so startled that she froze for a few seconds until the boy next to her gave her a nudge. Feeling awkward and incredibly conspicuous, she went over with the others. Jer was grinning at her. "He can't be serious, can he?" she whispered to him.

"Looks like." But the other cadets didn't look like they could believe it any more than she could. Some looked surprised, others looked outraged. Byrne finished his selection, sixteen cadets in all. That left about sixty to be the privates. C Company had shrunk quite a bit in the month it had existed. Some of those who had left simply couldn't stand the pace, others got fed up and resigned. Seven had left the day after the Death March.

"We'll start by placing the corporals," said Byrne. "One on the flank of each section, eight in all." He began shifting cadets around and inserting the 'corporals'. Anny fully expected to be one of those. Jer was placed at the right of the third section. They were supposed to be positioned by height, the tallest at the right end of the line. She ought to be next… But she wasn't. He finished placing the corporals.

A sergeant? Me? As Byrne had said, this was only temporary, but still…

"Lompoc! First sergeant, right end of the line, rear rank. Payne! Second sergeant, left end of the line, front rank."

Second sergeant! Anny couldn't believe it. While the first sergeant of a company had a lot of important administrative duties, when it came to the drill, the second sergeant had more responsibility than anyone except the captain. Apparently, at least one other couldn't believe it, either.

"Sergeant!" Exploded a Vor cadet named Levey. "You can't be…serious…" The boy's protest fizzled into silence under Sergeant Byrne's icy gaze. Anny didn't hesitate this time, she trotted over to her position and stood there at attention. Alby, shortest cadet in the company, and thus at the left of the line, gave her a friendly wink.

Byrne, having silenced the opposition, placed the other three sergeants, the two lieutenants and the cadet who would play captain. They were all Vor and that came as no surprise. Test scores were important, but few things counted as much as having those three letters in front of your name—no matter what the regulations might say. No, the only surprise was Anny, herself.

"In each rank, count twos!" commanded Byrne.

For the rest of the afternoon Sergeant Byrne drilled them in the School of the Company. Anny had studied the tactics manual intensely before coming to the Academy and knew exactly what she was supposed to do in each maneuver. Most of the other cadets, however, did not. Instinctively, Anny tried to help out and immediately her help was rebuffed by the cadets—some of whom were openly contemptuous. Alby, on the other hand, seemed grateful for her advice and he surely needed it: he seemed to have two left feet.

But in spite of the snubs, Anny thoroughly enjoyed herself. The company made a lot of progress just in those few hours and by the time Byrne was ready to dismiss them, they were actually starting to look like soldiers. And feel like soldiers; the pride and confidence in the air was almost palpable. As the company dispersed, Byrne called Anny aside.

"Good job today, cadet."

"Thank you, sir," replied Anny, very pleased that he'd noticed.

"You seem quite familiar with the post of second sergeant."

"I did a lot of studying before I came here, sir."

"It shows. Keep up the good work and pay no attention to the twits."

"Yes, sir, I'll try." They exchanged salutes and Anny made her way to the mess hall. The upper classes were just starting to assemble on the parade ground to conduct their evening dress parades. She was tempted to stay and watch because it really was a grand sight. But she was hungry and she had a lot to do. She caught up with Jer and Alby in the chow line.

"Nice job, Sergeant," said Jer with a grin.

"Yes, you do seem to have a knack for this marching about business," said Alby.

"Thanks. You were doing pretty well, yourself, Jer."

He snorted. "Nothing for me to do except remember if I'm a One or a Two—although I'll admit even that seemed beyond a few of our comrades."

"If that remark was directed at me, corporal, I was quite busy differentiating my left from my right. Surely, you don't expect me to remember two things at once," said Alby. They all laughed.

A cadet, coming the opposite direction with a full tray, suddenly lurched right into Anny—hard. Some of the drink on his tray splashed her. She turned and looked at him angrily. It was Levey.

"Don't think for one second you'll ever be a sergeant, Payne!" he snarled. "You'll never even be a soldier!" He moved off before Anny could think of anything to say.

"Bastard!" hissed Jer.

"From what I've heard of the Vorleveys that's a real possibility," said Alby. "But heavens, what a lout. They are supposed to be turning us into officers and gentlemen here. He might become one, but never the other."

Despite the incident, Anny's good mood quickly returned as she ate with her two friends. They are my friends! It was almost astonishing. She'd made a hundred enemies, but also two friends. Just at the moment it seemed like a very good deal.

Later, as she made her way back to her quarters she found herself smiling. Second sergeant! And a sharpshooter ribbon! It had been a good day. A day like she'd dreamed about before she got here. Maybe things were looking up at last. Even the sentries gave her no trouble. She'd managed to get an open-ended pass from the Provost and they hadn't figured out any new way to harass her yet. Perhaps she'd reward herself with an actual hot bath tonight…

She froze when she saw that the door to her quarters was standing half-open. There was no lock on the door, but she was always careful to make sure it was shut when she left. She was quite certain that it had been closed. Slowly, silently, she crept up to a window, on full alert. She tried to peer inside, but it was too dark to see anything through the filthy glass. She moved around to the door and listened. Nothing, except some insects chittering loudly in the trees. She slipped inside and felt for the lantern she kept next to the door. Her fingers found the switch and flicked it on. She tensed for combat, but no one was there.

But somebody had been.

The place was a wreck. Furniture had been smashed or upended. All her uniforms had been scattered on the floor. They looked oddly red in the lantern light…

Paint. Red paint. All over her uniforms and her gear. It was still wet. Then she saw the message painted on the wall:

Get out Bitch!

She stood there for a long while surveying the disaster. Her blood alternately boiled with rage and froze in fear. What should she do? If she reported this there would have to be an investigation: Academy property had been destroyed. The thought of whoever had done this being punished was incredibly satisfying, but could they actually find the person (or persons)? Would it end up like the Tunic Incident? Another Death March for C Company? What good would that do?

But how could she avoid it? All of her uniforms were ruined. Or were they? She got a bit of water and… no, the paint wasn't water-based. She'd need a solvent to get rid of this and it would never come completely clean. Hell, even the uniform she was wearing had grape juice on it thanks to Levey! So, even if she didn't report this, there would be no hiding it for long.

Wait a minute! Did they get everything?

The second set of gear! The huge duffle bag she'd been issued against her will on the first day! She'd stuffed it into a closet at the rear of the cottage and forgotten about it. She dashed to the closet and sighed in relief when she found it untouched. Yes! She'd roll with this punch and pretend it had hit nothing but air. The bastards were probably watching and waiting for her to come running out of the woods crying for the guard. But if she did nothing… They'd be puzzled and then frustrated. Perhaps they would even make a mistake.

Her decision made, she got to work. One of her tunics, which had been completely saturated, she turned into an impromptu paint brush. She carefully painted out the message on the wall, turning it into an odd, but not incriminating, red rectangle. Then all the ruined uniforms went on the trash pile behind the cottage. They weren't Academy property, after all, they were a gift from the Countess. She cleaned up the remaining mess as best she could. The intruders had spent most of their energy on her kit so it actually wasn't as bad as it first appeared. Two hours work had the place looking almost normal. As she was unpacking the second duffle bag she realized that they could easily come back and do this again and there would be no replacement this time. But there was little she could do about that—unless she could wheedle a few fragmentation grenades from the Ordnance Sergeant and set a tripwire... A very satisfying fantasy came and went.

She was just about to call it a night—no hot bath, darn it—when she spotted something under the little table by the door. Ah, one of her fatigue caps. Not even any paint on it, they must have missed…

It wasn't her cap.

Carefully printed on the inside sweatband was P. Mederov. It must have been dropped by one of the intruders! Mederov, he was a tall husky fellow, as she recalled. Not Vor and not one of the ones who had been openly rude to her. But he'd been here.

She'd found two friends today.

Had she found her enemy?