“I’m afraid I have something rather . . . irregular . . . to ask of you, Cadet.” Brighthaven placed his hands on the back of his chair, regarding her with a strangely casual look. Laelkii watched his fingers flex against the leather and forced her ears to remain upright.
“I would like you to tell me everything you know,” just the slightest of pauses, “about Alysha Forrest.”
He could have smacked her in the face with a wet sponge and she would have been less startled. “Sir?”
Brighthaven cleared his throat. “As I said, an irregular request. But there are some in every class, Ms. Takara, that show great potential. It is the duty of the Academe and all her satellite campuses to nurture that kind of talent. It’s difficult without some background. Alysha’s file is almost completely devoid of any of this necessary background.”
The name snagged Laelkii’s attention immediately. Alysha. Not Forrest, or Cadet (soon to be Ensign) Forrest. Alysha. Laelkii clamped hard on her rampant curiosity. She would have thought the commandant would be eager to put the incident behind him, to force the distance between himself and Alysha that propriety demanded. And now this request?
“Ah . . . I see,” she fumbled, injecting just enough of her personal confusion to rid the words of any whiff of artifice. She rubbed the ring on her finger up and down its length. “Forgive me, sir, but there’s something I must say.” The Asanii sought the correct jargon. “If I may have the liberty to speak.”
“Granted.”
Laelkii stared directly at him. “I’m not sure how much of what I know I can in good conscience disclose when it was told to me in confidence.”
“What you can, then,” Brighthaven said, his voice gentling. The softening of his mouth and the tiniest lift of his brows fascinated Laelkii. The enigma hiding behind that expression niggled at her like an insistent, pernicious itch.
“It’s a long story,” Laelkii cautioned, casting the bait.
Brighthaven sat, threading his fingers together before his chest and studying her over them. A sparkle in his eye met the twitch of his lips and lightened his entire countenance. “I have nothing pressing scheduled between now and graduation. I can give you until I have to take a shower tomorrow night for commencement.”
Laelkii hid her grin. Alysha’s tribulations were a long telling, but a long telling would give her a long time to watch the human’s reactions, build some sort of picture of why his body language changed so subtly when he talked of her. The Asanii leaned in her chair and left her ring alone. She talked.
From the beginning of what she knew—Talen, the industrious father, wishing for his daughter more than he could give her, offering the legacy of stars; Selina, the mother fallen from grace. Alysha’s arrival, destitute, her quest for scholarships; that much he knew. He had saved her, after all.
Laelkii wasn’t certain how much to say about Alysha’s experiences in Phantasies. She skimmed them to the point where Brighthaven himself had entered the scene and stopped.
And then the questioning began.
“Mark West told me there was a time she could barely walk during gym. What happened?”
“They ripped out her claws, sir. She was in shock. She wouldn’t stay with Nathan and me,” her voice cracked only a little on her late husband’s name, “and the painkillers weren’t enough.”
“Ripped out her claws?”
“Because she used them against patrons.”
“In self-defense.” He stated it as if waiting for contradiction.
Laelkii shook her head, staring at him with wide eyes. “No. She used them against people who were abusing a child and a far more fragile girl, a Malarai.”
“Children,” Brighthaven mused.
The bombardment continued. Who had supervised the replacement of Alysha’s claws with their much harder clathrate equivalent? She had, with her husband. What had happened to Selina Forrest? Laelkii didn’t know and said so. Had Alysha ever returned to Phantasies after her final episode? She hadn’t. When had she started showing her leadership potential? Laelkii could only state in bemusement that for as long as she’d known Alysha, she’d felt safe with her.
“Safe,” Brighthaven repeated.
Laelkii nodded, overwhelmed by the keenness of his interest.
“What happened to her earrings?”
Laelkii finally ran out of answers. Her mouth gaped open as if broken. “Sir?”
“Her earrings,” the human waved a hand in a jerky motion. “She used to wear jewelry when she was a freshman. They went away . . . I don’t remember when. They didn’t appear again. She doesn’t wear jewelry anymore.”
The way he said it struck something deeply in Laelkii. She frowned, forgetting she was in the presence of a commanding officer. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she murmured. “That worries me.”
“Because?”
Laelkii glanced up, startled. “I . . . because . . . ” The Asanii clenched her teeth and started again. “She gave the earrings to one of the girls in the club, the youngest, to be traded for enough money to get her out of Terracentrus. Sir, I don’t know that I should—”
“Your medical opinion, Cadet,” Brighthaven interrupted.
The fur bristled up the top of her arms, but she answered. “Repression is a typical response to emotional trauma, Commandant. And decorations, though harmless . . . ” She shrugged, trying to be nonchalant. “They’re usually symbolic.”
Brighthaven finally leaned back. Laelkii thought he looked rather dark until she realized it was in contrast to the sky beyond the window, which had brightened to the pearly gold typical of Selnor’s spring sunsets. She fidgeted in her seat, her ears hot with a flush of anger. Somehow Alysha’s weaknesses belonged only to Alysha, not to anyone who cared to know. And yet . . .
“That will be all, Cadet.”
Laelkii stood and bowed, then stepped out. She closed the door behind her and let out a long, shuddering breath, the tight ache around her ribs a complaint about the hours spent rigidly upright in her chair. Laelkii glanced toward her shoulder, frowning minutely with brows that had gone almost full white in the last few years. She pursed her lips. And yet something about him . . .
For no reason she could discern, she left the administrative buildings humming.
Matthew Brighthaven slung his undress cloak over his shoulder and pinned it absently with the Alliance sigil brooch issued with every uniform. He’d remained at his desk for an hour after Takara-Lifeweave’s departure, mind wandering. Spring commencement had always been a special time for him. The sight of the current crop of students in their new formal uniforms, their determined faces turned to his, never failed to renew his spirit. In previous years, he would have given out their new rank braids, presided over the ceremony . . .
And then returned to the residence to celebrate with Harroway Sloan and the rest of the staff.
Brighthaven stabbed the pin through the fabric emphatically, ignoring the brief spear of pain that met the unfortunate skin beneath the point. He knew Sloan’s betrayal would never quite heal. He had trusted the felinesque second—had drunk with him, confided in him, handed him the life of a student—and Sloan had somehow been planning to kill him all along, had been conspiring with the Anti-Human League beneath his very nose without his ever suspecting. And the things he’d done to Alysha . . .
The reflection of his teeth in the window forced him to realize he was snarling. Brighthaven arranged his face into a more civil expression, tossed his cape over his shoulder and walked out.
“Lilian, I’m leaving for the day.”
“Very well, sir. Have a good evening.”
Spring evenings in Terracentrus never failed to delight, and the Academe campus was especially lovely. A large tract of land preserved on the outskirts of the Alliance’s summer capital, it woke from winter like a graceful woman, its trees unfurling tender limbs heavy with clusters of pastel blooms—fairy white and gossamer blush, spun-sugar orange and ice-rimed lilac. The perfume floated on the b
reathy winds that came tinted with the scent of water.
Brighthaven strolled beneath the purple dusk, hands behind his back. The barracks were uncommonly silent; the seniors had reported to the orbiting station where they would be transported to their assignments following their graduation, and the rest of the students had indubitably taken advantage of the holiday that accompanied the ceremonial anointing of their fellows.
The quiet struck Brighthaven as melancholy. He found the path out of Ralamn Park and let it take him to the gates. Nodding to the guards, he left the peace of the Academe’s pastoral melds for the city. Fifteen minutes at a brisk walk brought him to the edge of the metropolitan area of Terracentrus with its soaring skyscrapers—pinnacles connected by bridges of thin lace illumined by the warm yellow lights that blossomed against the violet sky. The street lamps burned with a faint light, not yet at their full strength as he walked beneath them, cloak furling around his ankles.
The cadet had been most informative. Brighthaven stopped to study an electronics shop, its wares winking blue-green lights at him in the watery twilight. After saving Alysha from Phantasies (from Sloan, his mind growled), he had taken care to watch her closely. Her marks had been nothing short of superlative, her intelligence praised by every teacher who had her, but far more interesting had been the talent reported by his special eyes in the faculty.
People followed her, and she led them, naturally. She not only knew where she was going, but she made other people care about getting there with her. She accumulated people—and nurtured them.
Brighthaven continued his stroll. Her choice of electives also piqued his interest; without fail she’d sought out the military history classes he was still fighting to have included in the normal curriculum. Strategy and tactics, history and language. An interesting mix.
But Matthew Brighthaven was not often in the habit of deceiving himself. He stopped beneath a street lamp and stared at the dark violet shadows stretching from the bases of the buildings. He had been so careful in all their chance encounters after the incident to stress the distance in rank and age that separated them, to shore up the formality that they both deserved—and despite it, he still had occasional dreams . . . dreams that bordered on nightmares about the intimacy that had been forced on them in Phantasies, the glimpses of a shining, indomitable soul he had been angry to see in such a setting and privileged to see at all. And she was graduating tomorrow.
Brighthaven lifted his face suddenly, the lamp’s light glistening on his eyes as he stared at the sky. He pushed himself forward, his steps swift with purpose, until he found a shop. His cloak whirled with a soft hiss behind him as he stepped inside.
“May I help you?” The Tam-illee woman smiled at him, hands folded on the invisible shields that encased the jewelry displays.
“I do believe you can,” Brighthaven replied.
“Don’t you have any clothing at all?” Laelkii asked in despair as she pulled yet another sweatsuit out of the closet. She folded it and dropped it in the duffel, her ears askew. “That’s the third blue sweatsuit in your closet, Alysha . . . and they all look the same!”
Alysha managed to open her eyes . . . just the faintest of slits, her pale blue eyes a shard of color behind a fringe of heavy black lashes. Her head swayed in time to the strokes of the brush Alastar wielded on her dark hair. “Mmm? Oh. I didn’t need much clothing.”
“Not a dress or a skirt in the lot!” Laelkii exclaimed, tail lashing. “What are we going to do with you, arii?”
“I don’t wear dresses,” Alysha said, smiling at her older friend’s consternation. “Besides, they take up too much room.”
“Too much room! There’s hardly anything in this duffel!”
Alastar finally chuckled. “I can’t believe you’re surprised, Laelkii.”
“I thought every girl, no matter how tom-boyish, had at least one swishy thing, ’Star.” Laelkii snorted. “Trust Alysha to be unique.”
Alastar wisely said nothing.
“Tell me you’re at least excited,” Laelkii said as she hung the new uniform on the closet’s jamb.
“How could I not be?” Alysha asked, her alto lower than usual.
Into the following silence, Alastar said in an easily audible whisper to the flicking gray ear beside her brush, “Now she will ask you if you are attending a party afterwards . . . and berate you if you are not.”
Laelkii was standing with her hands on her hips, nose wrinkled and a mock frown furrowing her brows so deeply her eyes were lost in shadows. “Alastar! Even you went to a party when you graduated last year.”
“I had no desire to explore the alternatives,” Alastar replied with a studied air of innocence.
Alysha laughed as Laelkii pantomimed pegging the brown feline behind her with a missile. She closed and opened her eyes slowly, a protracted blink of pleasure, and studied her reflection in the mirror across from the small bed. The calm of her soul echoed in the softened lines of her mouth, the contented crimp of her eyes. The gray fur visible through the careless folds of her overlarge cream-colored robe shone over the planes of hardened muscles, a body naked of marks or scars or cheapening jewels. The body of someone who owned herself . . . and the face of someone who had come to the end of her journey. She had found the stars at last.
A chirp interrupted the banter flying over her head.
“You have a message,” Alastar said.
Alysha tilted her head. “Computer, message subject?”
A serene male voice replied, “Message subject: announcement of first assignment.”
Alysha’s eyes opened fully and she sat up, dislodging Alastar.
“Oh, arii! Accept it now?” Laelkii clutched a set of stretchsuits, the packing forgotten.
Clearing her throat, Alysha said, “Spread message, please.”
“Ensign Alysha Forrest. Command track. First assignment—tactical section, UAV Diamondwing.”
“Diamondwing! That’s one of the big ones!” Laelkii exclaimed.
Alastar said, “A battlecruiser.”
Alysha’s hands tightened on the thick folds of cloth in her lap. To be assigned to a battlecruiser on her first mission out was rare enough; to be assigned to tactical where she’d earn bridge experience . . . she let her head drop. She knew who had arranged it; knew also that the same person would never have done so had he not believed her able.
“It’s getting late,” Alastar said, stepping off the bed. “We should get dressed and head to the amphitheater.”
Alysha slid to her feet and stretched, the sensation of warm muscles rippling along her body heightening her sense of peace. She pulled the stretchsuit Laelkii handed her over the top of her head, following the grain of her fur, then the pants, the new pants with their thin stripe of gold. And finally, over it, the dress uniform tunic she’d worked so hard for, the new fabric sliding easily over the cloth of the stretchsuit. The gold tassels that hung from her shoulder swung around her hip, two more tassels hanging from the opposite hip to just below her knees. She pulled on the white boots, folding the flaps down, and then arranged the formal white cape over her shoulder. Only one thing remained, the one thing that would make it official: her rank tab and braid.
Laelkii sighed, folding her arms over her stomach. Her brown eyes sparkled. “Oh, arii. You look lovely.”
Alastar, standing beside the white Asanii, nodded once, her gaze somber.
“Let’s,” Alysha said, indicating the door.
Laelkii and Alastar preceded her out. Alysha glanced once at the room; she would see it only once more when she returned to pick up her bag before reporting to the Diamondwing.
The Diamondwing.
Alysha smiled softly, and followed her friends.
The first thing Brighthaven had changed when he’d arrived on Selnor to take responsibility for the Fleet Academe had been the location of commencement services. One-fourth of the sales transaction tax levied by the Alliance was earmarked for the Fleet; it was only appropriate that the
ceremony that ushered new members into the Alliance’s navy was open to the public, not sequestered in a tiny auditorium on a guarded campus.
Graduation was an evening affair. The sun had already vanished beyond the horizon and a dark blue-violet dusk descended as people filled Terracentrus’s amphitheater. A vast, open-air structure, it consisted of a broad stage of metal arabesques and stone, backed by three connected arches, the center taller than the two symmetrical sides. These arches repeated the Art Deco style of the stage. Facing the stage, a monumental clam shell housed the stadium seating, an uninterrupted curve of gray stone and dark metal that rose in solemn grace to almost fifteen hundred feet.
In the perfumed breeze of the spring evening, the lamps that marked each tenth row swooped down the curve to the stage, golden light smoldering against the saturated blue of the twilight. Dark shapes moved along these rows—well-wishers, relatives, curious civilians; reporters, retired officers and personnel visiting from orbiting ships. Brighthaven watched them from his place on the pedestal behind the low podium, his hands resting on its surface. Beside him, his aide waited with the two hundred twenty-three shoulder tabs he would affix this night to those who had finally accomplished their goal. He knew them all . . . and some better than most.
Alysha barely remembered the ceremony. After the hours she’d worked and the pain, anger and elation, the convoluted ritual that bestowed upon her the rank of ensign hardly seemed enough to mark the ending of her years as a cadet. But one moment, above all, glittered like fire in her mind.
“Alysha Forrest.”
She swung her cape aside as she strode toward the podium. Behind her stretched a line of those still waiting for their graduation honors; before her, the line of newly named ensigns. And between them, the man, the human man who knew her too well, from whom she had hoped to earn a distant, paternal pride. But it was over now. She approached him, studied his body, a sword sheathed in the blue and black of his uniform, the heavy white cloak resting over his right shoulder with all the weight of an architectural element.
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