by Claudia Gray
“Yes! I want them to admit what they’ve done and take it back! That’s our only chance at getting our ranks reinstated—”
“They’re not going to reinstate us after something like that! They’d expel us so fast we wouldn’t even have time to pack our bags.”
“You won’t even try? You’d rather lie down in the dirt than admit your precious teachers could do something wrong?”
Ciena wanted to shake him. “We would only make things worse, Thane.”
“So you want me to just take it. Just accept that my whole first term here at the academy was a waste.”
As if everything they’d learned, done, and seen was wasted just because of their stupid course rankings. Infuriated, she shot back, “Yes, I do! You need to let go, learn to deal, and grow up.”
He stared at her, openmouthed, with nothing but scorn in his eyes, then said, “I never thought you were a coward.”
That stung. “I never thought you were unfit for Imperial service. Now, though? I have to wonder.”
“Spare me your analysis, okay? We’re done here.”
With that he turned to walk out. Ciena both wanted to be rid of him and didn’t want to leave things like this. So she called, “Don’t you want to see what else Jude digs up?”
“She’s not going to dig up anything else. We have our answer. You’re just too naive to believe it.” Thane’s voice dripped with contempt. It scoured her raw. She said nothing more as he stalked out.
It felt as if a bomb had gone off. Ciena sensed this incident had only been the trigger—that some drastic change had been waiting to happen between them for a long time. But she’d never dreamed it would lead to a confrontation so ugly. A crevasse had opened in their friendship, and Thane stood on the other side. No longer could she believe he loved the Empire as she did; no longer could she trust in his understanding and support. Somehow Ciena already knew things between them would never be the same.
“Well.” Jude sounded awkward. “So. I did keep looking, and it seems like the trail ends at Student Outcomes. That doesn’t mean they’re guilty—the office may only have been a convenient rerouting for the original sabotage of the data records. And of course the rest of the repair-bay info has been erased. I’m afraid my search ends here.”
Ciena nodded. The data terminals before her blurred and she wiped away hot tears with the heel of her hand.
Jude continued, “We should focus our efforts on improving your class rank in future, so you can make up for this loss—” Suddenly, she stood up, less prim than she’d ever been before, and hugged Ciena tightly. Then it was finally all right for Ciena to cry.
FOR THE ACADEMY cadets, the next two and a half years seemed both to last forever and to rush by in a blur. As the exams grew more demanding, the flying more difficult, and the discipline more exacting, the bunks began to empty out. The lineups tightened formation again and again. The corridors seemed less crowded as more and more students flunked out or simply gave up.
Both Thane Kyrell and Ciena Ree were too tough for that. They still both aimed for the top slot in the class, every term—which meant they clashed with each other time and time again.
In Core Worlds Classical Culture: “Who here can tell me which opera the composer Igern is best known for?”
Ciena’s hand shot up, and when the professor nodded at her, she answered, “Chalice and Altar.”
“Very good, Cadet Ree. And can you tell me the themes for which this opera is famed?”
Uh-oh. She could hum several melodies from Chalice and Altar, but she didn’t enjoy opera music. That made it difficult for her to connect music to plot.
After only a moment’s pause, the professor turned away. “Memorizing by rote, Cadet Ree? Unfortunate. Does anyone else know?”
The sound of Thane’s voice from behind her pierced her like a knife between the shoulder blades. He said, “The opera deals with the morality of self-sacrifice and the repression of desire.”
“Excellent, Cadet Kyrell.”
It was like Ciena could feel Thane’s smug smile burning through her back. She gritted her teeth and resolved to listen to opera every single night until the next Culture exam. Kendy and Jude could just deal with it.
In Destroyer-Level Craft Operations: “All other efforts have failed,” intoned the professor from the mock captain’s chair of the Star Destroyer simulator. “Our vessel has been boarded, battles rage on every level, and we cannot let our enemies take the ship. Therefore we must self-destruct. Which of the three methods of self-destruct should we choose?”
Thane swiveled around in his console chair. “We should set the automatic self-destruct, using the codes given to the three top officers. The automatic gives us the longest time to detonation, which means more of our troops will be able to make it to escape pods.”
The professor steepled his hands in front of him. “An interesting choice. Does anyone see any problems with Cadet Kyrell’s scenario?”
Ciena lifted her head from her viewscreen. “Yes, sir. If the ship has been so thoroughly infiltrated by the enemy, there is no guarantee that the three top officers will all be on the bridge, or even alive. Also, the extra time to detonation will only give our enemies a greater chance to escape, as well.”
“Very good, Cadet Ree. What would you suggest instead?”
“Not the core engine method, which would require us to have easy access to the engine room—again, not guaranteed during intraship combat. Instead we should go for the captain’s-word method. The captain signals for all to abandon ship, seals herself on the bridge with a specific password or phrase known only to her, and remains within to fire weapons at enemy vessels and provide cover for escape pods. She then pilots the ship into the nearest planetary object, star, or singularity.” Ciena lifted her chin in thinly concealed pride.
“That means the captain must die with her ship,” the instructor said.
“Yes, sir,” Ciena replied. “But all Imperial officers should be prepared to sacrifice their lives to do their duty.”
“Excellent, Cadet Ree.” The instructor smiled at her. That old creep never smiled at anybody. “Your answer is the one I find ideal in a tactical sense—and a moral sense, as well.”
Thane clenched his hands around the edges of the control panel to keep himself from making a gesture recognized on most worlds as extremely rude.
Moral. What was moral about blowing yourself up, when you could just as easily escape with your life and come back to fight another day? Thane fumed over that the rest of the afternoon, including in Hand-to-Hand Combat, where his temper fueled his punches until he hit Ved too hard. That meant he not only got a demerit but also had to promise Ved all his dessert credits for a week to make amends.
Screwing up in Hand-to-Hand was his own fault, and Thane knew it. But he couldn’t help feeling like it was yet another mess he’d gotten into because of Ciena.
Maybe she still bought in to the idea of the Empire as the perfect state, every single planet’s population singing its praises nonstop. Thane had learned better. Although the official information channels spoke of building projects, successful trade negotiations, and endless economic prosperity, he knew that shine was mostly gloss. The Empire built new bases to solidify its control. Its “trade negotiations” always seemed to result in the Empire’s getting everything it wanted on terms that couldn’t possibly have benefited the planet in question. And as for the mood of the populace, even the official information channels had begun spitting venom about a small group of terrorists who plotted evil and called themselves rebels.
Thane had nothing but contempt for terrorists, but he also understood that such dissident factions rarely came out of nowhere. They were a reaction to the Empire’s increasing control—an overreaction, definitely, but proof that not everybody accepted the Emperor’s rule.
Despite his disenchantment, Thane had no plans to leave Imperial service. How else would he get to fly the greatest ships in the galaxy? Smaller employers could also
be corrupt, and the work would be less certain. With the Imperial fleet, Thane was guaranteed decent pay, access to top-of-the-line ships, and regular promotions. Best of all, he’d never have to live on Jelucan again.
So it was without envy that he saw Ciena Ree assigned to command track. His own track—elite flight—suited him far better. He even welcomed the fact that he and Ciena shared fewer classes after they divided into tracks. Thane felt relieved that he didn’t have to see her every day any longer. Sometimes even looking at her hurt—
No. It irritated him. Angered him. It didn’t hurt.
Or so he told himself. All Thane knew was that since their rift over the fake sabotage incident more than two years prior, he and Ciena had never been able to patch things up completely. The humiliation he’d felt when she brought up his father—that she would suggest anything he did came from his father—it still stung every time he saw Jude Edivon. (Jude had always been extra nice to him since that day, which only made things worse.) Ciena had stopped confiding in him, which felt cold and strange; he wondered if she’d become so fanatical about her Imperial duty that she took his distrust of the academy’s methods as a personal insult. How stupid would that be? Nor could he forget that she’d refused to challenge their superior officers, leaving his class rank severely damaged.
It wasn’t as if he hated Ciena or anything, and he didn’t think she hated him, either. But neither of them cheered for the other in races any longer, or offered congratulations after a tournament win. They didn’t hang out during the scant free time academy rigor allowed.
But occasionally—at the least convenient moments—the enduring connection between them would make itself known. Ashes would become embers.
One day, only a few months before graduation, Thane headed back to the uniform dispensary, a trip he’d made at least once each term. He’d finally stopped growing, which was a relief, because he topped out as the third-tallest member of their class, only a hair beneath Nash. But his body was now adding muscle to bone, broadening his chest and shoulders, which meant new uniform jackets. He was only thinking how tight and uncomfortable his current jacket was when he turned the corner and saw Ciena standing farther down the corridor, still in her loose black shorts and gray tank from E&A class. Instead of her usual proud bearing, she leaned against the wall and held one hand to her face. Even without glimpsing her expression, Thane knew she was upset.
In that instant, he suddenly remembered something he hadn’t thought of in years—the day he’d met Ciena so long before. When the other boys had mocked her as she stood in the hangar in her plain brown dress, Thane had thought of her as an autumn leaf, fallen and fragile.
He’d learned Ciena Ree was anything but fragile. Yet he thought of the autumn leaf now.
“Hey,” he said. After a moment’s hesitation, he stepped toward her. “Are you all right?”
Ciena startled, straightening up as she tried to compose herself. She hadn’t been weeping, but Thane could see the glimmer of unshed tears in her eyes. “I’m fine,” she said hoarsely. “Thanks.”
You checked on her. She’s good. Duty done. Get out of here. Thane hesitated, on the verge of turning to go, but then he couldn’t. “You don’t look fine.”
She made a strange sound—half laugh, half sob. “It’s stupid.”
“What?”
“…I got a holo from my parents. The muunyak died.”
“The one you used to ride up to the Fortress sometimes, when we were little?” Thane had not spoken of the Fortress in years.
Ciena nodded. “Yeah. Him. He was pretty old, and I knew when I came here I’d probably never see him again—but still.” She rolled her eyes, mocking her own emotions. “Stupid to get upset, huh?”
“It’s not stupid. That muunyak was great.” Thane had ridden him a couple of times, too. He remembered being a child and sitting on the beast’s broad furry back, his arms looped around Ciena’s waist, both of them laughing in mingled delight and terror as the muunyak nimbly walked a narrow ridge alongside the mountain.
She smiled. It had been a long time since Thane had seen her smile at him and mean it. “He was, wasn’t he?”
“Yeah.”
Their eyes met, and for a moment, it was as if the past couple of years had fallen away—
But then Ciena’s expression dimmed. Her posture became more rigid, and she said, formally, “Thank you for your concern. If you’ll excuse me, I need to change for my Amphibious Battle Tactics study group.”
Thane held his hands in front of him, a push-back motion. “You’re excused.”
She always did that—went cold and shut him out again. He told himself he was used to it, that he’d long since stopped caring. Still, the entire way to the dispensary, Thane couldn’t stop thinking of the Fortress they’d created together and how he used to sit up there, waiting for his one true friend.
He always did that—acted nice just long enough for Ciena to forget how he’d lashed out at her. She’d start confiding in him the way she used to, then catch herself as she remembered how thoroughly Thane had shut her out.
As she sat in her study group, watching holos of real amphibious invasions from history, Ciena brooded on that odd, fractured encounter with Thane. She wished she hadn’t gone so cold—but it seemed like every time she tried to be herself with him, he turned away.
What had she done that was so wrong? He was the one who had gone crazy after the stupid cannon project two and a half years before, assuming there was some mass conspiracy at work. He was the one who would have dragged them into an administrative hearing based on no evidence, which would have resulted in their immediate expulsion. And sometimes he seemed so offended when she beat him on tests or challenges that Ciena felt like he couldn’t believe that someone so inferior had bested him. Did he still consider her nothing but a little valley waif?
Maybe he’d always seen their friendship as an act of charity. All those practice flights, all those study sessions with CZ-1—maybe they hadn’t shared those experiences as friends; maybe instead they’d been gifts from the rich boy to the little girl he expected to worship him in return.
That was too much, and Ciena knew it. She and Thane had truly been friends and on some level still were—but it was a level she could no longer reach.
Her study group leader kept talking. Ciena sat there, hearing but not listening, remembering the way she and Thane had sat in the Fortress for hours, sharing their secrets and dreaming about the stars.
A few weeks before graduation, the commandant announced that a handful of top cadets would attend a reception and ball at the Imperial Palace. The thought of it took Ciena’s breath away. Of course there was little chance the Emperor himself would preside over the gathering. Yet the Imperial Palace was one of the grandest and most elegant structures on the entire planet; apparently it had once been a temple of some kind. Hundreds of senior military officers would be there, not to mention many members of the Imperial Senate. Any cadets invited to a gathering such as that were being noted for more than mere good grades; it was a sign of favor, an investment in those future officers. Their introductions to powerful people in the military and in politics could change the course of their careers.
So when Ciena saw her own name on the list, she felt like cheering out loud. Only much later did she realize who else would be in attendance.
“Thane Kyrell and Ved Foslo,” she said, flopping back on her bunk. “Of all the guys in our class, those two had to be invited?”
“Any logical analysis of class performance would suggest them as likely candidates.” Jude never looked up from her computer console, her fingers dancing on the screen as she finished her latest Longform Computer Operations project. “Their invitations, like ours, were all but inevitable.”
“You’re just rubbing it in,” Kendy said from her bunk, good-naturedly. This close to graduation—with their future assignments all but guaranteed—a sense of calm had settled over the academy. With the ruthless competition
at an end, people could…not relax, precisely, but stop worrying about the here and now and start looking avidly toward the future. “Just tell me you’re not going to wear your uniforms.”
Ciena hesitated. “I—well—dress uniforms are appropriate for all formal occasions.”
“However, they are not required at nonmilitary functions such as the ball,” Jude said briskly. “Undoubtedly you wish to wear a dress uniform because you do not have adequate credits for appropriate civilian attire.”
Thank goodness her skin tone was dark enough that nobody could see her blush. Ciena tried to sound firm. “The uniform’s fine.”
Jude sighed as she finally looked up at Ciena. “Your pride is usually a strong motivator, but there are times when it only gets in the way. Please allow me to purchase your attire for the event.”
“I couldn’t,” Ciena protested, hackles rising. Her valley upbringing had taught her to be prouder of her rags than the second-wavers were of their silks—even when she had thought the silks were pretty.
More softly, Jude said, “We’re friends. You’ve helped me tremendously during our time here. My mother holds patents on numerous devices used in Bespin’s cloud-mining technology. As such, our personal wealth is more than adequate to our needs. Why shouldn’t I get you a dress?”
“My culture doesn’t—”
Uncharacteristically, Jude interrupted. “I have a culture, too. We value generosity and the graceful acceptance of gifts.”
Ciena searched for the words to object, but—if it was part of Jude’s culture. “Well…”
Jude looked hopeful.
“I don’t need to own a dress, but—maybe you could help me rent one?”
So she found herself arriving at the grand ball in the only formal dress she’d ever worn. Surely vanity fueled the happiness bubbling within her, but she couldn’t help it. The soft violet-blue fabric sparkled subtly, and both the short cape and the long skirt flowed around her as if in an unseen breeze.
