Now the anxiety was more obvious. “It would be not be beyond the reach of the Code, on the basis of reports I have received as to your conduct in your second year so far, to consider the entire second-year class as guilty of willful incitement.” She let that sink in; and let the fourth-year cadet officers deal with the shifting and a few murmurs. “It would, however, be excessive to apply that standard immediately. It is your good fortune that last night’s incident did not rise to the level of physical violence, because I would have had to conduct a formal inquiry and very likely propose a formal court. Consider this your final warning. Future incidents—disturbances—will not be tolerated.”
Almost, but not quite, a universal sigh of relief. Too soon, too soon. “I expect immediate improvement, and a commitment to the spirit as well as the letter of the Code. By immediate I mean starting this moment. Though you will not face a formal court, you will face administrative punishment, also starting now.
“For the next thirty days, there will be no personal time, no Midwinter leave, and no communication outside the campus except in cases of serious illness or injury that require notification of families. Your formerly free periods will be spent on punishment details, including more physical training because some of you seem clumsy enough to walk into doors and damage yourselves.” She looked directly at the three arrayed in front of the group.
“You will have more supervision and more inspections. I have reminded the faculty and fourth-year cadet officers of their responsibility to ensure that all articles of the Code are strictly enforced. At the end of thirty days, you will either have begun an acceptable rate of improvement or other measures will be taken. Those who wish to withdraw from the Academy are reminded that doing so transfers them to a Basic class in one of the enlisted recruit centers and they will still be obligated for two years’ active service past Basic Training.” She turned. “Major Hemins, you have your class.” And walked off.
Colonel Stornaki waited for her outside. “You were pretty rough on them, Commandant.”
“You approve of fighting in the barracks?”
“No, but they’re young—”
“Major Hemins tells me they’re not where they should be, and they started backsliding after the Old Man’s death… are you arguing with that assessment?”
“Well, it was a shock to all the cadets.”
“And yet the fights have been confined to the second year. Tell me, Colonel, how would you have handled it?”
“Brought in the ones who actually fought, and reamed them out—punishment details for them, to be sure, but not the whole class.”
“And was that done for the previous incidents?”
“Well… that’s what Commandant Kvannis did.”
“And how has that worked? With multiple incidents reported, from loud arguments to at least two incidents of hazing, and three actual fights, including the one last night?”
Stornaki chewed his lower lip, clearly surprised to be confronted so firmly. Was he, as Ky half suspected, one of Kvannis’s accomplices?
“The issue of bonding is critical, as I’m sure you know,” Ky said. “A class is supposed to cohere on the basis of the behaviors and attitudes the service needs. A divisive class bodes ill for cooperation and trust among fellow officers later on. This class is divided, and divided along both political and religious lines—yes, I have read the reports on all the previous incidents, and reviewed the records of all the cadets involved.”
His brows went up. “When?”
“Very early this morning,” Ky said. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“Apologies, Commandant. No, I did not think you were negligent—no one who’s won the battles you won could be that.”
Flattery or sincerity? She wasn’t sure. He had not chatted with her at the reception the day before or provided any useful information.
“It’s just that Commandant Kvannis—well, you didn’t know him. A fine officer, I always thought. I still think he may have been abducted—it just isn’t like him to abscond in the night.”
“You will excuse me,” Ky said, “but I have other appointments this morning. We’ll have to discuss Kvannis another time.”
And she would have to find a new second in command for the Academy.
Grace Vatta looked at President Hester Saranife across the wide presidential desk, waiting for her response. Saranife, elected only two years before, had been, in Grace’s opinion, a competent, if reserved, head of state. Nothing had gone badly wrong until the shuttle crash, and no one had blamed the President or the Saranife administration for it. Now, however, the President sighed, shifted in her seat, and did not meet Grace’s gaze. That, Grace thought, was not promising. “It’s difficult,” she said. “This whole situation. My predecessor—”
“Did not know about the terms of the release. Neither did I.”
“So you said. I find that difficult to believe. Surely you’d have been told.”
“I was still considered incompetent, under medical supervision. I was given orders, not explanations.”
“Even at home?”
“Yes. Confined to the house and grounds, with a nurse-companion for the first years, until I was married off and my husband took over the supervisory duties.”
“And the others in the family didn’t know?”
“Not the details. It was to be a secret, you see. The government at the time—over fifty years ago—would have found it embarrassing to admit I had been freed. I was supposed to disappear into the family as thoroughly as I had disappeared into the psychiatric ward of the prison. The other adults knew only that they were responsible for my staying ‘out of trouble.’ The children knew only that I’d been in some kind of hospital—they didn’t know about the war crimes trial at all. When the government decided to downplay the war in the interests of unity, it wasn’t discussed in any detail in schools.”
“But why wasn’t someone told—?”
“I believe my father expected to tell his heir, and that heir would tell his, and so on. But through accident and sudden illness, two generations of family leaders died without passing the information on. I had begun doing some work for the family from home—an idea of my husband’s, before his death—so when Gerard and Stavros took over, they saw no reason why they shouldn’t use me in a more active role.” She shrugged. “It was pretty clear that I wasn’t crazy anymore; even the nightmares had worn themselves out, at least until the big attack on our family.”
“And then?”
“And then the nightmares came back.”
“Did you kill the President?” That was stark enough; Grace was glad she could answer honestly.
“No. Wanted to, yes, because I’d learned he’d allowed the attack on Vatta in return for, supposedly, no attack elsewhere on the planet, but I’d lost an arm to an assassin trying to kill Stavros’s grandchildren.”
“What? I heard you’d lost the arm in an accident.”
“That attack wasn’t publicized, for safety’s sake. It nearly succeeded. The twins had run out to sneak an early-morning pony ride. I heard shots—screams—one of the ponies was down. There were two assassins. I shot the first; the second shot me, and was coming for us—Shar and I were both on the ground, easy prey—when a nearby fisherman, who’d heard the noise, came up behind the assassin and killed him.” No need to say who that was. MacRobert’s part had always been kept dark. “At any rate, when the President died, I was flat on my back in a trauma ward.”
“Did you tell the Commandant to offer him a suicide pill?”
“No.”
“But you knew the Commandant well. Why else would he have done it?”