by J. L. Doty
York stripped down quickly and pulled on the new uniform.
“We’ve got a tenday,” Parker said. “A tenday before the rest of the plebes show up. A tenday to show you how to act like a midshipman.”
Parker took York to dinner at an inexpensive restaurant. After they ordered, they sat in an uncomfortable silence while they waited for the food. York was hungry, and when it arrived, he picked up his fork and started eating without saying anything. Parker didn’t touch his own food and watched York eat for a few minutes. Then he said, “No, this won’t do.”
Dinner turned into a lesson in good table manners, and over the next tenday, York learned about the proper use of a number of eating utensils he hadn’t known existed. Apparently, that was going to be important.
The next morning, Parker led him out to the parade ground and marched him around for an hour. “Not bad,” he said. “Who taught you that?”
“The marines on Dauntless,” York said. He wondered if he’d ever be able to find Bristow and thank him.
“Dauntless, eh? Is that where you tasted the lash?”
York nodded.
“We can get the scars removed before the rest show up. And you’d be wise to get rid of the gunner’s chevrons. They’ll mark you.”
York considered it for a moment, but every time he saw the scars on his back, he was reminded of the lessons he’d had to learn. And the chevrons were the only real status he’d ever had. “No thanks,” he said. “I’ll keep them as is.”
Parker shrugged, then he smiled and appeared to approve of York’s decision. “Have it your way.”
Parker drilled York carefully on the proper way to address titled cadets, officers, and civilians, tutored him extensively on the nine members of the Admiralty Council and their heirs and offspring. York found it interesting that the chief never commented on any of them, never expressed even the slightest opinion about them, no gossip, no rumor, nothing. He simply stated the facts, like the number of warships each could amass, the fleets they controlled, and their wealth. There was something missing, something the chief wasn’t saying. One day, York asked him about that.
Parker paused, his eyes narrowed, and he regarded York with a hard look. “People who get too close to the Nine, or get involved in their affairs, or work directly for one of them … well … they just don’t seem to live as long as the rest of us.”
York could see that Parker had become exceedingly uncomfortable, but he continued nevertheless. “Over the next four years—if you make it through the next four years—remember that if certain opportunities come your way … many things here are not as they appear.” The old chief refused to discuss the matter further, and York wondered what he had meant by such a cryptic statement.
York had grown accustomed to being the only resident of Plebe Hall, but eight days after arriving, as he walked up the stairs, he heard other voices present. When he walked past one of the bunk rooms, he spotted a few young men and women unpacking their gear. At his own bunk room, he stopped in the doorway, saw a young fellow with dark hair and features lying on a bunk with his hands behind his head, watching a young woman with brown, shoulder-length hair at the other end of the room. She stood at a locker with her back to York, sorting through the uniforms it contained. She retrieved one and held it up in front of her. “It looks like they got it right this time. They never get it right.”
The fellow lying on the bunk said, “That’s why I brought my own, had them tailored properly. I’m throwing out the junk they provide.”
The young woman turned around, and when she spotted York, her hazel eyes widened. “You must be the mystery man.”
York asked, “Mystery man?”
She hooked a thumb toward his bunk. “That bunk is so neatly made we knew someone checked in before us.”
She marched across the room toward York, and as she came closer he realized she was almost as tall as he. He had only a few centimeters on her.
Draping the uniform over an arm, she stuck out a hand. “I’m Karinina Toletskva. You can call me Karin.”
York shook her hand, and when he released it, she nodded toward the fellow on the bunk. “That’s Anton Simma.”
From Parker’s tutoring, York recognized the name immediately: oldest son of Marko Simma, the duke de Jupttar, and heir to the ducal seat. Karin confirmed it when she said, “I suppose we have to call him Lord Simma and kiss his ass.”
Simma sat up and threw his legs off the edge of the bunk. “You’ve never kissed my ass before, Karin.” He made a point of leering at her butt. “Though I wouldn’t mind kissing that nice little ass of yours.”
“Not on your life,” she said. She winked at York. “Though I may have to let him since he’s going to be a duke, and he’ll have all that power.”
Simma stood up. “You know as well as I that all the real power is held by de Maris, de Vena, and de Satarna.” He looked at York and nodded toward Karin. “She’s got all the money, could buy and sell me in a minute.”
He stuck out his hand and York shook it. “I’m told we drop all titles here at the academy, so you can just call me Tony.”
Before York could introduce himself, a short fellow with blond hair stepped into the room. Slight of build with a duffel thrown over his shoulder, he spoke softly. “Hi. I think I’m supposed to report here, not sure I’m in the right place.”
Simma and Toletskva forgot York and turned their gregarious banter on the poor fellow. They determined that he was in the right place, Delta Company, Second Platoon. He introduced himself as Muldoon Tagresh.
“Tagresh!” Simma said. “Is your mother Senator Indreena Tagresh?”
“Yes,” he said, and seemed almost embarrassed about it. “That’s her.”
Simma turned back to York. “What is your name again?”
“Ballin,” he said. “York Ballin.”
“Ballin!” Karin said. “Haven’t heard that name before.” She nodded to Simma. “He’s power.” She nodded toward Tagresh. “He’s influence, and I’m money. What are you, Ballin?”
“I’m really nothing,” York said.
“Okay, Mr. Nothing,” she said. “We know who we are. Who are you?”
He gave them the story Parker had concocted for him: that his father had been a high-ranking noncom, killed in combat a few years ago, and awarded an Imperial Cross, and that got him his appointment to the academy.
By the next morning, Plebe Hall had filled up, and that afternoon, the upperclassmen arrived. They lined up all the first-year midshipmen and shaved their heads, though it was customary to use old-fashioned clippers, which the upperclassmen wielded with considerable zeal, leaving all of the plebes with spikey, uneven stubble on their heads. Karin actually looked kind of sexy that way, though she thought the custom barbaric.
“No sense of fashion,” she said.
They followed that with basic training in the proper technique for saluting. York watched the other plebes struggle with the unfamiliar and tried to imitate them. He knew better than to let on that he’d long ago mastered such basic military techniques.
The day after that, they were all sworn in, and then they began plebe month, forty days of grueling exercises and training, primarily focused on familiarizing them with the navy’s way of doing things. York had been through it all before under the marines on Dauntless, and like saluting, as they learned to march around the parade ground, he stumbled about with all the rest and imitated their clumsiness. He carefully paced his own learning curve with that of his peers. Tony Simma had a lot of trouble with the marching techniques, while both tall, lithe Karin and shy little Tagresh took to it naturally. York, Karin, and Tagresh spent what little spare time they had helping Tony improve his technique.
Their platoon was divided into four squads of ten plebes each. It pleased York that he and Karin were assigned to the same squad, though not because of any sex
ual attraction between them; they were just friends, and it was good to pair up with a friend on some of the more demanding drills.
Their cadet company commander was Madeen Schessa, a third-year middy and one of the daughters of Andralla Schessa, the duchess de Vena. “She’s like fourth in line to inherit,” Karin told York. “So she’s got no prospects there. Her best bet is a military career.”
One day, they went through a simulated marine combat exercise, a hi-gee drop down to the surface of Terr, then a forced march in full combat kit through rough terrain. They were not allowed the assistance of powered armor, so it was all muscle and sweat.
“Ten-minute break,” Schessa shouted. “Conserve your water because there won’t be any refills until we make camp tonight.”
Karin sat down on a rock, and York dropped down onto the dirt beside her, crossed his legs, pulled out his canteen, and took a sip of water. Schessa walked down the line of plebes and stopped at Karin, standing over her. Karin started to rise, but Schessa waved her back down, saying, “No, stay seated. I just want to tell you to pick up the pace. You’re slowing the whole company down.”
Karin said, “Yes, ma’am,” and Schessa moved on.
Karin leaned close to York. “She doesn’t like me.”
“Why?” York asked. “What did you ever do to her?”
She gave York the kind of look a parent might throw at a stupid child. “Too much money. My family is just a bunch of upstarts, as far as she’s concerned. I think she’s afraid we’ll start thinking we’re her kind or something.”
There it was again, those words: her kind, their kind, our kind, your kind.
At the end of plebe month, they all returned to the academy. Where previously there’d only been a few upperclassmen around—those providing training during plebe month—with the beginning of the academic year, all four classes of midshipmen were in attendance in their entirety. They assembled in a massive formation on the parade ground, were introduced to the brigade commander, Midshipman Captain Tellan Soladin, heir to the de Satarna ducal seat. He gave a short speech, then each plebe platoon was absorbed into one of the six battalions of the brigade. Second Platoon Delta was assigned to Eighth Company, Second Battalion. Their battalion officers were introduced and each said a few words. Commander Lord Nathan Abraxa, heir to the de Maris ducal seat, commanded Second Battalion. York recognized him immediately: Abraxa was the officer on the passenger liner who’d thrown him out of the upper-class lounge with the words Isn’t it obvious to you that your kind doesn’t belong in here?
York was thankful for the anonymity of being just one face among thousands on the parade ground that day.
Chapter 19:
Exposed
After swearing-in, they had five days before classes actually began. All the plebes were required to meet with their academic advisers to review their course schedule, and York’s appointment was set for the following day. But he had no free time. With thousands of upperclassmen present, merely walking from one building to the next frequently proved to be an ordeal. During those first few days, even the slightest infraction earned a verbal whiplash from an upperclassman: a hat not square, a name tag slightly tilted. York was a bit luckier than most. After spending four years as the lowest of the low, sometimes under the watchful eyes of an obsessively strict officer, York knew to be obsessive about appearance, demeanor, and all the little rules required of him. He still earned his share of snipes from upperclassmen, but maybe just a few less than the others.
He’d been assigned Commander Laski as his academic adviser. He was careful to arrive early for his appointment, though that proved to be a bit of a mistake. He had to wait in a line of plebes in the hall outside Laski’s office while three upperclassmen harassed them unmercifully, making them recite or sing everything from memorized regulations to silly little songs. When York’s turn to see Laski finally came, he removed his cap, tucked it under his arm, knocked on Laski’s door, entered, saluted, and presented himself with the standard formula.
“At ease, Midshipman,” Laski said.
Seated behind his desk, Laski was somewhat overweight, with a receding hairline, a couple of chins, and prominent jowls. Laski let him stand there without saying anything while he read something in front of him. More than five minutes passed before he looked up at York. “I’ve been reviewing your background, Midshipman Ballin.”
York’s gut clenched. It hadn’t occurred to him that anyone in a position of authority could easily look up his service record, and he realized what a fool he’d been to fail to anticipate that. At least Jarwith and Thorow had expunged any references to his criminal past when he left Dauntless. But still, York knew exactly what kind of reaction he’d get from Laski at the knowledge that the midshipman who stood before him was actually a lower-deck pod gunner spacer first class.
Laski said, “Don’t worry, Midshipman. I won’t hold your background against you. Your father, Command Master Chief Thomas Ballin, died valiantly in the service of the empire. It’s only right that we allow a few of your kind into the academy each year.”
To cover up his utter surprise, York said, “Thank you, sir.”
“Think nothing of it, Mr. Ballin. We owe a debt to the lower strata who serve us well. And here you have an excellent opportunity to rise above your station.”
Could it have been Martinson and Parker? Could they have faked up his background? York realized it was imperative that he play his part. “I’m quite grateful for that, sir.”
“And you should be,” Laski said. “I doubt you’ll be able to keep up with the academic rigors of life here at the academy. But I’ll do what I can to help you, and if you have any trouble with your coursework, let me know and I’ll try to intervene. There’s nothing I can do about the physical demands, nor the verbal abuse you’ll have to put up with from upperclassmen the first year, but you appear to be a strapping young man, so I’m sure you can handle that.”
Inside, York seethed at the assumption that his kind lacked the mental acuity needed to make the grade. But he knew better than to let it show. “Again, sir, I am quite grateful.”
“I see you and Lord Simma are bunkmates. I’ll ask him to help you out with the academics. He may not be willing to do so, but it never hurts to ask.”
When York left Laski’s office, he vowed that he would do well at every challenge the academy offered him.
In some of the academic subjects, York had a little head start because of two years of tutoring aboard ship. That helped in subjects like navigation and engineering, but in fundamentals such as mathematics, he still struggled. Each day started early and ended late, and when not in class, every moment of his time was carefully dictated by other scheduled activities, or the whims of an upperclassman.
Interestingly enough, Tony Simma had trouble with the academic subjects. He was by no means stupid or slow, but he showed no drive to excel, and York wondered if perhaps he was accustomed to having everything handed to him. York found it fascinating that Tony, who’d grown up at the pinnacle of imperial status, was less of a snob than Laski, who was completely untitled and could make no claim to nobility.
As midterms approached, Tony grew a little desperate, fearful that he’d fail and have to face his father, so he and York studied together. It actually helped York to help Tony.
“You know,” Tony said, “Laski thinks I’m tutoring you. That snob is the worst wannabe I’ve ever met, thanked me for helping you out. Sorry about that.”
When the midterm results were announced, Tony passed with flying colors and received a small ribbon for doing so well. York never said anything, but he wondered at that, thought it likely Tony would graduate at the top of the class no matter what, but be one of those officers Chief Parker said was not qualified to command a lifeboat, let alone a man-of-war.
Laski called York to his office to review his results.
“Very good, Mr.
Ballin,” he said, as York stood at ease in front of his desk. “You won’t graduate at the top of the class, but you’re certainly in the top half, and if you keep this up, you might make it into the top thirty percent. I hope you appreciate the benefits of Lord Simma’s tutoring.”
York nodded and said, “I have expressed my thanks to Lord Simma most sincerely, sir.”
“Excellent, Mr. Ballin, excellent! We’ll make an officer of you yet.”
At random intervals, the barracks was subjected to a surprise, white-glove, black-sock inspection in which even the tiniest speck of dust earned demerits, or some sort of creative punishment. And they all learned that the entire platoon suffered the fate of the most slovenly among them. Most often an upperclassman or two conducted the inspection on an informal basis, while the plebes stood at attention at the end of their bunks listening to the upper-class midshipmen shout at them. The plebes came to look upon it as part of the general harassment meted out by their student superiors, though they were told the true purpose was to prepare them for a real inspection. York noticed that when the white glove came away from Tony Simma’s bunk with a dark smear on it, nothing was ever said about it, while if any of the rest of them proved less than perfect, there was all hell to pay.
Formal inspections were conducted much less frequently by their cadet company commander, Madeen Schessa, with their company officer, Commander Murtaugh, looking silently on. Just after first-semester midterms, Schessa and Murtaugh showed up unannounced with Commander Abraxa in tow, which was unusual, but not unheard of. After all the plebes had snapped to attention at the end of their bunks, Abraxa announced, “Don’t think for a moment that your battalion officer isn’t personally interested in the discipline of even the lowest plebe.”
Standing at the end of his bunk, York tucked his chin in just a little bit tighter, hoping the bill of his cap would hide his face that much more.