Tales from the Academy Honorverse

by Scott Washburn

The Royal Manticoran Naval Academy produces the officers that command the Manticoran ships that are locked in a seemingly endless war with the People's Republic of Haven. "Tales from the Academy" follows 4 young cadets through the Academy. Set in the time shortly after "In Enemy Hands".

3. Book One

Tales from the Academy

Book One

First Form

Chapter One

Patric McDermott felt like an idiot. How could he have gotten separated from the rest of the group? They were right here a moment ago. He had stopped to look out the viewport for just a few seconds and when he looked up they were nowhere in sight. He knew he should not have stopped, but how often do you get to see a battlecruiser this close?

Patric was in the main passenger corridor of the Navy's Hephaestus space station orbiting Manticore. He was one of hundreds of people in the corridor, although most-unlike him-seemed to know where they were going. He stood on his toes, adding to his already impressive two-meter height, to look over the heads of the crowd in hope of spotting someone he recognized. No luck. There were dozens of connecting corridors leading to other parts of the colossal structure. Hephaestus was over sixty kilometers long, and even though only a small fraction of it was open to unauthorized personnel, that still left far too much for a random search.

Most of the people moving purposefully past him were wearing the space black uniforms of the Royal Manticoran Navy, A few were in dark green Marine uniforms, and a very few were in civilian clothes just as Patric was. None of those civilians were part of the group he was supposed to be with.

Patric did not panic; it was not as if he were lost. He knew where he was-sort of-but more importantly he knew how to get back to the departure bay where his shuttle would be leaving in a little over an hour. He could always meet up with the group there, but he wanted to find them before that: they were going to get something to eat, and he was hungry.

"Are you all right, son?" said a voice. "You look like you're lost."

Patric spun around and found himself looking down at a navy chief petty officer who had come up behind him. The man was easily thirty centimeters shorter than he, but obviously much older. There was gray streaking his hair and mustache and an impressive number of hash marks running down his sleeve.

"Ur... no, sir, I mean yes, sir," stammered Patric. "That is, I am all right, and no I am not lost, sir."

"Don't call me 'sir', I work for a living," smiled the man. "Well, are you looking for someone then, or do you just come here to rubberneck?"

"I'm looking for the group I was with, si...um...Mister..?"

"Seaton, Jon Seaton, at your service," said the CPO.

"Mister Seaton," finished Patric. "I'm here with a group of new cadets and I seem to have lost them."

"Cadets, eh?" said Seaton. "I kind of thought so: you're a mite young-in spite of your impressive size-to be wandering around this place alone. On your way to the Academy, I take it?"

"Yes, Mister Seaton," said Patric. "My group was going to get something to eat before our shuttle left, and I got separated."

"Oh? And just how did you manage to do that?" asked Seaton with a grin.

"Well, I was looking at that ship over there," admitted Patrick, gesturing towards the viewport.

"At old Hermes, there?" said Seaton. "I guess she is worth a look at that."

"You know her?" asked Patric.

"Sure enough, she was my ship, once upon a time-or I belonged to her dependin' on how you want to look at it," said Seaton. "But you said something about eating-you hungry?"

"Uh, well yes, Mister Seaton," said Patric. "And I really should try to find my group."

"They could be in any one of a dozen mess halls by now," said the CPO. "Why don't you come with me and I'll spot you for some breakfast? Although I'm not sure I can afford to fill up that massive hull of yours."

"That's very kind of you, Mister Seaton," said Patric, somewhat taken aback. "But I couldn't possibly impose on you like that, and I do have to get back before my shuttle leaves."

"How much time do you have?" asked Seaton.

"About an hour," answered Patric, "but I shouldn't get too far from the departure bay, I don't dare miss my shuttle."

"You won't," said Seaton with a grin. "Now come along and let's get some grub."

The man turned and started to walk away; hesitantly Patric followed. After a few steps, Seaton stopped.

"Forgetting something aren't you, lad?"

"What? Oh! My bag! Thanks!" Patric ran back to where he had left his bag sitting on the deck and grabbed it. Jon Seaton just chuckled and started walking again, shaking his head.

They went down several corridors and entered the commercial sector of the station. The Navy allowed a few privately owned businesses to operate on what was otherwise an entirely military installation. Patric carefully memorized every turn so he was sure he could find his way back. They came to a tiny restaurant whose modest sign named it: 'The Drydock'. Seaton led him to an empty booth and they sat down. The CPO inserted his credit chip in the menu viewer and they both ordered. Patric saw the outrageous prices and ordered the cheapest thing he could find. Jon Seaton noticed that.

"Lost your appetite, eh? Well, they'll give you plenty to eat at the Academy-no time to eat it, but plenty to eat."

"Thank you for the breakfast, Mister Seaton," said Patric. "It's really very kind of you."

"Not at all, not at all," said Seaton, with a smile. "Glad to do it. And it gives me a chance to see what sort of grist they're putting into the mill these days. Never know when I might end up serving under one of you young whelps. Plus, the next time I see you, I'll probably have to salute."

"You have been in the Navy a long time, Mister Seaton," stated Patric, gesturing to the hash marks on his uniform sleeve.

"That I have, sixty years in war and peace. I've served under some mighty fine officers in my time, and under some not so fine ones, too, more's the pity," said Seaton, shaking his head. "The pity of the bad ones is, that away from combat they make your life miserable and in combat they tend to get you killed. Not that the good ones don't get you killed, too, but under a good officer you know that if you die it will probably mean something."

Patric just nodded his head, unsure of what to say. Fortunately, their food chose this moment to arrive, delivered by a woman wearing a grease-stained apron.

"Why, Jon! You old scoundrel! Why didn't you tell me you were here?" exclaimed the woman in obvious delight.

"Hello, Babs, didn't know if you'd be working at this ungodly hour, and me and me mate here are in a bit of a hurry," replied Seaton.

"A likely story! You're just avoiding me," the woman said with a wink. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?"

"Well pardon my bad manners!" said Seaton. "Except I can't tell you the lad's name because he hasn't told it to me."

Patric blushed and stammered, "Excuse me, my name is Patric, Patric McDermott."

"Glad to make your acquaintance, Patric," said the grinning Seaton. "Babs, this is Pat, Pat, this is Babs, the owner of this over-priced dive."

"You say the sweetest things, Jon. Glad to meet you Pat, and enjoy your meal." The woman winked at Seaton again and then walked away.

"A good woman, that one," said the petty officer. "She's kept me out of the hands of the Shore Patrol on more than one occasion. Remember that! You find the best friends in the most unlikely places and when you least expect them."

Patric nodded his head and then began eating his meal. He had ordered some sort of egg dish; they did not taste like any eggs he had ever had before, but they were good. Jon Seaton had eggs as well, but he had added a strip of meat that Patric instantly recognized as coming from the buffalo herds of his home planet. Seaton took a bite of the eggs and then reached for the condiment tray. "Good woman, but she still needs to learn how to cook," he muttered between bites.

"From your build and your speech, I would guess that you are from Gryphon, Patric, if you don't mind my asking," said Seaton, looking up from his plate.

"Yes I am, Mister Seaton," said Patric. "I guess it's pretty obvious isn't it?"

"Nothing to be ashamed of. This your first trip to Manticore?"

"It might as well be," said Patric. "My parents brought me here on a trip when I was very young, but I don't really remember anything."

"And now you are on your way to the Academy," stated Seaton.

"Yes, it's something I've always dreamed of," said Patric.

"Joining the Navy or being an officer?" asked Jon Seaton.

"The two have always seemed to go together," said Patric. "I guess I always wanted to join the Navy, but whenever I said anything about it, my parents said that if I wanted to join they wanted me to go to the Academy. After a while it seemed like the only way to do it."

"It makes sense, your parents wanting you to be an officer," nodded Seaton. "At least they are still letting you go, with the war and all."

Patric shrugged his huge shoulders. "Well, they couldn't actually stop me if I wanted to go-not legally anyway. My folks support the war effort; they know it's a fight to the finish between us and the Peeps. But my father has a pretty big spread of land on Gryphon and it's a lot of work to run. I'm the eldest and I think he wishes I would stay home to help-but he never tried to stop me from joining up. My mother is pretty worried for me though."

"Perfectly natural that she would be," said Seaton. "It's not easy seeing a child go off to the service, and it's doubly hard when there is a war. Sounds like you come from a fine family Patric. But you still haven't said anything about why you want to join or why you chose the Academy. There are plenty of easier ways to get into the Navy. Easier ways to become an officer even. And any person who does a useful job these days is helping fight the war."

"It's not just fighting the war, Mister Seaton," said Patric. "I wanted to join even before the war started." Jon Seaton quirked an eyebrow at this, and Patric sensed what the petty officer was thinking: The war had been going on for almost nine T-years, so if Patric was sixteen like most cadets, then his memories of 'before the war' must be pretty vague. The life-extending Prolong treatment did such unpredictable things to peoples' growth patterns it was impossible to guess the age of anyone above twelve or under thirty. "I'm nineteen," he said simply.

"Ah, I see. Your folks made you grow up a little bit more before turning you loose?"

"No, that wasn't it. I took the entrance exams at sixteen-and I failed," said Patric, blushing slightly. "I tried again the next year, and failed again. So I studied for another two years and finally made it this time." Patric was proud that he had been accepted, but he was embarrassed by his earlier failures. He was slightly surprised that he was telling a stranger this, but Jon Seaton was amazingly easy to talk to.

"You don't give up easy, that's a fine quality in a person," said Seaton, nodding.

"I'm not sure why I chose the Navy or the Academy," admitted Patric. "It just seemed like something worth doing, something worth belonging to, something... honorable."

"An honorable way to serve Queen and Country," nodded Seaton and Patric bobbed his head in reply. "I know what you mean, lad. Everyone has to do something with their life, and a person needs to feel like what they do has some meaning. Being in the Navy certainly means more than a lot of occupations, especially in times like these."

"I've been reading and watching HDs about the Navy for as long as I can remember," said Patric. "It just seems like something I want to be a part of."

"Well, don't believe everything you read or what you see on the HD," laughed Seaton. "The Navy isn't a bunch of perfect looking hero-types going from one adventure to another. Most of what we do is just plain, dirty, hard, boring work. But it is a mighty fine thing to be a part of, even so."

"I just hope I have what it takes to be a part of it," said Patric quietly.

"The fact that you are worried about it at all is a good sign, lad," responded Seaton. The man paused for a moment, then continued. "Some of these young ladies and gentlemen-and I'm not talking just about the nobility now-they go through the Academy and come out thinking they're the Lords of Creation. They think that just because they have the diploma and a pip on their collar that they are officers with everything that goes with the title. Stuff and nonsense! The Academy gives you the tools to become an officer. The people under your command might have to take your orders because the law says so, but you have to work to earn their respect. The good officers, the real officers, the officers that people will follow into a scrap without hesitation, work harder than anyone I know. They work to learn their jobs and they work to take care of the people under them. I don't want to scare you, young Patric, but what you've got ahead of you at the Academy is the easy part."

"It is a bit scary," admitted Patric.

"New things usually are," answered Seaton. He picked up his glass and raised it in front of him. "Well, here's to the Navy and your last meal as a free man!" Patric smiled and raised his own glass. They drained them together and set them down.

Jon Seaton glanced at his chrono and said: "We better be getting you back to your shuttle, Patric. It wouldn't do to be late today!" They got up and left the small restaurant. Seaton gave a friendly wave to the proprietor as they went.

The woman waved back. "Take care of yourself, Jon! Oh, and thanks for that recipe! It's been very popular," she called. Seaton just smiled and nodded and kept walking.

"Mr. Seaton, I can find my way back to the departure bay on my own." said Patric. "You don't have to go out of your way."

"It's not out of my way, lad, I'm headed in that direction, too. Have a shuttle to catch myself." They reached the main corridor where they had first met and turned down the passage that led to the departure bay.

"Where are you headed, Mr. Seaton?" asked Patric.

"Same place you are," answered the Chief with a grin, "Saganami Island."

Patric looked at Seaton, eyes wide with surprise. Before he could say anything, however, another voice cut in.

"Well, Chief! I see you have found my lost lamb!" Patric looked ahead and saw Cadet Lathrap. She was a Second Form cadet who was in charge of Patric's group of incoming cadets. She did not look pleased.

"I certainly found him, Ms. Lathrap," answered Seaton, "but to hear him tell it, you were the ones who were lost. We just finished a pleasant breakfast, and I was afraid I was going to have to go looking for you."

Lathrap smiled and her look of irritation faded. Patric realized that Chief Seaton had probably saved him a chewing out.

"I don't suppose he could have gotten left behind if he was with you, Chief," said Lathrap. "After all, we can't go anywhere without you, can we?"

"No, ma'am, that you can't-unless you want to hitch a ride with someone else."

Lathrap gave a look of mock surprise. "And miss the chance to ride with the premier shuttle jockey in the whole Navy? Not likely!"

Patric looked at Seaton again, but he just smiled. "Well, I can't argue with the truth, can I now? If you'll get your people aboard, ma'am, I'll try to live up to my reputation."

Lathrap chuckled and shook her head. "All right! Cadet detachment One-One-Nine! Fall in and prepare to board ship!" The mass of cadets in the departure bay, nearly a hundred of them, grabbed their bags and scrambled into several ragged lines facing Cadet Lathrap. Still dressed in civilian clothes, they did not look particularly imposing. Patric found a spot and waited while Lathrap called off the roll. She did it from memory and Patric was impressed. When she finished she ushered the mob into the waiting shuttle. As Patric ducked his head and came through the lock, he found Jon Seaton waiting for him inside.

"Care to sit up on the Flight Deck with me, Patric?" he said. "You get quite a view from up there."

"Yes!" said Patric excitedly. "Thank you very much, Mister Seaton!"

"Not at all, not at all," said Seaton. "Although I hope you can fit into the co-pilot's chair, Patric, you're not exactly built to standard specifications, are you now?"

Sporting a huge grin, Patric followed Seaton into the cockpit of the shuttle, stowed his bag, and strapped himself into the co-pilot's chair on Seaton's right. He did fit-but with not much room to spare. Seaton busied himself checking the instruments and flipping switches. Patric looked on with great interest. After a few minutes, Cadet Lathrap stuck her head through the hatch.

"So! You've found yourself a new mascot, eh, Chief? You are a fortunate man, Mr. McDermott. Any cadet Chief Seaton takes a liking to has his success guaranteed. You'll probably make admiral while I'm still a lowly lieutenant!" She withdrew before Patric could think of any reply, but he found himself looking at Seaton again.

"Now she is exaggerating a might," grinned the Chief. "But if there is anything I can help you out with, Patric, look me up-I'm not hard to find."

"Thank you again, Mr. Seaton. You've been very kind already."

"Not at all, not at all. Now let's go take a look at your new home!"

Chapter Two

The shuttle dropped away from the Hephaestus space station and headed for the blue-white planet of Manticore. The enormous station was in a geosynchronous orbit, over forty thousand kilometers above the planet's surface. From that distance, Manticore appears about the size of a dinner plate held at arm's length. Slightly more than half the visible surface was in sunlight. Hephaestus was kept above the longitude of the city of Landing, the capital of Manticore, and it was early morning there. Saganami Island is a bit further west and considerably south of Landing, so it was shortly after dawn on the island.

Not much detail could be seen of the planet from this distance and Patric was paying no attention to it anyway. The space around the station was as crowded as a piece of empty vacuum can ever be. Hephaestus was the Navy's largest ship construction and repair facility. There were dozens of other facilities throughout the system, but none as large or as busy as this one. The station was a cylinder, sixty kilometers long, with scores of building slips, repair bays and docking ports sticking out at all angles. Patric could see new ships being built and older ships being repaired or refitted. Other ships floated nearby, apparently waiting their turn. All manner of auxiliary craft flitted about, hauling components and materiel to where they were needed.

Patric had been infatuated with space ships, and particularly warships, since he was a small child. That was no small factor in his decision to join the Navy. His room at home was so cluttered with models and pictures that it resembled a scaled-down version of what Patric was seeing through the viewport of the shuttle. His younger siblings and cousins sometimes referred to him as 'The Mad Shipwright'. Patric's head swiveled around and he tried to take in everything. It was impossible, of course, be he tried anyway.

"It's a bloody traffic jam around here these days," said Chief Seaton, never taking his eyes from the controls. "I don't know why they still stage the incoming cadets through Hephaestus. There are plenty of other facilities that would do, but I guess old habits die hard."

The Academy always arranged for the incoming class of cadets to arrive on Saganami Island at the same time. Over the next hour, shuttles would be headed there from various assembly points on Manticore. Cadets from off-planet would be descending from Hephaestus just as Patric's group was.

Chief Seaton maneuvered the shuttle away from the crowded space around the station and then applied more thrust. Several gravities pushed Patric back into his seat.

The transport that had brought him from Gryphon had arrived only a few hours earlier. Patric wished he could have spent longer looking at all the vessels around the space station, but sadly, the warships quickly dwindled to specks. There was plenty of civilian traffic on its way to Manticore closer by, but they did not greatly interest him.

The planet was getting perceptibly larger in the viewport when the thrust died gently away. "Thirty minutes to atmosphere," announced Jon Seaton.

Seaton lounged back in his chair and began to talk about the things that had happened to him during his long career. At any other time Patric would have been fascinated to hear Seaton's stories, but the growing realization that he would soon be at the Academy was overwhelming everything else in his mind. He smiled and nodded his head periodically, but scarcely heard a word that the Chief said.

The Academy! In a few minutes he would actually be there! For years he had dreamed of coming here. For years he had worked to make his dream a reality. And now it was really happening! Even so, there was no simple answer to Jon Seaton's question about why he wanted to go to the Academy. Some of it was simply the exuberance of youth: It seemed like an exciting and adventurous thing to do-and, of course, there were the ships. But there were other reasons. Reasons he was only dimly aware of himself.

Patric was from Gryphon. It was a chilly, wild, empty world. With twice the land area of Old Earth and a population of little more than half a billion, there was a lot more land than people. Patric's family were farmers and buffalo herders. It was a hundred kilometers to the nearest neighbor, and three hundred to the nearest town. Patric attended school through the Educational Computer Net; he only saw his classmates on rare occasions. It was not that he was lonely; he had actually enjoyed those long, solitary hours inspecting the herds or working on the robot farming equipment. He had a large, loving family with grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins sharing their sprawling homestead. But there was something missing, an unfulfilled need deep inside him. He wanted to belong to something. He loved his family, but that was just not the same-not enough. He wanted to be a part of something bigger and grander than himself. And in this corner of the galaxy, there just was not anything bigger or grander than the Royal Manticoran Navy. So now he was on his way to become a part of it.

He was a little scared; he had no trouble admitting that to himself. Well, maybe he was more than a little scared. He was not worried about the discipline or the danger; he felt he could handle those. It was the classwork. He knew he was not brilliant. He had barely passed the entrance exam-after three attempts. He was of far greater than average intelligence or he would never have made it this far, but now he would be surrounded by some of the most talented young people in the Kingdom. The thought of flunking out was like a huge boulder suspended over him. He would put everything he had into his work-but would it be enough? To be sent home a failure, a disgrace... No! It hasn't happened yet! And I'm not going to let it happen!

Patric took several deep breaths and forced himself to relax. Jon Seaton did not seem to notice and continued to talk. Manticore was larger in the viewport now. Patric turned his mind away from thoughts of failure and reviewed what he knew about the Academy itself.

Edward Saganami had founded the academy, just as he had founded the Royal Manticoran Navy. When the colony ship Jason arrived at Manticore in 1416 PD, there were already four Earth-built frigates waiting there to protect the colonists' claim to the planet. These ships were the core of what later became the Royal Navy. But creating that navy was neither as easy or inevitable as history made it seem. In the aftermath of the plague that struck the colony in 1454, and the efforts to establish the monarchy, few gave much thought to a navy. The frigates, which had been purchased as surplus to begin with, were neglected over a period of decades. By 1479, the year Edward Saganami was born, the ships were barely capable of hyperspace travel. They were undermanned and completely obsolete.

At the time of Manticore's colonization, Warshawski Sail equipped vessels had been in existence for nearly a century and a half. But space is vast and the wormhole junction had not yet been discovered. Manticore was just one of hundreds of new colonies scattered across that corner of the galaxy. There was little reason to worry about security. However, Manticore was well run and well funded as colonies went. Industries were established early and grew quickly. Manticore completed her first home-built starship in 1482 and was soon trading with many of the surrounding colonies. With wealth came danger.

There was nothing resembling an interstellar government in the vicinity of Manticore. The Solarian League itself was still in its infancy and was very far away. Surplus warships were available to anyone who had the money or merchant ships could be converted. It was probably inevitable that piracy would appear.

Edward Saganami was the grandson of one of the original colonists. His father, and later Edward himself, held the title of count, but for some reason, no one in the present day ever seemed to remember that. Edward's father owned large tracts of land and off-planet holdings, but put most of his resources into Manticore's fledgling shipping industry. In 1501 Edward's father accompanied one of his merchant ships on a trading run and never returned. It was never proved what had happened, but piracy was suspected.

The young Edward, only twenty-two at the time of his father's disappearance, went before the Parliament to demand military protection, not just for his own merchant ships, but for every ship flying the Manticoran flag. Trade was not yet a major factor in the planet's economy and he was turned down. Refusing to accept the result, Saganami went to the Queen, Elizabeth I, and offered to pay for the refitting of the four decrepit frigates if they could be put on an anti-piracy patrol. The aging Elizabeth was much taken with this fiery young man. She arranged to get his proposal approved and even contributed sufficient funds of her own for the construction of a modern cruiser. Saganami became so involved with the project and the selection and training of the crews that when Elizabeth formally established the Royal Navy a few years later, she named him as its Commodore. Elizabeth died shortly afterward, but her successor, Michael I, had already become friends with Saganami and thus the Navy's future was assured.

During the next four decades Edward Saganami devoted himself totally to the Navy. It was well for Manticore that it had a man such as Saganami. The space in the vicinity of Manticore grew more dangerous year by year. Pirates preyed on shipping and then planet began to prey on planet. Manticore and her sister worlds, Sphinx and Gryphon, were never directly attacked, but it was only the existence of a strong navy that prevented it. Saganami was an able administrator, but he preferred to be on the bridge of a warship. He fought in many actions and set a standard of excellence and devotion to duty that became the model for the whole Navy.

"Stand by for braking," said Jon Seaton, startling Patric out of his thoughts. Manticore now filled the viewport and seemed to be rushing toward them. Seaton rotated the shuttle so it was belly down to the planet and then applied the thrusters. Patric was pressed down into his seat by about three gravities. A few minutes later the vessel began to rock slightly as it entered the upper atmosphere. The pressure built up even more and an orange glow could be seen through the viewport. Several long minutes passed as the vessel shed its velocity. The Chief applied some forward thrust and a moment later they broke through a layer of clouds and the vast expanse of Silver Gulf and the Southern Ocean was spread before them.

"There it is," said Seaton, pointing to a speck in the distance.

One of Saganami's most important actions was to found the Academy. It was built on an island where Edward's father had constructed an estate. Saganami recognized from the beginning that the Navy could be no better than the officers commanding the ships. He took the estate, and using his own funds, built a modest school for naval officers. During its first few years it was a private school, which was simply called Saganami Academy. The Crown soon formally adopted it. The official name was the Royal Manticoran Naval Academy, but most people still referred to it by its original name. The first class had only a dozen cadets, but the Academy had grown steadily over the years. Before this year, a typical incoming class had a thousand cadets in it, of whom perhaps six or seven hundred would graduate. Patric's class had over three thousand.

The shuttle approached the island rapidly and continued to decelerate. Seaton contacted the control tower and received his approach and landing instructions. They were forced to circle twice to lose the last of their speed and this gave Patric a fine chance to look over his new home.

About a million years earlier, the island had been a huge volcano, nearly ten kilometers in diameter. Then, as they often seem to do, it had blown itself apart and the bulk of it had collapsed into the sea. A rugged, stony ring was all that remained above the water. Millennia of erosion had worn down what was left. The southern half of the ring was mostly gone by now, although a few rocky islets could be seen here and there. The northern part, slightly less than half the ring, made up the island proper. The northern shore was mostly sheer cliff, but the land sloped gradually down to the sea on the southern side. The highest ground was to the west. The eastern part was lower and flatter. Much of the volcanic harshness of the island had been softened by lush vegetation in the semi-tropical climate.

Patric could see that most of the buildings were clustered on the high ground to the west. The flat, eastern end was given over to athletic fields, a large parade ground, and the spaceport and runways of Kreskin Field. Near the center of the island a peninsula thrust southward into the sea and formed a sheltered cove. Patric could see docks and wharves but no boats. He knew that until recently the Academy had taught sailing and seamanship, but that it had been done away with. That was fine by him; he was used to the plains and tundra of Gryphon-the thought of getting into a flimsy boat and braving that huge expanse of water did not appeal to him at all. He could also see that a lot of construction was taking place on the island. Several new buildings were going up including one huge structure that was right next to the old harbor.

"Stand by for landing," announced Jon Seaton. The shuttle floated downward, feather-light on its countergravity, toward a series of circular landing pads. Patric saw several other shuttles that had already landed. Swarms of new cadets were around them or walking away. A few moments later, a slight bump told Patric that they had landed. Seaton shut down the countergravity and the thrusters and then swiveled his seat so he could look at Patric.

"Well, lad, here you are." The twinkle had left his eye and his voice was solemn. "You're about to begin the great adventure. It's not going to be easy, but I think you have what it takes. If you ever need any help or just someone to talk to, you can find me around here." He held out his hand and Patric took it.

"Thanks, Mister Seaton," said Patric, who was quite touched. "It's like you said: you find the best friends when you least expect them."

Patric unbuckled his seat harness, grabbed his bag from the storage rack, and followed the other cadets out into the morning sunshine of Saganami Island.

Chapter Three

The first thing that Patric noticed as he left the shuttle was the warm, humid air. It had been early spring where he lived on Gryphon when he left. That meant that it only got down to ten degrees below freezing at night. It was early winter in this part of Manticore, but the planet had a milder climate than Gryphon and Saganami Island was on the edge of the tropical zone. It was not as though Patric never knew hot weather; it got very hot on Gryphon in mid-summer. But if it was like this here in winter-in the early morning, Patric did not want to know what the summer was like! He hoped the surrounding ocean would help keep the temperature down.

Before Patric could worry about the weather any further, Cadet Lathrap called them to attention.

"All right boys and girls!" she bellowed. "I'm only going to have the pleasure of commanding you for a few more minutes, but you are going to look like cadets when I dismiss you! McDermott! You're the tallest. Stand right here. Lindvig! One meter behind him. The rest of you fall in to their left. Two ranks, tallest to shortest. Twenty centimeters apart. Move!"

The new cadets shuffled around for several minutes comparing heights before they were all settled in place. Lathrap cajoled them along the whole time. Finally they were arranged to her satisfaction.

"You will count off by fours from right to left. McDermott and Lindvig are number ones. Let's see if the rest of you can count up to four. In two ranks, count fours!"

Patric and the tall youth behind him hesitated for an instant and then shouted out "One!" almost simultaneously. The people next to their left shouted "Two!" and it went down the line. The count got about two-thirds of the way to the end before someone fumbled it. Lathrap snorted in disgust and made them do it again. This time they got it right.

"When I give the command, each group of four in the front rank will wheel around to the right, swinging like a door. The number one person is the hinge. You folks in the rear rank just follow the person right in front of you. After you have wheeled ninety degrees, we all march straight ahead in a column four people wide. You got that? Okay, let's do it. Detachment! By fours, right - March!"

A marine, or even an older cadet, would have winced at the sight of them, but for total novices they did not do too badly. They ended up in a column more or less like Lathrap wanted and marching in the proper direction. Lathrap started calling off a cadence to march by. After a minute or two, they got into the rhythm and their own feet hitting the ground made a noise that was easier to stay in step with than not. Lathrap trotted up and down the column shouting encouragement. The morning was getting warmer and Patric was sweating, but somehow the steady left, right, left, right, in unison with the others, sent a small thrill through him-he was a part of it already!

Apparently Cadet Lathrap had gotten them into ranks like this on her own initiative. They caught up with, and passed, several other shuttle-loads that were just strolling along in a gaggle. The new cadets looked at Patric's group with expressions of mixed sympathy and envy. The older cadets in charge of the groups shouted something at Lathrap, but Patric did not catch the words. He glanced back and saw that at least one of the other groups was trying to get itself into a formation like theirs-Patric found himself grinning.

They marched about a kilometer and a half from the landing pads to the parade ground. In spite of the heat, Patric felt like he could march all day. The parade ground was over a kilometer square and there were a lot of people marching, walking or straggling onto it. As they left the paved road and got onto the grass, Lathrap shouted at them.

"All right! On my command, each group of fours - front and rear rank together- will swing around like doors back to the left. We want to end up like we were when we started: in two long ranks. Think you can do that?"

Without waiting to get an answer, Lathrap shouted: "By fours left, March!"

This time they did not do so well.

Several groups did not turn quickly enough and ended up stacking up behind the group in front of them. One group got confused and tried to wheel the same way they had done to begin with-to their right.

"No! No!, Your other left!" shouted Lathrap. She ran up and down, chewing them out and pushing them into a semblance of a line. Patric was proud that his group of four had done it reasonably well, although he knew they had an easier time of it by being in front.

While Lathrap was getting them sorted out, Patric reflected on how ridiculous it seemed for people who were going to become naval officers aboard starships to be worrying about a close order drill that had been obsolete as a battle tactic for over two thousand years. Even so, it had felt good. Patric had read that close order drill was used long after the practical need for it had vanished to build a sense of discipline and solidarity in military units. He was amazed at how well it worked.

Finally, Lathrap was satisfied with their formation. She stood out in front and addressed them all. "All right boys and girls! In a few moments Cadet Detachment One-One-Nine will cease to exist. When I dismiss you, you will go and find your proper battalion and company. You should know which battalion and company you belong in-it was part of your official orders!" Patric was relieved that he did know. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a few cadets trying to get to their order sheets without attracting Lathrap's attention.

"Arrayed in front of you are the four battalions of your regiment," said Lathrap, gesturing towards the parade ground. "See the four big flags? They mark the center of each battalion. First Battalion is in front of us, Second Battalion is to the left of First Battalion, and so on. The small flags mark the right of each company and have the company letter on them."

Cadet Lathrap scowled at them. "I've given you all the instruction you need to find your spots! You are on your own now-try not to screw up! Detachment! Dis-missed!" She walked away without a backward glance.

Patric was assigned to 'C' Company in the Second Battalion. He was able to find it without much difficulty although he did have to look a bit. He walked over to the row of Second Battalion company flags. There were ten companies in each battalion and he assumed 'C' company would be the third one in from the right. It was not, but he kept walking and found that it was the fifth company, which put it right next to the battalion flag.

As Patric approached his company he saw that there were two older cadets in uniform and about a dozen newcomers already there. One of the uniformed cadets was holding the staff of the company flag. The other one looked at Patric as he came up. "You assigned to 'C' Company, mister?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," answered Patric. He knew enough not to salute when he was not in uniform.

"Well, Howard," said the cadet to his comrade with the flag, "We're not likely to get anyone taller than this one. Mister! Stand right here and hold the guidon!" They placed him where they wanted him and gave him the small flag. "Just stand right here and don't move." The flag- 'guidon' the cadet had called it-was on a wooden staff about two and a half meters long with a brass point on each end. Patric stood where he had been told and felt very conspicuous.

More cadets poured onto the parade ground. There had been five or six hundred when Patric's group first arrived and several hundred more had come in the last few minutes. Looking down the road leading to the landing pads he could see more detachments headed this way. Shuttles had been landing every few minutes, but now there were no more. The rest of the incoming class would all be present very shortly.

'C' Company swelled minute by minute as the cadets found where they belonged. Patric saw several bewildered looking youths throw themselves on the mercy of some of the older cadets in order to find their spots.

Suddenly, Patric heard the sound of drums. Coming up the road from the opposite direction was a brass band. In a few moments he could see that it was the band of the Regiment of Cadets. They commenced playing some military tunes and marched back and forth across the front of the assembling battalions. They looked very smart and Patric found it quite uplifting. Some of the tunes sent a chill down his spine in spite of the heat.

Patric was good at remembering faces and one of the drummers caught his eye. He felt sure he had seen her before, but he could not imagine where. As she passed by him again he wracked his brain to try and remember where he had seen her. With a shock he realized he had seen her on HD. She was the drummer in Honor Harrington's funeral procession! Three months earlier, there had been a state funeral for Manticore's great war hero who had been murdered by the Peoples' Republic. Nearly every citizen of the Kingdom had probably seen the HD of the funeral procession. A chill of an entirely different kind went through Patric and his hand tightened on the staff of the guidon.

By this time, the last of the incoming cadets had arrived and there were about seventy-five of them clustered around each guidon. The two uniformed cadets who had been joking with each other near Patric were now, suddenly, all business.

"Attention! 'C' Company, Second Battalion, attention!" shouted the one who had first addressed Patric. "Fall in on the guidon! Two ranks, tallest to shortest!"

Some of the new cadets had already gone through this procedure and in a reasonably short time the company was formed and counted off by fours the way they wanted it. The roll was called and their names checked off on a com-pad. The other companies were doing the same. Patric's height allowed him to see what was going on and he was impressed. Three thousand new cadets with several hundred older cadets supervising them made an impressive sight. Even without uniforms, the long ranks, the flags flying in the strengthening breeze and the band playing presented a martial spectacle.

"All right, listen up!" said the cadet. "I am Cadet-Sergeant William David. I am your company commander. This is Cadet-Corporal Howard Mattingly, he is second in command. You shall address us as 'sir'! Once you are in uniform you will salute when addressing us! Is that clear?"

There came a mumbled chorus of 'yes sirs' from 'C' Company. Patric recalled Jon Seaton's warning that the Navy was not like what you saw on HD, but Patric had seen enough HD to know exactly what was coming next and he had to suppress a grin.

"What was that? I can't hear you!" shouted Cadet-Sergeant David.

"Yes, Sir!" shouted back the cadets. This same scene was being repeated all across the parade ground.

"Better," admitted David. "Cadet-Corporal Mattingly and myself are Third Form Cadets. We will be in charge of this company for approximately six months or until the Powers-That-Be decide you rate your own company officers. You will find that I am a reasonable man as long as you cooperate. Believe me, people, you do not want to give me any reason to become unreasonable!" Although Patric was probably the same age as David and outmassed him by fifty percent, he found himself sincerely believing the Cadet-Sergeant.

"Company! Attention to orders!" continued David. "In a few minutes you will be addressed by the Commandant. After that, you will be assigned to your quarters. In the meantime, you can rest in place. That means relax, you can talk in ranks, but don't move from your spot."

Patric tried to relax as he had been told, but he felt incredibly keyed-up. He exchanged friendly nods with the cadets around him, but no one seemed in a talkative mood. Patric found himself staring at the black chevrons on the gray sleeve of Cadet-Sergeant David's uniform tunic. It always seemed a bit odd to him that naval cadets should be organized and given ranks like army or marine personnel. Part of it was traditional, of course. Until recently Marine cadet officers trained at the Academy, too. And it made a certain amount of sense: If the cadets were going to learn close order drill and march and parade like army troops, they might as well be organized like them-certainly the Navy had no corresponding organization. The rank structure went along with that and it helped prevent confusion with commissioned naval officers. Patric wondered if he would ever earn any chevrons for his sleeves.

A few minutes later there was a stir among some of the uniformed cadets. The band stopped its marching about and came to a halt off to Patric's left. A ground car approached the parade ground and stopped near a raised platform by where the band had halted. The doors opened and several officers in the black uniforms of the Royal Navy got out. Patric was about a hundred and fifty meters away so he could not see a great deal. A cadet walked out in front of the platform and shouted:

"Attention - Battalions!" Patric straightened up and tried to look sharp. Cadet-Corporal Mattingly came and stood to Patric's right and relieved him of the company guidon. Cadet-Sergeant David placed himself several paces in front of the center of the company. Now Patric could see half a dozen officers approaching the platform, in their midst was another officer in a powerchair. That must be Commandant Thayer, thought Patric, I read that she couldn't walk. A ramp led up to the platform and the Commandant rolled smoothly up it and came to a halt facing the assembled cadets.

"Incoming cadets of Class Three-hundred and forty-two, I bid you welcome," said the woman. Her voice was carried clearly to every part of the field by a sophisticated sound system. "I am Rear Admiral Sylvia Thayer. As Commandant, I welcome you to the Royal Manticoran Naval Academy, I welcome you to Saganami Island, and I welcome you to this most special fellowship."

"Each and every one of you is a volunteer. Each one of you has worked hard to earn the right to stand on this field. Each of you is prepared to make sacrifices-even the ultimate sacrifice-to fulfill the duties you have freely accepted. For this you have my thanks. Our nation is going through a great trial. More is demanded from each of us than ever before. The path ahead of you has never been an easy one, now it is more demanding yet. You will face many challenges here, each greater than the one before it. At times you will think us harsh, even cruel, but sadly there is no other way. The stakes are far too high, the cost of failure far too great, for any but the best prepared and the most dedicated people to become the officers who shall one day lead us to victory."

Patric felt like he was swelling up. He had been proud that he finally made it into the Academy, but never so proud as right now. It was just dawning on him what he was becoming a part of-he thought he had known, but he realized now that it was more than he had ever suspected.

"We shall demand much of you," Thayer continued, "but you shall receive much in return. The Academy has a reputation for being one of the finest institutions of its kind in the galaxy. When you leave this place you will do so with the knowledge that you are prepared to meet the even greater challenges of active service. You will leave knowing that you can match anything fate or the enemy can send against you. You will leave knowing that you are a part of a band of brothers and sisters whose like has rarely been seen in human history. Today you are taking the first step of a great journey. I wish you good luck and Godspeed."

The Commandant finished and there was silence across the parade ground. Each person was deep in his or her own thoughts. Even the older cadets seemed moved by Thayer's words. After a few moments another officer came to the front of the platform.

"At this time the First Battalion will proceed to the New Cadet Dormitory," he said. "To avoid congestion, the other battalions will leave here at half hour intervals. While you are waiting, the company commanders are directed to give their commands instruction in the marching drill. That is all, carry out your orders."

The Commandant and her officers returned to the ground car and departed. First Battalion marched off with only a small amount of confusion. Patric's company spent the next thirty minutes doing some simple drill maneuvers. Patric found that he really enjoyed it-it made him feel special somehow. A shouted command from a cadet who Patric realized must be either his battalion commander, or someone nearly as high ranking, reassembled the battalion and they were soon on the road leading to the dormitory.

The New Cadet Dormitory was the huge structure on the edge of the harbor that Patric had noticed when they were landing. They had to march a little over a kilometer around the harbor to get to it. The sun was higher now and Patric was sweating freely from the drill and the marching. Still, he was feeling very good and self-satisfied-except that he was getting hungry. Breakfast had not been nearly big enough and he was burning up a lot of calories. Jon Seaton said we would be given plenty to eat-I hope it's soon.

The Dormitory was built on huge pilings that rose out of the water. The northern section of the building was complete, but the sections to the south were still under construction. They were surrounded by piles of construction materials and swarms of workers and robots. Several causeways led from the shore to the building. The head of the long column of Second Battalion crossed one causeway and then halted. Patric could see the first company enter through the large doors, but the rest of them stayed where they were. Cadet-Sergeant David informed them that they would enter at intervals every few minutes. Patric stood there sweating and listening to his stomach growl until it was 'C' Company's turn.

While they waited, Patric thought about how different some of what had happened today was from the things he had read and seen on HD. There were none of the clichés about physical exams and haircuts and being issued uniforms that did not fit. Under the new program of instruction, there was no time for any of that. All the physicals and examinations were done long before any new cadet reached Saganami Island. Any one who did not measure up never got here to begin with. Patric's hair was already cut to regulation length and he knew that a set of uniforms to fit his precise measurements was already waiting for him in his quarters. Indeed Patric knew a great deal about what was ahead. The official notification that he had been accepted to the Academy had been accompanied by a set of instructions. He was given access to part of the Academy computer network (Gryphon subsystem) and he was expected to familiarize himself with the Academy regulations and a great deal of other information. In the six weeks between his acceptance and his departure he had crammed all that information into his head and more besides. He had even gotten a head start on some of his classwork-he knew he was going to need that.

Patric looked behind him at the rest of 'C' Company. The grouping had not been picked randomly. Some mix of computer and human logic had decided that these young men and women could function better together than any other grouping. There would be three other cadets assigned as his roommates who had also been carefully picked, he wondered who they would be.

Eventually, it was their turn and they marched into the structure that would be their home for the next thirty-five months. It was very new, very clean, and rather boring as buildings went, but its sheer size impressed Patric. The cities on Gryphon were small and did not go in for mega-structures like this one. Even though Patric had just left a structure vastly larger, he did not equate a space station with a building people lived in. They were shown the mess halls-which unfortunately from Patric's viewpoint they did not make use of-and recreation facilities on the ground floor. A bank of lifts took them up to the fourth floor. They had the laundry and study facilities pointed out to them and then they were assigned their rooms.

Cadet-Sergeant David consulted his com-pad and called out four names and directed them to Room 400. Somewhat to his surprise, Patric was in the next group.

"Hinsworth! McDermott! Payne! Zilwicki! Room Four-Oh-One!" said David, loudly. Patric grabbed up his bag and started down the hall. Two girls and a smallish boy followed him. He found the room, opened the door, which was unlocked, and went in. The other three followed.

He found himself in a comfortable common room that had a table, a sofa and several chairs. Opening off of it was the bathroom and the four bedrooms. There was a name on each door and he stuck his head into the room that had his name. Inside was a very ordinary bedroom with a bed, desk and chair, dresser, and closet. The window had a spectacular view of the harbor. The computer terminal on his desk was on and it had the blinking icon that indicated a message was waiting for him. He was tempted to sit down and see what it was, but he knew he should meet his roommates first. He tossed his bag on the bed and returned to the common room. His roommates had just done the same thing and all of them stood and stared at each other.

One of the girls was a skinny blonde who looked disturbingly like Patric's younger sister at first glance. A closer look showed that the resemblance was only superficial. The girl had that pre-puberty look that the Prolong treatment gave, but Patric realized that she was 'wiry' rather than skinny. Some solid muscles could be seen under her tight jumpsuit. She wore her hair very short and she had a face that would have been pretty if she put a smile on it. Her most distinctive features were her large eyes that were such a pale blue that they seemed gray.

The boy was so short that he looked like he must be only nine or ten years old. He had a shock of unruly red hair and his face was covered with freckles. The corner of his mouth was twisted up in a strange sort of grin and his eyes had a twinkle of mischief in them. His expression, along with a very expensive set of clothes, hinted to Patric that he was probably of noble birth.

The other girl was just plain beautiful. She was taller than the other two and looked much older. In fact, she looked older than Patric. There was little of the adolescent look that most girls Patric's age had; this was a grown woman. Her clothes did not reveal much but she seemed to have a nice figure. Her face was very pretty and had a tasteful bit of makeup on it. Her long brown hair was tied in an elaborate set of braids that held it close to her head-and thus met regulations. She had lovely green eyes that were looking right into Patric's.

"Hi," said Patric. He suddenly realized he was staring and shook himself. "Hi," he repeated awkwardly, "I'm Patric McDermott."

"All right, break it up you two!" said the boy whose small grin had now become a big one. "Academy Regulation one-ninety-three, paragraph two, quote: No hanky-panky between First Form cadets, unquote."

Patric found himself blushing and suppressing an urge to reach out and throttle the little twerp. The girl blushed even more fiercely, but she laughed with a sweet musical voice. She smiled at Patric and he was suddenly smiling back.

"I'm Andreanne Payne, but please call me Anny," she said. There was a trace of an accent in her voice that Patric could not place.

"Pleased to meet you, Anny," said Patric. He looked at the boy and quirked his eyebrow.

"Hinsworth, Alby Hinsworth," he said. "You will find, if you check the official records, that my given name is 'Albustus', but I would prefer you to forget that as soon as possible. 'Alby' will do just fine, thank you very much."

The three of them turned to the blonde girl. She simply said: "Helen. I'm pleased to meet you all." A bell seemed to ring in the back of Patric's head, but he was not sure why. After a few moments of silence, he said:

"I'm from Gryphon, in case you had not guessed."

Anny looked a little uncomfortable. "I have lived here on Manticore for nearly ten years, but I am originally from Grayson."

"Grayson!" blurted Patric. "But, but…you're a...a..."

"Woman," supplied Alby. "I thought you had already noticed that detail, Patric."

Patric and Anny were blushing again. He wondered how this kid, literally half his size, was managing to get him so flustered?

"Yes, as Alby says, I am a woman, and I am from Grayson," said Anny Payne and her accent was much more noticeable now. Her eyes were flicking between the three of them. She was still smiling, but there was an uneasiness in her face. "I hope that is not a problem."

"Well, if you don't have a problem with it, we certainly don't," said Alby who stepped forward and offered Anny his hand. She took it and looked at Alby gratefully. Patric, determined not to be outdone by Alby, also came forward with his hand outstretched.

"Forgive me, Anny," he said shyly. "I was taken by surprise. You are very welcome here." Anny smiled more broadly and took his hand in turn; her hand was warm and soft.

"No need to apologize, Patric," she said. "I have been getting similar reactions from a lot of people lately." She turned to Alby. "Lord Hinsworth, you obviously do not remember me, but I believe we have met before."

Now it was Alby's turn to be flustered. "Uh, I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Anny."

"It was five or six years ago; I am not surprised you do not remember. My father is the deputy consul at the Grayson Embassy. We were at some state function, I do not remember what it was now, but you were there with your family and we were introduced. I trust your grandmother is well?"

"Er, yes. Admiral Givens was very well the last time I saw her." Patric and Helen stared at Alby, who was obviously not used to having a social situation slip out of his control like this. He stammered for a moment and then changed the subject. He turned to Helen.

"Obviously, I am from Manticore, how about you, Helen?"

"I'm from Manticore, but I've lived a few other places as well," she answered. The bell in Patric's head suddenly rang louder.

"Helen Zilwicki," he said, "any relation to..."

"Yes," said Helen cutting him off. "She was my mother." She turned and walked into her room without another word. The other three just stared after her.

Chapter Four

After that, it was just a hell of a lot of work.

Patric was no stranger to hard work. He had helped his father run the farm on Gryphon, he had attended school, and he had prepared for the Academy exams all at the same time. But the pace had been nothing like this. The Manticoran day was only a few minutes shorter than the one on Gryphon, but it seemed like he had to fit twice as much work into much less time.

In fact, the Academy did not make use of either Manticore's or Gryphon's clock when scheduling its 'day'. From the beginnings of interplanetary travel, mankind had used the twenty-four hour clock of Old Earth for time keeping aboard ship. Since any system would have been completely arbitrary anyway, it made sense to use the one humanity had evolved with. The Royal Navy used a twenty-four hour day divided into six, four-hour 'watches'. There was a standard 'zero-hour' that computers kept coordinated with the moment of midnight in the ruins of a small town, on a small island, on a planet few Manticorans had ever visited.

The Academy's 'day' followed exactly that of the Royal Navy. Since Manticore's day was more than an hour and thirty minutes shorter than the Navy's day, concepts like 'morning', 'afternoon', and 'evening', and even 'day' and 'night' lost meaning for the cadets. From time to time, the Navy's day coordinated fairly well with Manticore's day, but the Academy worked on a twenty-four hour a day schedule so even those times made little difference. The only exception to this was Sunday morning. Whichever watch corresponded most nearly with Manticore's Sunday morning was given over to close order drill and a review by the Commandant.

The cadets' schedules followed closely what they would encounter on shipboard. Two watches each day they were attending classes, running simulations or participating in other supervised activity. In theory that left the other sixteen hours each day free. In reality, most of those remaining hours were spent in study, doing assignments, extra duties and the mechanics of staying alive. If a cadet could squeeze in six hours of sleep he was considered lucky. Fortunately, there was no actual need for more sleep than that. Medical science had long ago devised drugs that could substitute for a few hours sleep each day, over long periods, with no ill effects-the cadets made full use of them.

Even so, it was impossible to work continuously. Sunday afternoons and evenings were left as free time for the cadets. Most of them ended up using some of that time for work and study anyway, but even a short break was very welcome.

There was no gradual easing-in to the routine. The cadets were expected to hit the ground running and Patric found himself running like mad to stay on top of the work from his second day on Saganami Island. He was familiar with the old forty-five month curriculum from his earlier attempts to get into the Academy. That would have started them out with a number of general education courses leavened with a few technical courses plus basic equipment training. The new curriculum threw everything at them at once. The idea was that they would start learning all the different skills they would need immediately. Rather than take a course in one form and then forget it in the next, they would have basically the same courses every form, they would just get harder.

Patric found it daunting. He had to learn Tactics, Strategy, Military History, Logistics, N-Space and H-Space Astrogation, Gunnery, Computers, Sensors, Electronic Counter-Measures, Ship Handling, Damage Control, Leadership, Morale, Combat Psychology, Small Craft Handling, Extra-Vehicular Activity, Staff Work Procedures, and a host of others. Even the much-reduced Engineering program had him learning about fusion plants, radiation shielding, impeller drives, hyper drives and the Warshawski sails. The cramming he had done before arrival allowed him to keep up for a while, but he felt like that huge boulder hanging over him was coming nearer and nearer. He read until his eyes burned and got less and less sleep.

But it was not all drudgery. Some of it was even fun. He liked the Zero-G training in particular. Countergravity technology allowed the construction of completely realistic training facilities that were safely on the ground. In them the cadets could learn to handle themselves and equipment in free-fall. Patric proved particularly adept at working with tools and making repairs in Zero-G. At first they worked in shirtsleeves. Later, they received their skinsuits and worked like they were in vacuum even though they were not. Finally, the training areas had the air evacuated and they did it in vacuum for real.

Patric also found the tactical simulators fascinating. The Academy had dozens of these simulators and was building many more. They were duplicates of a warship's bridge where the cadets could train. Elaborate computer simulations presented the cadets with conditions they might face in real service. At first they were used to familiarize the cadets with bridge routine and other non-combat operations. Later the cadets found themselves in simulated combat. Patric-and most of the other cadets-had played computer games before they came to the Academy that were like the simulators, but much simpler. The Academy's simulators were extremely realistic, down to the point of being able to shake the cadets around when their ship was 'hit' by enemy fire. Patric was pleased that they were given simulator instruction so soon after arrival, but he quickly found that it was a lot harder than his games back home.

Learning to pilot small craft was fun, too. He was delighted to find that his friend, Jon Seaton, did some of the instructing. Patric was not a great pilot, but he did well enough. Patric also enjoyed the close order drill. Because his size put him at the end of the line, he was made a temporary corporal in the company. The first time the whole regiment passed in review for the Commandant, Patric thought he was going to burst with pride. His size also meant that he was persuaded to 'volunteer' for the rugby team. Patric had never cared much for sports and really could not spare the time, but somehow he found himself on the team.

Patric was happy that another HD cliché about the Academy was not true. There was very little 'hazing' of the new cadets by the older ones. A talk with Jon Seaton confirmed that such things had happened in the past, but it was rare now. Patric had heard some of the cadets in his company tell of being accosted by upperclassmen but so far it had not happened to him. Part of that was because of a greater sense of solidarity among the cadets due to the war. Another reason was the fact that this new batch of 'plebes' outnumbered the combined upper classes by nearly two-to-one: there just were not enough bullies to go around. Probably the biggest reason for the lack of hazing was the physical segregation of their living quarters. All of the new cadets were housed in the New Cadet Dormitory, which was over a kilometer away from the old residence halls. When the last graduating class had left, their dorms were taken over for faculty and administration offices. When the current Fourth Form class graduated, the same thing would happen and the new incoming class would live in another section of the New Dorm which—hopefully-would be completed by then. Right now, the only upperclassmen who had routine contact with them were their company officers.

Patric knew he was lucky to have the officers he did. Cadet-Sergeant David and Cadet-Corporal Mattingly were both pretty good guys. There were some company officers that did make life difficult for their charges, but David and Mattingly were not like that. David did not hesitate to chew your head off if you did something stupid, but he could be friendly and helpful too. Although David and Mattingly lived on Patric's floor, the only time he saw them was during the Sunday drill and review and during the weekly inspection of quarters.

The First Form cadets were expected to take care of their own laundry and make certain their quarters were neat and orderly. When they reached Second Form, they would be provided with a civilian servant who would take care of those chores. This was not a luxury-the Powers-That-Be did not want the cadets wasting time on such activities once they had proved they could do them properly. The Academy had more important ways for the cadets to spend their time!

On the whole, Cadet life in the Dormitory was enjoyable. As Jon Seaton had predicted, the food was plentiful and Patric made the time to eat it. Patric got along well with his roommates and made some other friends in his company, too. Helen Zilwicki had been friendly enough after that first day, although she always seemed rather distant. Patric and the others never mentioned Helen's mother again and warned the other cadets to avoid the subject, too. Nevertheless, it was impossible not to notice the anger Helen seemed to hold inside her. During off duty bull sessions she would sometimes express opinions that were shockingly ruthless when they concerned the Peoples' Republic. When news of an Alliance victory was received, her chief interest was in how many Peeps had been killed. Patric found her intensity rather frightening.

Alby Hinsworth was puzzling too. Patric had never known anyone from the nobility, and certainly not one who was a grandson of the Second Space Lord. For some reason, Alby seemed as reluctant to discuss his famous grandmother as Helen was to discuss her famous mother. Another strange thing was that Alby avoided the other cadets from noble families. Most of those cadets tended to form their own little cliques and it was odd that Alby deliberately shunned them. Alby could be arrogant and irritating, but he was also very funny and somehow managed to defuse any anger his rude comments might generate. Bit by bit, Patric came to like the little twerp although he could never match Alby in a battle of wits, and was often made to look like a buffoon. The only one who could really handle Alby was Anny Payne.

Anny could wrap Patric and Alby around her little finger anytime she wanted-but she never did. Anny was as genuinely nice a person as Patric had ever met. She always had a friendly word and a smile for everyone-Patric liked her a lot. In fact, he realized he probably liked her too much. He told himself that he must be crazy to consider falling in love at a time like this-it was just a passing infatuation. He was falling behind in his studies and a romance would just make it worse. Besides, Anny had told them about the political ramifications of her presence at the Academy-he had no business getting mixed up in something like that! He even reminded himself that Anny's mature looks were because she was only a first generation Prolong recipient. Ninety years from now Anny would be a wizened old crone-if she was not already in her grave-while Patric would be nearly as young and strong as he was right now. Yes he had lots of good reasons not to fall in love, but it was hard to listen to any of them.

And he was not the only one who was halfway in love with Anny Payne. Most of the male cadets in his company-and a few from other companies, too-seemed smitten by Anny. The 'repressive' nature of her upbringing and her heroic attempt to 'liberate' Grayson's women made her an object of sympathy-and desire. Apparently, some long repressed male gallantry gene was being brought to the fore. Almost from the start they had hopeful males hanging around their rooms during off-hours.

Two months after they had arrived on Saganami Island Anny got a large package from her parents. It was a peculiar stringed musical instrument from Grayson that Anny called a "geetar". Patric had never seen anything like it: It was made of real wood and had no electronic parts at all. Anny could play it and sing like a dream. After that, she was more popular than ever and she would be persuaded to perform at all hours.

Fortunately, Anny's 'repressive' upbringing had taught her how to handle men. She was able to deflect unwanted amorous attention without hurting feelings. Patric was glad of that. He did not know how he would react if Anny started returning someone else's affections. Fortunately, he did not have to find out. To deal with his own feelings, he transformed his affection for her from romantic to brotherly. He became her secret guardian. Watching over her, and in his imagination keeping her from harm.

Which made the infamous "Shower Incident" all the more embarrassing.

One day, in the third month after their arrival, Patric came back to his room after class; no one else was there. He wanted to get a quick shower and get to work studying-as usual, he was falling behind again. He peeled off his clothes, threw them in the laundry basket, and went into the bathroom. He took his shower and just as he turned off the water he heard the door open in the common room and he could hear the voices of his roommates. Not wanting to hog the bathroom, he grabbed a towel and walked back to his room.

"Hi, guys," he said as he walked past them, drying his hair. Anny seemed to shrink away from him against the wall, but he assumed it was because he was still dripping wet and she did not want to get splashed. "Hi, Anny," he said as he passed.

About a half-hour later there was a knock on his door. By then he was glad for any distraction from the incredibly boring critical comparison of Jomini, Clausewitz and Anderman that he was reading for Captain Delbruck's class.

"Come on in," he said. Helen and Alby came in and closed the door behind them. Both of them had very strange expressions on their faces.

"What's up?" asked Patric.

"Ur.. uh... Patric?" said Helen.

"Yeah?" said Patric.

"Did you... uh... notice anything just now?"

"Notice what?"

"Notice Anny," said Helen who was starting to blush.

"What about her?" asked Patric who had no clue what was going on.

"Patric! Helen and I just peeled Anny off the wall!" blurted Alby.

"What! Why? Where is she? Is she okay?" said Patric, now totally confused.

"I guess she's okay," said Helen. "She's in her room with the door shut. Patric, what do you know about the customs of Grayson?"

"The same things that everybody knows, I suppose. Lots more women than men, but the men run things. Highly religious. Lots of customs that seem a little strange to us, that sort of thing-why? What's going on?"

Helen nodded her head. "Yeah, that was about all I really knew. Patric, you've seen me naked haven't you?"

Patric was startled by this seeming change of topic. "I guess I have, yes, sure-in the gymnasium locker room..."

"And here too, if I recall," interrupted Helen. "You've seem Alby naked too. And we've certainly seen you naked. Have you ever seen Anny naked?"

"Uh, ... no... I don't think so." said Patric.

"You'd certainly remember if you had," said Alby with a smirk.

"Alby!" chided Helen. "This is nothing to joke about."

"That's your opinion, I think it's quite amusing," quipped Alby.

"Think what's amusing?" said Patric, who was starting to get annoyed.

"Patric, you scared Anny right out of her skin with all your skin!" said Alby, trying hard not to smile.

"What!?"

"I just did a little quick research on my terminal," said Helen, "and it seems that public nudity just isn't done on Grayson."

"It's not?" asked Patric blankly.

"No, apparently nudity is strictly a husband and wife sort of thing and is inextricably associated with sex," said Helen.

"Sex?" said Patric in surprise. He suddenly blanched. "You mean Anny thought I wanted to..."

"No! I don't think so, Patric," said Helen hastily. "Anny's lived here for ten years, she has to know about our different attitudes. I mean on Grayson the restrooms are segregated by sex, for goodness sake! She has to know we don't do things that way here!"

Patric relaxed a little but was still upset. "Wow, I had no idea. I guess I should go apologize to her."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," said Helen, frowning. "I think you just took her by surprise when you came out of the bathroom like that. She actually seemed more upset that Alby and I saw how startled she was. She has been trying so hard not to be different, I think she was embarrassed to let herself slip so badly. It might be better to just pretend that nothing happened-and try not to let it happen again!"

So they did try, and for the most part were successful, but Patric could not look Anny in the face for a week.

Chapter Five

They're coming in again, sir!" shouted the Tactical Officer.

"Helm, come port to three-three-five," said Patric, trying to keep the tension out of his voice. "Tactical, deploy another decoy and standby on point defense."

The bridge shook, and the Damage Control Officer looked frantically at her board. "Hit on Beta Node Four," she cried, "acceleration is down eight percent!"

"Acknowledged," said Patric. He looked at the tactical display. The two Peep light cruisers had hurt him far worse than they should have been able to. They were operating separately, so he should have been able to bring the greater firepower of his heavy cruiser to bear on one of them and destroy them in detail.

So far, it had not worked out that way. They were faster and more maneuverable and were coordinating their movements skillfully. Every time he tried to close on one of them, it would fall back and the other would try to slip around for a shot up his unprotected stern. He had scored some hits on the enemy, but they did not appear to have done any significant damage.

The ship shook again as another Peep missile got through their defenses.

"Graser two is gone!" reported Damage Control. The uneven duel had been going on for nearly an hour. Patric knew they had to do something soon, or his ship would be pounded to junk. He looked at the tactical display again. He drew in a few vectors on the small repeater by his command chair. There! Maybe this will work!

"Helm, bring us to heading two-two-eight, mark fourteen. Maximum acceleration. Tactical, throw everything against Target One, rapid fire on all tubes."

"Aye aye, sir," answered both officers in unison.

Several minutes passed and Target One fell back as Patric had expected. The other Peep ship was coming in on his stern again, but he was coming in a little too fast...

"Helm! Bring us around! Course one-one-three! Tactical switch fire to Target Two!"

Patric's ship lashed out at the Peep that had been dogging them. Yes! He isn't retreating fast enough! Maybe we can finish him now! It looked good, several missiles got through to the Peep and his acceleration dropped noticeably.

"Pour it into him, 'Guns'!" said Patric to the Tactical Officer.

Several more hits were scored and Patric started to think his plan had worked. Suddenly the Sensor Officer called out:

"Sir! Look at Target One!"

Patric looked at the tactical display and his face turned white. "Helm! Hard to port! Roll ship ninety degrees!"

But it was too late. The other Peep had also reversed course and fired a missile salvo against the unshielded "kilt" of Patric's ship. Before he could turn to interpose his wedge or sidewalls, the bomb-pumped lasers of the Peep's missiles tore into the rear hammerhead. The bridge shook violently.

"Hit on Impeller Two!" shouted Damage Control. "Wedge strength is at thirty-four percent! Port sidewall is down!"

Patric looked frantically at his display, he had to do something! Then the ship shook again and all the displays went blank.

The lights in the bridge went to their normal level. Some of the cadets around Patric got up and stretched, others sat there and cursed.

"Sorry, guys," said Patric, "that was my fault."

"No it wasn't, Patric," denied Fran Daily at the sensor station, "I should have warned you about the Peep sooner."

"And you had to do something, Pat," added Wayne Todd at Tac, "they were eating us for lunch as it was."

"Maybe, but it's the captain's responsibility..."

"Indeed it is, Mr. McDermott," said another voice. Patric swiveled his chair around and saw Lieutenant Coppeé entering the simulator. "If you learned that much, then this lesson had some value."

Their instructor stood and stared at them for a few seconds and then shook his head. "A Royal Navy heavy cruiser should not have to worry about a pair of Peep light cruisers, ladies and gentlemen. You had more weapons, bigger magazines, tougher sidewalls, heavier armor, and a host of other advantages. All they had was an edge in speed and maneuverability. You played right into their hands, Mr. McDermott. You played the bull to their matador. Patience would have served you better than trying reckless charges against a more nimble foe. I realize that you have only been here four months and I really should not expect much more, but you must learn these lessons."

"What should I have done, sir?" asked Patric, his face blushing red.

"An excellent question!" said Coppeé. "But you are going to have to earn the answer. I want all of you to write an after action report on this exercise, with your recommendation for an alternate set of tactics. Have them to me before we next meet. I will give you one hint, Mr. McDermott: The last time I checked my geometry text, three points defined a plane. It should not be possible for only two enemies to get a kilt shot on an alert commander. That is all for now, dismissed."

It had not been a good day.

First, he had overslept and been late to his math class. Then he had lost one of Her Majesty's heavy cruisers in the simulator.

And the worst was yet to come.

He had received orders to report to Lt. Russell Moyen, his advisor, after his Tactics class. Patric was certain what the Lieutenant wanted to see him about: his grades. In spite of all his efforts, in spite of cutting his sleep to four hours a day, his grades continued to fall. Even the classes he did well in were suffering as he was forced to put more and more effort into the courses he was having trouble with. He did not know what to do. The boulder hanging overhead was starting to crush him.

The early destruction of his cruiser in the simulator had released him from the Tactics class ahead of schedule so he had plenty of time to fret while waiting outside Moyen's office. He worked himself into a panic, calmed down, and then sank into gloom. His dream was slipping away and he felt helpless to stop it.

By the time he was let into Lt. Moyen's office he felt like hell and must have looked like it too.

"Ah, McDermott," said the officer, "sit down. No need to look so grim, son, I'm not going to stuff you out the airlock-at least not today!"

Moyen stared at Patric for a moment. "From the look on your face, I imagine you know why I've called you here."

"Yes, sir, my grades," said Patric in resignation.

"Yes, your grades. Frankly, son, they stink."

"I know, sir. I'm sorry, sir," said Patric. He thought of a thousand excuses he could produce, but he felt sure Lt. Moyen would not be interested in any of them.

Perhaps Moyen was expecting Patric to produce those excuses. When he did not, the Lieutenant's expression softened. "Well, that's a bit of an exaggeration. Only some of your grades stink."

"Unfortunately, 'some' is still far too many. Mathematics, Astrogation, Computer Science, and Tactics are all far below acceptable. Military History is also teetering on the edge and frankly, so are you, Patric."

"I know, sir," said Patric again.

"If it was a matter of you goofing off, I'd have you out of here this day. But the record-and those dark circles under your eyes-speak for themselves. You are working yourself to death but it still isn't helping, is that right?"

"I guess it is, sir."

Moyen leaned back in his chair and looked at Patric for a few moments. "It's a hard grind, son, it's supposed to be. We make it hard in order to separate out those that really have it from those who only seem to have it." Moyen saw Patric's darkening expression. "I'm not saying that you don't have what it takes, Patric, but you are going to have to prove that you do."

The officer picked up his compad and studied it for a few seconds. "Clearly, we need to bring up the marks in those subjects I mentioned. Just as clearly it is not a matter of putting in more time-you've run out of hours in the day as it is. What you need is help, Patric."

"Yes, sir," said Patric. The fact that he was not getting his head chewed off was raising his spirits a little.

"Unfortunately, that is a problem in itself," continued Moyen. "Except in special cases, the Academy has never had the extra staff to provide tutoring for the cadets. We have always relied on upperclassmen to help the younger cadets. However, with the huge size of your class, there just are not enough upperclassmen to go around. Obviously, only some of them have the talent to act as tutors and they have their own duties as well. Those tutors we have are already booked solid. That problem will take care of itself as your class progresses through the forms, but right now you are out of luck as far as the upper classes go."

Patric nodded his head and said nothing.

"But not completely out of luck. There is a lot of talent within your own form, Patric. Some of them can help you. I will send you a list of cadets that are doing exceptionally well in your weak areas. I can't guarantee they will be able-or willing-to help you. Being able to do something does not guarantee a person can teach it to others, but I think it is your only option if you want to remain here."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," said Patric.

Moyen rubbed his chin. "There is another possibility. I'm not suggesting you do this, Patric, but I want you to keep it in mind."

"Sir?"

"Your best grades have been in the engineering subjects. You are aware of the engineering schools that have been established?"

"Yes, sir," answered Patric. He was well aware of them. They had been established about the time he took his last entrance exam. He had made up his mind to apply to one of them if he failed the Academy exams again. He looked at Lt. Moyen with an expression of mixed hope and dread.

"You are more than qualified for them, Patric. I could get you transferred to one of them without a problem. In six months you could have your commission and be an ensign on active duty. It might not be what you had hoped for, but it's still the same navy-and the same war."

Patric was sorely tempted. But to leave the Academy! After all the work to get here! He would still be in the Navy, still be an officer if he transferred, but...

Moyen was reading his expression. "This isn't a decision you have to make right now, Patric, but think it over. You have a lot of fine qualities, it would be a shame for the Navy to lose you entirely."

"But you don't have much time, Patric," continued his advisor. "You know what happens in another two months, don't you?"

Patric hesitated for an instant. "The Oath Taking, sir?"

"Yes, in two months the Queen will be coming here to receive the formal oaths of allegiance from your class. We have always delayed the Oath Taking for the incoming class to allow us to weed out those who do not have what it takes. A typical class loses from a quarter to a third of its numbers before graduation and more than half of those who drop out leave in the first six months. Rather than have people take the oath and then leave later, we delay taking the oath. Patric, I can't let you take the oath with your grades like this."

Patric swallowed and nodded his head. "I understand, sir."

"Right now you have three options," said Moyen. "You can get the help you need and get your grades up where they belong, you can transfer to the engineering schools, or you can quit and go home." Patric frowned at the suggestion of going home.

"Actually, there is a fourth option, which is to do nothing and stay on your present course. That is not a good option, Patric! If you take that option, then I will have you back in here in less than two months and you will find that your options have dropped to two: Transfer or go home. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Yes, sir, I think I do."

"Very well, I'll send that list to you and if there is anything else I can do for you, feel free to contact me. Good luck, Mr. McDermott."

Patric stood up and saluted. "Thank you, sir."

He left Stauffer Hall, where Lt. Moyen had his office, and started towards the Cadet Dormitory. He felt a little better. The option of staying in the Navy as an engineering officer beat getting hit in the face with a wet pseudo-halibut any day of the week.

But was it really what he wanted?

This was one of those days where the Navy day coincided fairly well with Manticore's day. It was late afternoon; the sun was sinking towards the horizon and shining in Patric's face. He found himself walking past the turn-off that led to the dormitory and continuing on, toward Kreskin Field. He passed a detachment of older cadets who were crawling over a pair of Javelin Advanced Trainers. Patric had not had a chance to fly one of those yet-and maybe I never will-he thought glumly.

He walked over to the small-craft hangers. There were a number of them, but he was looking for one in particular. Eventually he saw a gray-haired man in a pair of dirty coveralls working on a small shuttle. Patric came up behind him and watched for a while.

"Hi, Chief," he said at last.

The man turned around. "Well! Well! It's Cadet McDermott! Finally pried his nose out of those books long enough to come visit an old man!"

"You're not so old, Jon," said Patric quietly.

"Old enough," said Jon Seaton with a grin. "But I'm glad to see you, lad. I was beginning to think you had forgotten about me."

"I'll never forget you, Jon."

Seaton looked at Patric for a moment. "Come in to my office, I'll get you some coffee."

They walked over to a small pre-fabricated office inside the cavernous hanger. Seaton poured two cups of coffee and offered one to Patric. They sat down on a pair of worn chairs. Seaton continued to stare at Patric.

"Well, out with!" he said finally. "You look like ten light years of grav-turbulence! What's the problem, young Patric?"

So Patric told him. By the time he finished, the sun had vanished into the ocean and the lights around the field were blazing. The two men sat in silence for several minutes.

"It's a cruel thing, Patric. They take in these boys and girls. Work them near to death and then tell them they don't measure up. A cruel thing."

"But they have to, Jon," said Patric. "They can't let incompetent officers graduate! Think what that would do to the Fleet!"

Jon Seaton quirked an eyebrow and gave a faint smile. "You're right, lad, it's good to see you realize that. But it is still hard-and incompetents slip through just the same. So what are you going to do?"

"I don't really know, Jon. I'm not going home, though. That much I have decided. If I can't cut it here, I'll transfer to the engineering school."

"The Navy always needs good engineering officers, Patric, but I hope you haven't given up on the Academy yet-who'd come visit me down here?"

"I don't know, Jon. I don't want to leave, but I'm so tired. Tired of never catching up, tired of looking stupid in class, ...tired of failing." Patric dropped his eyes and stared at the floor.

Seaton scratched at his mustache for a while. "I can't say I blame you, Patric. I wouldn't last a week as a cadet-I know my own limitations. But I don't think you've reached yours yet. Maybe you should be an engineering officer, and maybe you should not-but you have to decide-and soon."

"I know. But like Lt. Moyen said: I even make a decision by not deciding. Still, it comes down to getting some help or leaving-sooner or later."

"I'm sure there is help to be had, Patric. There are some mighty bright young people wandering around this island," said the Chief.

"I know, Jon, but it's just so hard to..." his voice trailed off.

"Hard to what?"

Patric squirmed in his seat but said nothing. Seaton stared at him for a moment and twirled the end of his mustache absently.

"You said you were the eldest at home, is that right?" asked Seaton at last. Patric nodded his head. "You probably helped your father on the farm, didn't you?"

"Yes, a farm is a lot of work, Jon."

"I know, I almost ended up on one instead of here," said Seaton. "Best decision I ever made-but that's another story! I guess you helped your mother a lot and your brothers and sisters too." Patric nodded again.

After a long silence Jon Seaton asked: "Who did you go to when you needed help, Patric?"

Patric shrugged his shoulders. "Well... my dad always taught me to be self-reliant, to help myself."

Seaton nodded. "To stand on your own two feet, to be beholden to no one, to show no weakness. Yup, I know the type-was that way myself once. Patric, you've got a lot of pride, and it's a hard thing for a proud man to admit he needs help. But sooner or later everyone needs help, Patric. There's no shame in that."

"I know, Jon," said Patric. "But to go up to some stranger and admit that I'm stupid and expect him to help..." he trailed off again.

"First off, it's not stupid to ask for help when you need it-in your case it would be stupid not to ask, if I may be so bold. Second, why does it have to be a stranger? You have friends here, don't you?"

"Yes," admitted Patric, "but somehow that seems even worse."

"Are you afraid they'll think less of you? I've seen you helping those types with two left feet out on the drill field. Do you think less of them because of that?" Patric shook his head. "You see? It's not as bad as you thought."

Seaton leaned back in his chair and stared into space for a while.

"Patric, I can't help you with your classwork," said the Chief at last. "All I can do is give you some advice, for what it's worth. One thing you have to learn about the Navy, lad, is that we are a team. No one can go it alone. We have to work together and help each other. Like I said the first day we met, your time at the Academy is just the beginning-and you have to learn the things you'll need later. This is one of those things."

Patric nodded, but did not looked convinced.

"Now you said you were having trouble in the tactical simulator," continued Seaton. "Who's the best person you know in the sims?"

Patric was silent for a moment. "Helen Zilwicki, I suppose."

"Who just happens to be your roommate, as I recall," said Seaton with a small grin. "How about on computers?"

"Alby Hinsworth does real well with the computers," admitted Patric.

"Ah! I believe I'm seeing a pattern here. And my own sources tell me that Ms. Anny Payne is a whiz at mathematics." The Chief gave a sigh. "Patric, the people who put together the berthing schedule didn't just pull people's names out of a hat. They tried to match people's strengths and weaknesses to make good teams. It seems to me that you might be part of a really good team already-if you're willing to be part of it."

Patric sat and stared at the ground. After a moment Chief Seaton stood up.

"It's getting late, Patric-in more ways than one! I can't make your decision for you, and you aren't going to accomplish anything sitting here. Off with you now! I've given you the benefit of my years of accumulated wisdom. That's all I can do."

Patric got up slowly and then held out his hand.

"Thanks, Jon. Whatever I decide, I appreciate your help."

"Not at all, not at all," said Seaton taking his hand with a smile. "Just doing my part to keep the Navy running-now you run-I've got things to do!"

"Good night, Chief," said Patric.

Patric did not go straight back to the dormitory, but he got there eventually. During the walk, he changed his mind about a dozen times. The thought of more classwork-even with help-made the idea of transferring very attractive. He had always been good with tools and machines and the thought of spending his career in the engine room instead of the bridge did not seem so bad. But the thought of leaving the Academy, leaving his friends-leaving Anny-was like a lump of lead in his heart. A lot of cadets had left the Academy already. Nine from his company alone. Sometimes you saw them go and they might volunteer why-bad grades, homesickness, misplaced expectations, whatever. Other times they just were not there at the next role-call . He walked along the well-lit paths of the campus. By the time he returned to the Dormitory, it was nearly the end of the Academy day, but he still had not made up his mind.

He slowly crossed the causeway and entered the building. He dreaded returning to his room, because he knew he would not be able to put off a decision any longer when he got there. Finally, he took the lift up to the fourth floor. When the doors opened he could hear roars of laughter coming from down the hall. After a moment he could hear music and a strong voice raised in song:

"Oh, I know we're just First Form, but my bed is soft and warm,

I don't want to get up, but I have to;

And the shipboard time we crave, is a long way down the wave,

And next week, they're turning up the grav, too!"

Patric grinned in spite of his gloom. It was Jonathan Cresswell-Jones, a cadet in his company. Everyone called him JC and he had a knack for making up irreverent songs about the Academy. He had teamed up with Anny Payne and her geetar to turn out some outrageous stuff. Right now he was singing one of the cadets' favorites: "The Plebes' Lament". As Patric walked towards his room, a dozen more voices joined in on the chorus:

"Curst upperclassmen,

your rules sorely chafe!

I'll grab me a cycle,

and run me a strafe!

Oh, we are un-grateful brutes, with our heads skinned like our 'suits,

The pride of the Manticoran Na-vy!"

JC had apparently added a few new verses since Patric last heard the song. He looked in the door and saw that the common room of his quarters was packed. Anny was seated with her geetar and JC was standing next to her.

"We're all Thayer'd and worn, with our days crammed night to morn,

We're Haupt-up on engineering to-pics,

They'll Del-bruck us no gainsay, hist'ry marches day by day,

While our rooms go from Arctic to the tro-pics!"

Alby was there and Helen too. Alby couldn't carry a tune in a sack, but he was howling away on the choruses with the rest of them. Even Helen was joining in.

Near twenty cent'ries,

Of Diaspora's glow;

It just might be longer

'fore WE get to go!

Oh, we are un-grateful brutes, with our heads skinned like our 'suits,

The pride of the Manticoran Na-vy!

Anny smiled and waved when she saw Patric standing by the door, but she did not miss a beat with her geetar.

Oh, my marks and welts look swell - thanks to Angel Gabriel,

Vagner's Valkyries ride our shoulders;

Oh, do Pique our int'rest now; let the Spartans show us how,

Sisyphus could juggle all OUR boul-ders!

Patric found himself joining in on the last chorus.

More simulations?

Oh, DON'T make it so!

Bring up your sidewalls -

My brain's gonna blow!

Oh, we are un-grateful brutes, with our heads skinned like our 'suits,

The pride of the Manticoran Na-vy!*

They finished up with a flourish and the room dissolved into a torrent of laughs, shouts and whoops. Eventually the commotion died down and after a few minutes the other cadets started to filter out of the room. It was all the break they could afford, they had to get back to work. Patric saw JC try to plant a kiss on Anny's cheek, but she skillfully eluded him and shooed him out the door with a laugh.

Somewhere in the middle of the song, Patric had made up his mind.

When the last of the other cadets had left, he came into the room and shut the door. Anny was putting her geetar back in its case and Helen and Alby were starting towards their rooms.

"Uh... guys?" said Patric hesitantly.

The other three all stopped and looked at him. He blushed and dropped his eyes.

"What is it, Patric?" asked Anny. "Is something wrong?"

Patric sat down in one of the chairs and forced himself to look in their faces-it was as hard as anything he had ever done.

"I...uh...I could use some help." He could feel his face burning.

"What kind of help?" asked Helen.

"With my classwork," said Patric. He winced slightly as he said it, but the sky did not fall on him. "I know you guys have your own plates full already, but..."

"Hey, no problem, Big Guy," said Alby, "All you had to do was ask."

"Yes, we'd be glad to help, Patric," said Anny.

"Sure! We can all work together," added Helen.

And it was that simple. The boulder was a lot easier to hold up with four pairs of hands.

* "The Plebes Lament" by the real Jonathan Cresswell-Jones, with many thanks! - sw.

Chapter Six

But even with four pairs of hands, it was still a hell of a lot of work. It took the four of them a few days to set up a routine that would allow them to work together efficiently. During that time, Patric felt like he was falling further behind than ever. He started to panic again, but the others stood by him and eventually he began making progress.

"There are a number of things you have to remember in the simulators, Patric," said Helen Zilwicki. "The first is to worry only about the things you are supposed to be worrying about. If you are at Damage Control, don't be trying to do the Navigator's job. If you at Helm, you don't need to worry about Tactical. Of course if you are playing the skipper, you do have to worry about everything, but like it or not, you must depend on your people to do their jobs and only feed you the information you really need. Information overload is one of the toughest things to avoid."

Patric nodded his head. It felt a little odd to be getting instructions from this little wisp of a girl, but there was probably no one on the whole island that had a better intuitive grasp for the tactical simulators than Helen Zilwicki. Aside from her famous mother, Helen had several other relatives in the Navy and it was obvious that she had learned a lot from them before she arrived at the Academy. The two of them were sitting in her room where she had her terminal configured in simulator mode. There was a half-light in the sky outside the window, but Patric could not remember if it was dawn or dusk.

"The most important thing if you are at Navigation, Helm, Tactical, or in the captain's chair, is to think in four dimensions. We live in a four dimensional universe-length, width, height, and time. Or X, Y, Z, and T if you prefer. Most people go through their lives only dealing with two or three dimensions at once. We have to deal with all four-all the time. It is not just where you are in three dimensions, but where you will be, and where the enemy will be, over time."

Patric knew this, but knowing it and actually being able to think that way were two different things.

"And you have two different sets of dimensional coordinates to worry about at the same time," continued Helen. "The attitude of your ship-pitch, roll, and yaw-are completely independent from the position and vector of the ship. You can be pointed one way and be actually moving in a completely different direction. Now I've set up a training sim here that I've found useful. You have one ship, and the enemy has two. You will be given a set of target coordinates that you have to get to. The enemy will be trying to get in position to fire down your throat or up your kilt. Your sole objective is to get your ship to its destination without giving the enemy those throat or kilt shots. You don't have to worry about your own weapons or anything else, this is pure maneuver. Ready? Okay, let's begin..."

It was hard, but bit by bit Patric started thinking in four dimensions the way Helen wanted him to. For Helen, it seemed as natural as breathing. She and Patric talked to Lt. Moyen and he got Patric reassigned to her tactics class so they could work together. That was quite a bonus, since just about everyone wanted to work with Helen. Word had gotten around quickly that the Academy had a new tactics wizard, and a lot of people wanted to see her in action. Patric was in awe of her ability to analyze complex tactical situations in her head and come to the right solution-sometimes she even surprised the instructors with the tricks she came up with.

He was learning a lot from working with Helen, but she could be disturbing too. At times there seemed to be some sort of computer inside her skull instead of the brain of a fourteen-year-old. During one exercise, the instructor had thrown a problem at her that was usually reserved for Fourth Form cadets. Helen took on two heavy cruisers with just one and beat them both. Patric was sitting in the Damage Control station-a post he felt very comfortable in-and watched her work her magic. One Peep cruiser exploded into a ball of plasma and a short while later the other was a drifting and abandoned wreck. Patric had hardly had anything to do.

When the life-pods started spewing out of their second adversary, the other cadets in the simulator began to cheer. They whooped and whistled as if it were a soccer game and slapped Helen on the back. The instructor came in and joined the party-she was as elated at Helen's performance as the rest of them. After a few moments Patric noticed that Helen had left the celebrating throng, had sat down at the now unoccupied Tactical Station and was fiddling with the controls. He walked over to her with a grin to give his own congratulations. The grin froze on his face when he saw what she was doing. The simulation was still running and Helen had taken manual control of the gunnery system. She was methodically blowing away the Peep life-pods. Patric wasn't sure if he was more appalled by what she was doing or awed by the fact that she was able to do it. The range was nearly three light seconds, and she was picking them off manually with scarcely a miss.

When she saw him staring, she looked at him with those steel-gray eyes of hers and said: "Just practicing." She smiled slightly, as if it were a joke, but Patric could only think: Practicing for what? Helen was definitely a scary person sometimes.

Working with Helen was all business. Working with Alby Hinsworth was anything but. Alby was as much at home with a computer as Helen was with a tactical simulator, but he used a computer for fun. The simulator was a tool for Helen, but a computer-any computer-was just a toy to Alby. Patric found himself learning all sorts of things he never would have learned from his instructors-including some things that his instructors probably did not want him to know.

"Computers are stupid," Alby would tell him, "and you have to trick them into doing what you want them to do. The people who built them and wrote the software are even stupider and you have to assume that they don't want you to be able to get the computer to do what you want."

The computers the Navy used were all the newest and most powerful available, but they were set up with software to do only the specific jobs the Navy desired. Patric's instructors wanted him to understand the system and to be able to get the maximum performance out of it within its designed parameters. Alby did not care in the slightest what the designed parameters were, and only slightly more about what the Navy expected from them.

Alby showed Patric all sorts of ways to make the computers do what the instructors wanted-even though he was not doing it the way the instructor wanted. And Alby could do it so that the instructor never even knew. Patric felt a little uneasy about Alby's methods, it seemed a little too much like cheating.

"The object is to get the job done, right?" Alby asked when Patric mentioned this to him. "What difference does it make how we do it, as long as it works? Besides, if I really wanted to cheat..." Alby started entering commands into his terminal faster than Patric could follow. Screen after screen flashed on to the terminal only to disappear before Patric could see what it was. Finally Alby stopped and leaned back in his chair. Patric read what was on Alby's monitor and then looked at him in shock.

"But, but, that's..." stammered Patric.

"It certainly is," said Alby with a grin of triumph, "the Registrars' grade records. It's just the main screen, but our grades are only a password away. Should I go in there and raise all your grades a few dozen points, Patric? It would be easier than doing all this work."

"Alby! Don't you dare!" said Patric aghast.

"Oh, Patric, you are much too pure at heart," sighed Alby.

"Have you..."

"No, I must admit that I have not actually gone in there-yet. It would be far riskier than just getting this far. But I'll keep this up my sleeve until I need it," said Alby with a sly smile.

"You're doing fine with your classes, Alby," protested Patric, "why would you ever need to raise your grades?"

"Who said anything about raising my grades?" replied Alby, and his smile grew broader.

"I don't think I understand," said Patric slowly.

"You're not supposed to," said Alby, and he refused to say anything more on the subject.

In spite of Alby's rather unconventional teaching methods, Patric made progress. As he started to understand Alby's way of doing things he also better understood the way the instructors wanted him to operate. He felt a lot better doing things the Navy way, even though Alby would tsk, tsk and shake his head.

Working with Anny Payne on Mathematics and Astrogation was hard. Not only were they very demanding subjects, but Patric found it difficult to keep his mind on business. Sitting side by side at a terminal, Patric was constantly being distracted by the warm and fragrant presence of a very pretty girl. A pretty girl that he liked very much. Anny seemed to be aware of what she was doing to Patric and after a while she had them take their compads out into one of the lounges to work. There was less privacy there, but that was probably a good thing.

Astrogation was like a combination of the tactics Helen was trying to teach him and Alby's computers. In fact, N-Space navigation was exactly like the four-dimensional exercises that Helen was running him through, but with the math added. Once he caught on to that fact, he found himself doing better in both subjects. H-space navigation was another matter. Since only a handful of humanity's most brilliant mathematicians really understood the mechanics of Hyperspace, there was a limit to what Patric could hope to grasp. Fortunately, the Academy's demands on his understanding were fairly modest. As long as he could handle the practical aspects of piloting a ship through that strange alternate dimension, his instructors would be satisfied. The computers did most of the work since the calculations for even a single hyper transit would have kept a person busy for most of a Prolong extended lifetime doing them by hand. It was mostly a matter of knowing what to tell the computers to do along with the reasons for doing so.

Patric was a little surprised that Anny understood it as well as she did. In spite of the fact that Grayson was the second most important member of the Alliance, after Manticore itself, Patric, like most people, still tended to think of Grayson as a primitive backwater that had only recently joined the modern galaxy. The popular image of Grayson's women, being relegated to domestic chores made Anny's skill even more surprising to Patric. He asked her about it during a break, being careful not to sound insulting or patronizing.

"I guess I'm not exactly typical," Anny said. She seemed a little embarrassed. "Grayson's women are better educated than most Manticorans realize, but it is true that many never get a chance to make much use of what they know. I had the advantage of parents that fully support Protector Mayhew's reforms. The example of Steadholder Harrington has not hurt either. And, of course, the fact that I was here on Manticore was a major factor too. My father sent me to a very good private school. Once I had made up my mind to come to the Academy, I was able to tailor my courses to prepare me for it."

"That must have been quite a decision," said Patric.

"I guess it was," she said smiling at him. "I'll tell you about it sometime. Come on, this isn't getting any work done."

Getting help from his friends was not as embarrassing as Patric had feared, but he was very grateful for the fact that there were some times when he could actually help them in return. Patric was much more skilled at any sort of practical engineering than the others. Even though the new curriculum had reduced engineering drastically, there was still some and Patric often helped his roommates with it. He was also better at the drill than Alby or Anny. Alby was one of those people with two left feet that Jon Seaton had mentioned. Even though the drill would have no practical use once they left the Academy, it did Patric's ego a world of good to be able to help other people with it.

There were also some subjects where all four of them were left in a quandary. The Military History and Strategy classes had them all shaking their heads. The four of them would sit in the common room trying to figure out what they were supposed to be learning.

"I just don't see the point of studying these ancient military theorists," Alby would complain. "I mean, what could SunTzu or Clausewitz possibly know about interstellar war?"

"I guess we are supposed to find things that are true no matter what the circumstances or the technology," mused Patric.

"Like what?"

"Well, that's the trick," put in Anny. "We want to find specific advice we can use, but that's not what's in there. Remember how Captain Delbruck was telling us about Jomini and Clausewitz? Both of them were trying to determine why Napoleon had been so successful. Jomini wrote specific advice of what a general should do in the field, while Clausewitz took a more theoretical approach. Initially, Jomini was much more popular since he was a lot easier to understand. But then times and technology changed and Jomini's advice was of no use anymore. Clausewitz, on the other hand, remained the chief military theorist for centuries."

"And don't forget about Mahan," said Helen. "His theories were for wet navy strategy, but Anderman took them, updated them, put his own name on them, and they're still the standard work today."

"Not that the Andermani will admit where they came from," smirked Alby. "But I still don't see the point for us. Like you say, there's nothing in them that's going help us be ensigns-or even captains-on a starship. This grand strategy stuff is for admirals, not us."

"Well, maybe you'll be an admiral someday," said Anny.

"Not if I can help it,' answered Alby.

Patric doggedly pushed ahead, day by day and week by week. He quit the rugby team and tried to make every waking hour as productive as possible. He slept like the dead each 'night' and forced himself awake to begin it all again the next 'day'. He made progress. His grades were improving across the board. But he was running out of time. Six weeks after his meeting with Lt. Moyen he received another summons to his office.

"Well, Mr. McDermott, I see you have taken my advice and gotten some help," said Moyen as Patric sat down.

"Yes, sir," answered Patric. "My roommates have been helping me a lot."

"It certainly shows in your grades. Your simulator performance is much improved. I imagine that is Cadet Zilwicki's influence. I've been meaning to sit in on one of her exercises."

"She is certainly something to see, sir."

Moyen's expression grew serious. "Patric, you have given me a bit of a problem."

"Sir?"

"Your grades have improved significantly-but not enough," said Moyen. Patric had feared Moyen would say this. He did not know what to do, what to say. He just sat there with a stricken look on his face.

"Patric, there are a set of guidelines we advisors are supposed to follow concerning minimum performance. In spite of your really admirable efforts to improve, your grade average falls below the minimum in several subjects."

"I've tried, sir..." began Patric. He felt tears gathering in his eyes and he blinked them back.

"I know you have," interrupted Moyen, "and that's the problem you have given me. If you had not tried, or you had tried but not done so well, I could insist that you drop out or transfer with a clear conscience. If you had done even a little bit better you would have been safely above the minimum and again there would be no problem for me."

Moyen leaned back in his chair and tapped a stylus on his desk while he studied Patric. "Unfortunately, you put me in a position where I have to act on my own initiative. In spite of what Colonel DuPique may have taught you, even good officers don't particularly like to use their initiative."

Patric was not sure what Moyen was talking about, but he felt a sudden glimmer of hope.

Moyen leaned forward again and fixed his eyes on Patric. "Mr. McDermott, I'm going to take a chance on you. I am going to recommend that you be allowed to continue here at the Academy..." Patric felt such a surge of relief that he missed the Lieutenant's next few words. "...not sure why I'm doing this, but sometimes you just have to go with your instincts."

"Sir... thank you, sir," stammered Patric.

"Son, I'm sticking my neck out for you. Some people are going to question my judgment-I'm depending on you not to let me down."

"I'll do my best, sir," said Patric earnestly.

"I know you will. Now get back to work and try to get those grades up before the Queen arrives."

Chapter Seven

Patric McDermott looked at the thing in his hand. How can a simple piece of metal mean so much? He was holding his cadet sword and it was an elegant and utterly priceless object to Patric. He turned it over in his hands, examining it again. The guard on the hilt was a simple crosspiece, unlike the enclosed guard on the sword of a commissioned officer. Where the crosspiece met the hilt, there was a nine-pointed star engraved in the metal. The pommel was in the shape of an ancient knight's helmet with a tiny manticore as a crest. There was elaborate scrollwork on the blade framing an area that would someday have Patric's name engraved-assuming he ever graduated. He ran his finger along the edge of the blade. It deliberately had not been sharpened-the sword was never meant to be used as a weapon. The narrow blade looked fragile, but it was made of an alloy that ancient swordsmiths would have sold their souls to possess.

It was two hours before dawn on the day the cadets would swear their oaths to the Queen. The sword had been presented to Patric-along with swords for all the other cadets-in a lengthy ceremony the previous day. That was another break with tradition caused by the changes in the Academy. In past years, the presentation of the sword was part of the Oath Taking ceremony, but the time it would take to give out swords to twenty-six hundred cadets had forced a change. For this class, the cadets would march to the parade ground with their swords already at their sides.

Patric returned the sword to the scabbard that was hanging on his belt and then looked at himself in the mirror. He was in a uniform that was as new as the sword. My Mess-Dress Uniform! he thought proudly. He felt that it was a strangely inappropriate name for a uniform that looked so sharp. The uniform he usually wore was his 'walking out' or 'undress' uniform. That had a gray tunic that came down to his hips and had wide false lapels to suggest that it was double breasted even though it was not. It had two belt loops and simple shoulder epaulets. The stand-up collar was open enough to give room for the white turtleneck that virtually all RMN personnel wore. There was thin black piping on the collar, cuffs and epaulets. Gray trousers that tucked into ankle boots and a gray beret completed the outfit. The mess-dress uniform was similar, but more ornate. There was more piping around the edge of the lapels and the skirt of the tunic was longer, with piped pockets in the back. A black stripe went down the outside seam of the trousers. The beret had a gold metal manticore adorning it instead of the embroidered patch of his regular beret. Perhaps the most noticeable item on the uniform-other than the sword-was the Academy badge. Patric's other uniforms had an embroidered patch on the right shoulder showing a knight's helmet over a nine-pointed star. The mess-dress uniform had the same symbol in gold and silver metal, but it was worn on the left breast. Patric thought the whole thing looked wonderful.

Patric became aware of a commotion out in the common room. He opened the door of his room and saw that Alby and Anny were engaged in a mock duel with their new swords.

"Ha! have at you!" shouted Alby, thrusting at Anny and missing by half a meter.

"Back you varlet! I'll chop you into chutney!" countered Anny, carefully missing Alby in return.

"Varlet, is it? Why you knave, I'll have your gizzard for that!" sputtered Alby, but he was sputtering with laughter. Anny joined him and their duel dissolved in giggles.

"What is a 'varlet', anyway?" asked Helen, who was watching.

"Beats me," admitted Anny, "it just sounded good."

Patric joined them. The others were in their mess-dress uniforms as well. They were all the same except for Helen's. Helen had a dark red sash around her waist under the belt, and she sported the collar pips of a cadet-captain. Last week Cadet-Sergeant David and Cadet-Corporal Mattingly had taken leave of 'C' Company. The First Form cadets had progressed far enough to earn their own company officers and NCOs. They still had Third Form cadets filling the battalion staff positions, but that would not be for much longer either. Ranks had been appointed based on class standings and the evaluations of the instructors. It surprised no one that Helen Zilwicki became the commander of 'C' Company-most people were betting that she became the battalion commander within a month. Helen's performance had been outstanding and Patric fully expected her to become the regimental commander someday. None of the other three had any rank. In Alby's case that was due to an amazing number of demerits he had accumulated. Alby was very smart, but he did not seem to have a military demeanor-he was constantly getting into one sort of trouble or other. Patric was surprised that Anny had not even gotten an NCO position, her grades were good enough so he did not know why she had not. Patric was a little sad that he had to give up his temporary corporal's rank, but he felt lucky to be here at all. And I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for their help. He felt a powerful affection for his friends.

"Guys, I want to thank you again for all your help. If it wasn't for you, I never would have made it."

"Hey, that's what friends are for," said Anny with a smile.

"Right!" said Alby. He held his sword so the point was in the air. "One for all!"

The others stared for a moment and then drew their swords and carefully put their points near Alby's. They touched lightly and rang like bells.

"And all for one!" they shouted together.

"The Four Rocketeers!" said Alby and they all laughed. Patric looked at his three friends, Jon was right, we really are a team.

Helen checked her chrono. "It's just about time, we better get going."

"Right, Cadet-Captain Zilwicki!" said Alby saluting with his sword. "Command, and we obey!"

"Put that thing away before you hurt somebody," said Helen, suppressing a grin.

The foursome left the room and walked out into the corridor. A number of other cadets were already milling about and the doors to most of the rooms were standing open. Helen went to the end of the corridor nearest the lobby.

"'C' Company! Fall in!" shouted Helen. She was young and her voice was still high-pitched and childlike, but nobody questioned her right to command. The sixty-four remaining members of the company spilled out into the corridor and quickly found their spots. It was no longer necessary for them to compare their sizes, or even count off-each cadet knew where they belonged. Patric was not a corporal anymore, but he was still the tallest one there; that put him on the right of the company, but in the rear rank instead of the front. Timothy Friswell was the new corporal on the right of the line. Patric was a little envious, but not jealous-Friswell had earned the spot. Maybe someday, I'll get it back. Thought Patric.

"In two ranks, Right-Face!" commanded Helen. The architects of the Cadet Dormitory had included a number of special features in the building to accommodate its unusual functions, but they had not made the corridors wide enough for a company to march along. 'C' Company filed into the lobby in two's and then halted to face the lifts. Helen checked her chrono again, "Thirty seconds-standby," she cautioned.

On schedule, all four lift doors opened. The cadets entered the cars, one section in each. The doors closed, and a few moments later they were on the ground floor. They reassembled in the main lobby. Another company, which had come down just before them, was already marching out the doors, meanwhile the lifts went back up for the next company. Patric wondered what the original author of the ancient drill regulations would have thought of the modifications the Academy had made to it. Captain Delbruck has never mentioned any troops taking lifts into battle!

Cadet-Captain Zilwicki marched her company over the causeway to a wide, paved area where the battalions were assembling. There was a considerable wait while the remainder of the regiment arrived. Helen put them at rest and went off to talk with their battalion commander.

Shortly afterward, the Cadet Band arrived. In past years there was a single band for all four forms of cadets who paraded as a single regiment. With the expansion, each new form would be its own regiment. Patric's class was in the process of putting together a regimental band, but they were not quite up to performing in front of the Queen, so they were borrowing the upperclassmen's band again today.

There was a faint glimmer of dawn in the southeastern sky when the last of the companies was in position. They were called to attention and shortly they were on the road leading to the parade ground. It still felt a little strange to be marching in the rear rank, and even stranger to only have a sword instead of the pulse rifle he normally carried while drilling.

As they approached the parade ground, Patric noticed a number of unusual things. The old reviewing stand had been replaced with a much larger and more elaborate one. Several areas had been roped off for the press and a number of HD pickups had been erected around the field. Dozens of army personnel from the Queen's Own Regiment in their elaborate dress uniforms were in evidence all around the area and Patric felt sure there were many more that he could not see. He could hear the faint whine of turbines in the distance from the security cordon of armed pinnaces that were circling the island. It's a shame they need so much security, thought Patric, it almost seems like they don't trust us! But he knew it was not the cadets that Security did not trust. The Queen was going to be here and everyone knew the Queen was going to be here, a ready-made security nightmare for the people sworn to protect Her Majesty.

The battalions marched onto the field and deployed into line facing the reviewing stand. The four battalions made a line that stretched nearly from one end of the field to the other. They were placed at rest and stood there listening to the band which had stopped near the reviewing stand. The dawn continued to grow in the sky behind them and shortly the floodlights illuminating the field were shut off and the field was plunged into twilight.

While they waited, Patric thought about what was going to happen shortly. They were going to become Officers of the Queen. Not just fighting men and women in the Armed Service of Manticore, they were swearing Oaths of Allegiance to the Queen herself. Part of him-that egalitarian, Gryphon part of him-was skeptical of this throwback to feudalism, but another, larger, part of him was deeply moved. The political system of the Star Kingdom might seem anachronistic, but it worked. It recognized that constitutional checks and balances on power were necessary, but it was the personal ties of loyalty that held it all together. Patric had already experienced the loyalty that could develop between comrades; the loyalty that could be felt for the Navy. Today, they would take that one step further.

Had Queen Elizabeth III been a lesser person, Patric might have listened to that skeptical part of himself. He would have taken the oath in any case, transferring his loyalty to the idea of the monarchy, even if he felt no loyalty to the person of the monarch herself. But thankfully, that was not the case; everything he had heard about the Queen indicated she was someone truly worthy of his loyalty. He was glad of that.

He was also glad that the Queen took the oath as seriously as the cadets did. Some of the past monarchs had only played lip service to the Navy. They had sent representatives to stand in for them at the Oath Taking and paid little or no attention to the fleet-or their officers. Elizabeth was not like that. She was here for every Oath Taking and for every graduation. These were her officers and she wanted them-and the whole galaxy-to know she cared.

The southeastern sky was very bright when a flight of shuttles and armed pinnaces came in from the north. They circled once around the parade ground with their turbines screaming and then settled in for a landing at Kreskin Field. Patric glanced down the line of his company and saw Anny Payne looking back at him. They both grinned.

"Nervous?" asked the cadet standing next to him.

"A little," admitted Patric. "I don't know why, it's not like she's going to talk to me personally or anything."

"I know what you mean," grinned the youth, "my hands are all sweaty. I hope I don't drop the sword!"

A few minutes passed and then there was a stir among the battalion officers. An officer in RMN mess-dress walked up onto the reviewing stand. He saw that the officer was Lt. Commander Semancik, the Commandant's Adjutant.

"Attention, Battalions!" shouted Semancik.

"Shoulder, Arms!" Patric drew his sword. Twenty-six hundred cadets did the same and the rasp of metal against metal as the swords came out of their scabbards rang across the field. He placed the hilt against his right hip and rested the blade lightly on his right shoulder.

As they stood at attention, a small caravan of ground cars approached the reviewing stand. The cars stopped and a crowd of people got out. The Newsies started shuffling about in their pen.

At Semancik's command, the battalions opened their ranks -the rear rank, and Patric with them, stepping back four paces. Then all of the Third Form battalion officers marched forward and positioned themselves to the right of the band: this ceremony was for the First Form cadets and no one else.

The group that had gotten out of the ground cars was slowly approaching the reviewing stand. Patric knew that one in the group was the Queen, but he could not yet tell which one. He spotted the Commandant in her powerchair.

Suddenly Patric saw the treetops on the hills at the far end of the island turn to gold with sunlight. As he watched, dawn swept across the island. He felt the sun hit his back and his shadow stretched out before him. The Queen's party was moving up the ramp to the reviewing stand.

"Battalions! Present - Arms!"

Twenty-six hundred cadets brought the hilts of their swords up in front of their eyes and then slowly lowered them. Patric saw the Adjutant salute and then step aside.

There was a roll of drums and the band started to play 'The Monarch's Anthem'. As it did so, Elizabeth III, Queen of Manticore, stepped onto the platform. She seemed to glow in the sunshine. The music was proud and majestic-just like the woman standing there with her hand over her heart. Shivers went down Patric's spine and he blinked back tears.

When the music stopped, an officer whose uniform gleamed with gold braid and medals stepped to the front of the platform. It was Admiral Sir Thomas Caparelli, the First Space Lord.

"Shoulder - Arms! Order - Arms!" commanded Caparelli, as if he had suddenly been transformed into a Marine drill instructor. The cadets brought their swords back to their shoulders and then lowered the points.

The First Space Lord looked out over the assembled cadets, then he began to speak. The words he spoke were not his own. They were words that had been used countless times over the ages, in many languages and many forms. The words that pledged a warrior's service to his lord.

"Cadets of the Royal Manticoran Naval Academy, you come here today to swear allegiance to your Queen! By this oath you pledge your service, your honor, your very life to your Sovereign. Let no one enter into this lightly! If any man or woman here have reason to doubt their willingness or ability to meet this obligation, let them leave now!"

Silence filled the field, broken only by the cries of a few wheeling seabirds, and the distant crash of the surf.

"Cadets! Kneel!" Patric and the assembled cadets sank to one knee and held their swords in front of them, point resting on the ground, hilt upright.

"Repeat these words after me," said Caparelli. "'I' - speak your name."

"I, Patric McDermott," said Patric. Twenty-six hundred other voices spoke with his. An incredible, indescribable feeling came rolling over him. The First Space Lord continued and the cadets repeated after him.

"Do solemnly swear and affirm, true faith and allegiance to Elizabeth III, Queen of Manticore. That I will, with my life's blood, defend the constitution of the Kingdom, the person of the Queen, and the citizens of Manticore against all enemies, whoever they might be. This I pledge, now and for as long as life remains in me, upon my sacred honor."

"So help me, God!" finished Patric. There was a murmur around him as the other cadets finished the Oath in the fashion of their choosing. The Oath was short and to the point, but it changed forever those who took it.

Patric took a deep breath. I've done it! I've really done it!

"Officers of the Queen! Rise up!" commanded the First Space Lord. The long lines of cadets rose to their feet. Caparelli turned and bowed to the Queen and then stepped aside. The Queen came forward and looked over the assembly. Several long moments passed before she spoke.

"I, Elizabeth III, Queen of Manticore, do accept the Oaths you here pledge. In turn, I swear to you that I will meet faith with faith, loyalty with loyalty, and service with service. So help me, God!" The Queen paused and looked over the cadets again before continuing.

"My dear cadets. Seeing you here today fills me with a pride and a joy that cannot be expressed in words. Looking at your young faces, I am reminded of my own youth when the throne came to me. I was young when I shouldered that burden, but not as young as most of you here." Patric realized with a shock, that he was almost the same age as the Queen when she took the throne.

"The burden I took up came to me as an accident of birth. You here today have also taken upon yourselves a great burden, yet you have taken that burden freely, of your own choice. For that you have my greatest admiration and thanks. Indeed, I bring the thanks of the nation that you have sworn to defend.

"Centuries ago, Edward Saganami called the cadets of this Academy his "Star Knights". So they were, and so you are. You, and all who come from these hallowed halls are my Star Knights. You are the sword and the buckler of our Kingdom. It is you who shall lead the brave people of our nation against the darkness that threatens us."

That tiny, skeptical, Gryphon part of Patric was saying that this was all a carefully staged bit of drama for impressionable cadets-and an impressionable public. But the rest of him was not listening. That was his Queen up there, and if she had ordered it, at that moment, he would have taken on the entire People's Republic with nothing more than the sword in his hand.

"You are embarking upon a mighty endeavor," continued the Queen. "Great battles lie before you. Yet you do not fight for conquest, you fight to end conquest. You fight to bring peace and justice to the stars. I pray that God watch over you: that He lend strength to your arms; stoutness to your hearts, and steadfastness to your faith. I pray that when victory is won, you return safe to your loved ones. I pray that He embrace those who fall in defense of the Realm and that the people of this Kingdom ever honor those who gave their lives. I command you now to go forth! Go forth to victory! And may God go with you!"

The Queen finished speaking. Patric was stunned by the intensity of it all. He had heard many of the Queen's speeches but nothing had been quite like this. He was choked up, and glancing about he saw that many of the cadets had tears in their eyes or on their faces.

The Queen and her escort were now coming down from the platform. The ceremony called for her to inspect the cadets. In years past this meant she would walk down the line of the front rank and then the rear rank. With six or seven hundred cadets that was not too long a walk, but with twenty-six hundred it could take quite a while. The briefing the cadets had received warned them that the Queen might, or might not, inspect all of them, the Academy had not received word of the Queen's intentions.

As it turned out, the Queen did inspect each and every one of them. From start to finish, the Queen and her escort must have walked over three kilometers and it took over an hour. Fortunately, from the cadets' perspective, they were put discretely at parade rest until the Queen drew near: at least they did not have to remain at attention the whole time.

Being in the rear rank, Patric had quite a wait before the Queen got to him, but he did get to see her walk by while she was inspecting the front rank. He was interested to see that the Queen's treecat was now with her. The 'cat alternately rode the Queen's shoulder, sat in her arms, or strode regally at her side. She was holding the cat when she came past 'C' Company the first time. The Queen had been stopping from time to time and exchanging a few words with some of the cadets. Now she stopped directly in front of Helen Zilwicki and the treecat was twitching its tail vigorously. Helen and the Queen stared at each other for several seconds, but nothing was said and the Queen moved on. What was that all about? wondered Patric.

The Queen had a sizable escort. The Prince Consort and their daughter, Princess Joanna, were there from the royal family. The First Space Lord and several other admirals that Patric did not recognize trailed behind with some of their staff, and there were the inevitable security guards. Admiral Thayer bumped along in her power chair, attended by her Adjutant.

Patric was suddenly struck by the image the crippled Thayer made. All this pomp and circumstance, it makes us forget the price some people have to pay!

The sun was getting higher and the day was heating up. Fortunately, there was a pleasant breeze off the ocean. It seemed like a long time before Patric could see that the Queen had reached the end of the front rank and was headed back in his direction.

It was another ten minutes before Helen Zilwicki quietly called 'C' Company to attention. A few more minutes passed and Patric caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He wanted to look, but kept his head fixed straight to the front. Finally he could see the Queen. She was stylishly, but not ostentatiously, dressed in a formal suit with the colors of the House of Winton. Her dark eyes, set in a dark, regal face seemed to glisten in the sunshine. She was gazing intently into the face of each cadet she passed.

When she reached him, she stopped.

"What is your name, Cadet?" she asked in a friendly manner.

Patric could actually feel all the blood draining out of his face. "P-Patric McDermott, Y-your Majesty!" he stuttered.

"I'm very pleased to meet you, Patric. The best of luck to you."

"Th-thank, you, Your Majesty!"

And then she was gone.

He was dimly aware of the others in the Queen's party passing by, some of them staring at him. After a minute, the cadet next to him whispered: "Not going to speak to you personally, eh?" Patric's sword fell out of his nerveless fingers, but fortunately stuck point first in the ground and Patric was able to grab it before it fell over.

The rest of the ceremony was something of a blur to Patric. After the Queen finished her inspection, she returned to the viewing stand. Next came the Presentation of the Colors. Each battalion already had a simple set of flags, now the cadets would receive their regimental colors. The two flags were presented by the Prince Consort and Princess Joanna. One flag, carried by the Prince, was the Queen's Colors. This bore the rampant manticore and crown of the House of Winton. It was elaborately decorated with various emblems of the monarchy. The other, carried somewhat awkwardly by the diminutive Princess, was the Regimental Colors. It had the nine-pointed star and knight's helmet motif of the Academy. A scroll below the star was inscribed with the number of this, the three hundred and forty-second class to pass through the Academy. The flags were given to the designated color-bearers and the Prince and Princess retired to the viewing stand. The band struck up the Academy's official march and the colors were trooped back and forth before the assembled cadets.

It was another effective bit of showmanship. The regiment would exist only for another twenty-nine months before being disbanded. The Queen's colors would be returned to the Royal Family and the Regimental Colors would be placed in Memorial Hall. But at that moment, every cadet on the field would have gladly given their life to defend the honor of those gaudy bits of cloth.

Finally, the long ceremony neared its end. The order to pass in review shook Patric out of his daze. The cadets closed ranks and then wheeled into a column to pass in front of the Queen on the reviewing stand. Wheeling a thirty-odd person wide company is no easy feat, but the cadets did it perfectly this day and made a grand sight for the Queen.

As 'C' Company, Second Battalion, Three Hundred and Forty-Second Regiment of Cadets, Royal Manticoran Navy neared the reviewing stand, its commander, Cadet-Captain Helen Zilwicki, ordered:

"Company! Eyes- right!"

Zilwicki saluted with her sword and the other cadets turned their heads sharply to look at their monarch. The Queen nodded her head in acknowledgment-as she had done for the nineteen companies that had already passed.

Eventually, the whole regiment was back where it started. The companies wheeled back into line, they opened ranks, presented arms, and it was over. The Queen waved to them, but did not speak again. Soon she and her party got back into their cars and were gone.

A few minutes later, the new Queen's Officers were marching back towards the Cadet Dormitory. Patric was physically drained but emotionally elated. What a day it had been! He would never forget this no matter how long he lived. His thoughts went back to the night he had almost transferred out of the Academy. Thank God I stayed! I would not have traded this for anything! The Cadet band was playing a lively march, but Patric found himself humming an entirely different tune.

Oh, we are un-grateful brutes, with our heads skinned like our 'suits,

The pride of the Manticoran Na-vy!

End of Book One