“Clearly.”
“I’m considering holding a closed inquiry—fortunately we haven’t announced the protocols yet—and inviting a sufficient number of cadets of influential character that their combined word might, even without specifics, calm the rumor mongering to something like a dull roar.”
Naomi nodded; it seemed a feasible approach—perhaps the only feasible approach—given the circumstances.
“And I would look to you, if I might, to select the cadets who would attend. We still have a couple of hours to send out a notice.”
“How many cadets?”
“As many as you feel necessary. A substantial number, I think, lest finesse be suspected.”
“That would amount to two or three dozen, Ambrose. Difficult to maintain proper security for that many. If I understood that correctly”—she pointed to the report—“they will all have to be read into that compartment, which would be unprecedented.”
“Most unprecedented,” Hoste said, pulling at his jaw. “But precedents have been falling thick and fast over this business already, so I don’t think we can be squeamish about this one. But that is rather a lot. Suggestions?”
Naomi considered. Cadet politics were complicated and ticklish, and exquisitely tuned to any sense of manipulation. “Perhaps we could invite a larger group who would be briefed on the broad outlines of the situation without trespassing on the specific security aspects, and invite them to select a smaller number of representatives to attend the actual inquiry. That might do.”
Hoste’s expression lightened; he seemed to like the idea. “Twelve or sixteen, maybe?”
“Something like that.”
“Very well. If you could get me a list by 0900, that would be best. There are a number of upperclassmen waiting to fly up now, and that will give us time to make needed adjustments.”
“I will, sir.”
He smiled. “Much appreciated. I do regret intruding on your breakfast.”
“No need, sir.” Naomi smiled back as she checked the time. There was still about fifteen minutes before the instructor’s mess ran short of the critical items—tight, but she could make it.
* * *
At 1330 sharp, the Commandant, Commander Buthelezi, a quorum of instructors and a gaggle of cadets, fairly evenly divided between upper- and lower-classmen, gathered in the hall that had been set aside for the inquiry. One of the largest halls had been chosen to suit the size of the originally anticipated audience and it was not crowded—indeed, it echoed. Kris was not among those filing into their seats and glancing about the big, gloomy interior. She was stewing in her room, wearing her dress uniform and waiting alone for her summons—Baz, Tanner and Minx had all gone ahead—while feeling deeply annoyed.
Whether the inquiry being closed was part of that annoyance or a relief she couldn’t quite decide. She had a pretty good idea of what was going to happen, and while she despised the idea of being trotted out before most of the student body like a performing dog, at least it promised to settle the issue. A closed inquiry meant less of a floor show, but it raised the specter of still being treated like a performing dog, only this time, one that few people would believe could actually do the tricks. Whether this worst-of-all-possible-worlds outcome would in fact happen, she wasn’t sure, but the last couple of days had given her no reason for optimism.
Across the campus, her fellow students were suffering not dissimilar feelings of apprehension. The Commandant had opened the proceedings by introducing Commander Liam Kelleher, the chair of the Academy’s Department of Military Justice, as Judge Advocate and having him read out the 17 Articles on which naval law was based. Copies of the 17 Articles were liberally posted about the Academy, and although they were actually no more than headings phrased to suit the mariner’s taste for simple and direct prose (the full Code of Military Justice with all its addenda, amendments and provisions was a thick set of volumes), hearing them recited in Commander Kelleher’s solemn, well-practiced delivery did much to impress the hearers with a proper sense of the gravity of the occasion.
There followed a brief discussion of procedure, explaining that the inquiry would proceed according to the forms usual for courts of inquiry, less formal than courts martial but imposing enough. When this introduction had set the mood in the hall, Commandant Hoste dropped his bombshell. Until now, the prevailing opinion had been that the decision to close the inquiry proceeded from a desire to avoid embarrassment to the Academy, but now Hoste circulated a heavily redacted copy of ONI’s memo, with the classification markings prominent upon it.
“Unless things have changed drastically since I came through these hallowed halls,” the Commandant began when the memo had been appraised and its significance made clear to all, “the rumor mill will have tried and convicted everyone from the Secretary of the Navy to the mess-hall stewards in this matter, with suspicions about the Superintendent’s cat tossed in for good measure. If not, someone is falling down on the job.”
This sally from Hoste, not notable among the cadets for a sense of humor, was greeted with tentative grins.
“But you will now appreciate that the questions under consideration here have ramifications far beyond those we are accustomed to dealing with in this Academy. Here we venture into what is normally termed the Real World—perhaps you have heard of it.” A chuckle or two at that.
“For this reason, the decision has been made to restrict the number of those in attendance to the necessary minimum. Therefore, I am going to ask you to retire for thirty minutes and select sixteen of your number to attend.” He paused to let the implications sink in. “Understand that those chosen will have to accept the conditions imposed by the classification of the information they will be exposed to. Those conditions are serious and far-reaching, and if you have any reservations whatsoever about assuming them, do not consider attending.”
He stopped to observe the effect this news was having on the students before him. An hour was all he and Commander Buthelezi had had to vet the thirty-two cadets, half of whom they intended to read into a security compartment that few of the instructors had—Naomi, for one, did not until the Commandant had taken it upon himself to induct her into it. He expected no small amount of flak for his actions, but if that’s all that came his way, he’d be satisfied with it. Or almost satisfied with it.
The cadets appeared to be taking it about as well as he could expect; a deal of discreet murmuring was going on, but the tone gratifyingly serious. He dismissed them, set the time to reconvene and, as the cadets shuffled off into a side room for their deliberations, exchanged a private look with Naomi. It was no small thing hazarding one’s career on a decision that involved a bunch of kids, but she smiled back at him in a way that reminded him that in about six months, people would be hazarding their lives on the actions of some of these same kids. Real world indeed . . .
Kris therefore entered the hall to a mass of somber faces: the solid phalanx of instructors on the dais, the two sparse rows of cadets, and Commander Kelleher sitting a little apart where the court president would normally be. Baz, Tanner, and Minx made a small, forlorn block off to one side; they were there in the character of witnesses and were the only people she’d actually told how she’d accomplished the jump, other than the instructors at the debriefing. All three seemed to have kept it to themselves—even Minx, which surprised her—for reasons of their own: Baz she thought might be trying to protect her; Minx probably expected her to make an ass of herself in public and did not want to spoil the surprise. Tanner, for all his jovial nature, simply didn’t talk a lot, and although he was older, he had a tendency to follow Basmartin’s lead.
As she stepped through a side door, Baz and Tanner looked over and each gave her a furtive smile; Minx looked pointedly away. The other cadets seemed to think the occasion demanded they stare stonily ahead after taking a quick glance, and the instructors, while less rigid, were not noticeably less grim. The big, echoing room itself added to the imposing atmosphere, but she w
alked between the dais and the first row of seats feeling more irritated than imposed upon.
Stopping immediately before Commandant Hoste, she executed a neat right-face turn, saluted crisply and stood at attention while Commander Kelleher read a preamble about swearing in, rules of evidence and some other things. As he spoke she covertly surveyed the array of instructors, all sitting under a row of large auditorium displays, now blank, and whose vaguely shimmering gray glare added to the officious mood. She knew all of them except Commander Olson, who taught astrogation, and Commander Kelleher, and she’d never actually met the Commandant. She hadn’t run afoul of any of them that she knew, but of them all, she thought Commander Buthelezi was probably most favorably disposed towards her. But then, it was Buthelezi’s exercise she’d defeated . . .
When Kelleher finished, the Commandant stated formally that this was just an inquiry, not a disciplinary hearing, and asked if she understood and agreed to the conditions Kelleher had read out. In a voice rather louder than she intended—or so it seemed in the mostly empty hall—she said she did. He then offered a short summation of the exercise, extracted almost word-for-word from her debrief, and asked: “Is that an accurate summary, Ms. Kennakris?”
“Yes, sir,” she answered, keeping her voice lower this time. He then asked her three study mates if they concurred. One at a time, each did.
“Now, Ms. Kennakris,” Hoste addressed her, leaning slightly forward and speaking more slowly, “the ingress and exit routes for this exercise were provided to your team as inputs, and preloaded into your simulators. The exercise briefing you received specifically mentioned these routes were to be used, with choice of exit routes the only specified option. Yet you changed the ingress route, selecting a new route outside the scope of the exercise. Did you consider this to be a violation of the exercise parameters?”
“I did not, sir.”
“Can you explain why, Cadet?”
“Commander Buthelezi said we got to pull out all the stops on this one, sir.”
Hoste looked over at Naomi. “That’s true, sir,” she affirmed. “In fact, my exact words, if I recall correctly.” The amplification was not strictly necessary, and Kris felt a little glow on realizing the commander was indeed on her side. She did her best not to show it, though.
Hoste turned back to Kris. “So you took the commander’s statement as essentially permissive?”
“I did, sir. I thought anything we could do to win was fair game, sir—unless it was specifically prohibited.”
Hoste nodded, but looked to Commander Kelleher. “That’s a fair reading, sir,” Kelleher allowed. “The exercise rules stipulate prohibited actions as opposed to permitted actions: the text is worded in the permissive sense, especially when reinforced by an instructor’s statement.”
“Very well, Ms. Kennakris,” Hoste addressed her again. “Can you please tell us for the record how you obtained the new jump convolutions for the route you selected?”
Kris took a deep breath. “I did them in my head, sir.” The chorus of muffled exclamations that broke out confirmed that her study mates had kept quiet on the subject.
“You realize that is an extraordinary claim, Ms. Kennakris—”
“I didn’t at the time, sir.”
Hoste blinked, but let it pass. “Perhaps you can explain more exactly how you accomplished this?”
“More exactly, sir?”
“What tools—resources—you used to perform this calculation.”
“I downloaded the local TSAO catalog for Lacaille space onto my xel, sir. Then I used a copy of Tesseract with a mapping module to give me the available manifolds. I downloaded the nav data from the corvettes to get the key points I needed, and then I worked out the new convolution. Once I had it, I manually entered it into my simulator and linked it to the others.”
“So the only tools you used were a copy of Tesseract and a mapping module on your xel, and the only data you required was the TSAO catalog and the exercise nav data supplied to the corvettes?”
“That’s right, sir.”
Hoste looked right and left to his stone-faced colleagues on the dais. “Any comments?”
“Well, sir,” Commander Olson spoke up. “Tesseract’s not a program we would expect an underclassman to be able to use, but it’s certainly available to anyone who wants to install it. As long as she used it legitimately—without outside assistance—I don’t see a problem with that.”
“Any further comments? No? Then let us continue.” He activated the screen above the dais. “Ms. Kennakris, are you willing to demonstrate this ability for the members of the inquiry?”
“I am, sir.” This is where the dog-and-pony show begins, she thought, wondering if she could actually concentrate with a hoard of eyes boring into the back of her skull.
“Very well,” the Commandant pronounced, and as Kris waited, trying not to fidget, the process of formally testing her claim was set in motion. She thought it was a silly, tedious and irritating bit of theatre: first, they called for a few randomly selected upperclassmen to surrender their xels—for a moment it seemed they might even resort to rolling dice, for gawd’s sake—then went through the ritual of verifying that the tools she’d need were properly installed; setting the right permissions; having Commander Olson test them; having the class president and Lieutenant Commander Fulton, the head of the Academy’s IT department, witness and endorse all these procedures; and finally presenting her with the approved device. Hoste then asked for a selection of test problems from the audience; these were displayed on the screens, and another randomly selected student made the choice.
Kris refocused her eyes as the Commandant addressed her—she’d been calming herself by creating a mental catalog of all the ways these ridiculous attempts at ‘proving’ the test would be fair and unbiased might be defeated—and replied automatically, “Yes, sir?”
“Do you find this an acceptable problem, Ms. Kennakris?”
She looked up at the displays for the first time. The problem posed was straightforward: a transit from Nedaema in the Pleiades to Antigua in the Fomalhaut Sector. “Yes, that’s fine, sir.”
He nodded for her to proceed and she opened Tesseract and started loading data into it, then imported the results into the mapper for display. The xel was linked to big auditorium screens and she had to resist glancing at them, while the room became unnaturally silent. Accessing the function menu and bringing up a basic transform, she felt the tension focused on her becoming more acute, and for a moment she had to stop. Closing her eyes, she tried to shut out the room with its many pairs of invasive eyes and the bated breathing in the pregnant quiet, filling it instead with a simple rhythm that she slowly elaborated on until, at last, she could visualize the convolution operators, each with its own melody, and begin to harmonize them.
After what seemed an immensely long time—perhaps a minute—she had her answer. She input the convolution into the plotting module and tapped PLOT. The thin red trace of the transit arced through the xel’s display volume, neatly connecting Nedaema with Antigua. She held the xel out. “That’s it, sir.”
No one spoke. All their attention was riveted on the auditorium screens, as if spellbound by some particularly odd conjuring trick, at once unbelievable yet not quite satisfying. Hoste recovered first. “Commander Olsen, please verify this result. Ms. Huston”—calling on the class president—“would you observe, please?”
Eleanor Huston came down from her seat and peered officiously over Commander Olson’s shoulder as he took out a xel and ran the convolution the normal way. So how do you like it? Kris thought maliciously as his operations unfolded across the display and Ms. Huston did her best to look keenly serious. Merging his plot with Kris’s, Olson looked up. “Perfect, sir,” he reported in a strangely pinched tone of voice.
Murmuring broke out and Kris sternly suppressed an urge to roll her eyes. She wished she could give a little bow and pull a coin from her ear—or maybe make the xel disappear . . . by sho
ving it up someone’s—
“Thank you, Ms. Kennakris.” Hoste’s manner suggested that he might have been following her thoughts. To his left, Kris saw that Naomi Buthelezi had a little glint in her eye—she probably was too. “Would you object to doing another problem, for confirmation?”
“If it will help expedite the proceedings,” Kris answered, keeping her tone just this side of snide, “I’m happy to undertake another problem.”
Her tone was not lost on Hoste but he could not well say anything, and they went through the Kabuki dance of selecting a new problem set again. These were more challenging, and when the final selection was made—by Minx, and Kris wondered if she’d been looking up navigation problems while the deliberations were going on—it made Kris smile inwardly.
The transit Minx picked was from Anson’s Deep to the Ivoria-controlled junction at Winnecke IV. It was really two transits because there was no direct route between them: you either had to go via Andaman & Nicobar or through Iona, both of which could be problematic.
A third possibility was to run the Shaula Traps, which were notoriously difficult to negotiate and required a ship with very hot drives. Kris smiled because the Traps run was much used by slavers, and they typically over-engined their ships to allow them to do it. She’d made the trip numerous times in Harlot’s Ruse and had actually considered tweaking Harlot’s jump convolver just enough to make the next run fatal. She was certainly happy that the CEF had forestalled her plan for suicidal revenge on Anton Trench, but she found the irony of Minx picking that particular problem quite amusing.
Hoste, considering Kris intently as he highlighted the choice, asked her: “Have you a question, Ms. Kennakris?”
“Yes, sir.” Kris tried to keep the amusement out of her voice. “I was wondering if it was important in the context of this problem that the transit be unobserved?”
Hoste seemed to have an idea of what she was getting at—his eyes narrowed and she also noticed Naomi Buthelezi and Commander Olson looking at her quite intently—but he merely said, “Please clarify, Cadet.”
Loralynn Kennakris 2: The Morning Which Breaks Page 18