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get going. And as combat tends to make a hash of
everything anyway, I suspect your plans will be largely worthless,
once they close the doors and we start having at it.”
    “ Midshipman Cook! ”
snapped Weatherlee, his eyes cold with hate.
    “ In any event, my friend’s
midterms are the day after tomorrow. She has lots to digest between
now and then, and I need to see what kind of misinformation they
have in these books of yours so I can explain what she needs to
know for her test—and what she really needs to know on board a
ship.”
    “ You arrogant little
snot.”
    Furious, Weatherlee turned on his heels and
left, slamming the library door behind him. As he walked out of the
building and into the crisp air of early spring, the commodore felt
a knot growing in the pit of his stomach. He hated the Academy. He
still bristled at the memory of countless humiliations he’d endured
as a young man struggling to show everyone his appointment hadn’t
come only through his father’s connections, on Demeter and beyond.
Weatherlee knew he’d earned his place there just as much as anyone
else, but nobody ever let him forget about his father’s political
clout in the capital.
    He hadn’t come back to the Academy to be
humiliated again.

 
     
     
     
     
     

Chapter 6

    THE GENTLE BUBBLING of the small aquarium
gave a melancholy richness to the sad music that filled the cabin.
Shelves overflowed with curiosities from a half-dozen worlds.
Pastel paneling softened the busy collection of plants and flowers
hanging from the walls. Beside the sleeping chamber hung a
Demetrian tapestry in earth tones of browns and greens, a silent
reminder of a presence that still haunted the room and its
principal inhabitant.
    Janet Mendelson rested on the sofa in the
anteroom, her dried eyes staring at the ceiling. Her head lay on a
pillow, and her graceful, well-conditioned body gently rose and
fell with each breath. Her soft brown hair was braided today; time
always passed more quickly if she had something to do, and fussing
with her hair took her mind away from more painful concerns. Tears
no longer streaked her pretty, youthful face, but her eyes were
still puffed and red. The hurt had faded, though she knew it would
return before long. In its place was anger and resentment—anger at
the regulations that made her current anguish all but inevitable;
anger at the system of regimentation that dominated her life; anger
at herself, for the sweet delusions she’d allowed herself these
past months. But most of all she felt betrayal, and a gnawing sense
of helplessness that stripped away all of her lovely illusions.
    Seeking comfort in memories of more innocent
times, her mind drifted to happier days as a skinny tomboy on New
Babylon. Before long she was fighting tears again, this time
trailing her brother and his friends as they raced to the
schoolyard, too young to understand the cruel taunts hurled at her
but old enough to know that they were meant to hurt. Her parents’
stern words to the boys actually made things worse, and eventually
she learned not to tag along when they went outside. She never
understood how the brother she adored could stand by, laughing as
his friends tormented the little eight-year old girl who only
wanted to play.
    Inevitably, her eyes weakened again, as her
face remembered the touch of a hand that she knew she would miss
forever. She buried her face in her pillow, and began to cry.
     
    Lt. Commander François
LaRue was sitting at his desk, writing a letter to his sister when
the intercom sounded. Like most cabins on the cruiser, his quarters
were slightly cramped, but the Ceresian carpet on the floor
softened the otherwise austere furnishings, and an oil painting of
a farmhouse in the hills gave the room a touch of home. By reflex,
he activated the speaker.
    “ LaRue,” he said wearily.
    “ Commander Cook wants to see you in
his office,” said the disembodied voice of a young female
ensign.
    “ On my