The Military Academy
“While joking about the Adams Incident isn’t a capital offence, it’s certainly enough to show that you’re not right for the military,” Morton said. “Lieutenant Danson, escort him to the barracks to pack his things. Then escort him to the train station.”
“Yes, Commander.” Danson grasped Elliott’s arm and led him from the site.
“As for the rest of you, let’s return to the classroom. In addition to discussing in more detail how Interior defends the Way, I think we’ll also review the articles that dictate what to do if you suspect the Way is about to be violated. Lieutenant Commander Eckles, take up the lead.”
As the line that ringed the clearing followed Eckles from the site, Lesley noticed that Mo moved stiffly. She understood why—every muscle in her body had been clenched, too.
Mo turned a page of the book she wasn’t really reading, then gave up and rested the book face-down on her lap. Another one for the insomnia pile next to her bed. It wasn’t the book’s fault. She couldn’t concentrate, not when she was about to find out if she was in or not. What would she do if the military said no? Ever since she’d decided she wanted to be a fighter pilot, she hadn’t considered for a second that the military could reject her application. But now, waiting for her name to be called, the possibility was frighteningly real. She had absolutely no idea what she’d do with her life if she’d failed.
One of the three doors on the opposite wall swung open and a grinning Rymellan bounded through the doorway. Well, it looked like he was in. In the thirty-five minutes she’d sat here, about half had come out looking like he did. The other half had tried to smile, or at least not cry, but a quick shake of the head to a waiting friend or the redness and strain around the eyes had betrayed them. Mo had told Les not to wait with her. “I don’t want everyone to think I can’t do anything by myself,” she’d said, and now added another reason to the list: if she hadn’t made it, she wanted to sneak off and have a little cry before she had to put on a brave face and pretend her life wasn’t ruined.
A military stepped into the waiting area. “Nelson,” she called. A boy stood. She ushered him into the office and shut the door.
Mo glanced around the room. Only seven left, including her. That would take care of the Ls to the Ps. Les’s group, the Qs to the Ts, would be next. Les didn’t have anything to worry about, not after her performance at the execution site. Morton had even spoken to her after the session, wanting to know if she planned to train for Interior or Defence. Nope, Les was in, and so was David. He’d already left the academy, anxious to return to his family to celebrate the good news.
“Good luck,” he’d shouted as he’d waved to them and disappeared down the steps to the train platform. Then, ten minutes later, he’d beeped them and made them promise that they’d beep him once they knew. Well, she’d beep him if she was accepted; otherwise she’d send him a dispatch. It would be bad enough facing Les and her family without having to actually talk to him.
Another door swung open—the doom door. As far as she could tell, everyone who’d been called into that office had been rejected. Rosemary Mathers stepped out, her face grim. So, even Rosemary-flaming-Mathers had been taken down by the doom door. Good riddance. Elliott’s joke had been in poor taste; it had probably been the stupidest, dumbest, most moronic thing he could have said, but it hadn’t been a violation. Anyone else would have realized that everyone was tired, stressed, and uneasy and let it go, or at least talked to Elliott in private. But not Rosemary-flaming-Mathers.
Fortunately, the Defence session the previous evening had been nowhere near as tense as the Interior one. Mo had learned that cadets could only apply to the fighter pilot program after they’d completed their second year at the Military Academy. Apparently the curriculum for the Interior and Defence streams was pretty much the same during the first year of training. The second year was when the two streams significantly branched. “So if you change your mind about divisions, it’s better to do it during your first year,” the lieutenant commander had said. Cadets were only eligible to enter special programs like the fighter pilot program—those with a limited number of spaces and rigorous entry requirements—when they began their third year.
“But we won’t wait until our second year to start planning for the fighter pilot program,” Les had said afterwards. “We have to make sure we take the right courses, get involved in the right activities, from our very first day.” Yeah, well, that was if they were both at the academy. Les talked as if they’d already been accepted. She had reason to be confident. Mo didn’t.
She heard shuffling inside the doom door’s office and picked up her book, hoping that shielding herself with it would mean she wouldn’t have to pass through the doom doorway. But no such luck. “Middleton,” bellowed the military who’d emerged from the office.
Mo stood and placed her book on her chair, trying not to look crestfallen. Only six people, maybe a couple less, would see her on her way out. That wouldn’t be too humiliating. No, the humiliation would come later, when she told Les, and Mama and Papa. She forced herself to follow the military into the office.
“I’m Lieutenant Williams.” He gestured toward the chair in front of her. “Sit.”
She did so, crossing her legs in an effort to look relaxed. He flipped through a file on his desk, presumably hers, occasionally stopping when something on a page caught his interest. Maybe he enjoyed dragging it out and making the candidate squirm before delivering the bad news.
“It says here that you’ve expressed interest in the fighter pilot program,” he said.
“Yes.”
“You’ll have to work very hard to get in. The number of applicants is always much greater than the number of spots. And more than half the students usually fail the program.”
A glimmer of hope rose within her. “I’m not afraid of hard work.”
“That’s good. If you thought the Indoctrination Academy was demanding, you’re in for a shock.”
Her mounting excitement got the better of her. “Does that mean . . . ?”
He looked up from her file and managed a small smile. “Are you still interested in serving in the military, or has the evaluation changed your mind?”
“I’m still interested,” she said, a little more eagerly than she would have liked.
“Well, then, welcome to the Military Academy, Cadet Middleton.”
“Thank you,” she said, grinning. Jumping up and down and whooping would have to wait. Take that, doom door!
“Within a week, you’ll receive a dispatch with your report date, which will be two to three weeks after your final day at the Learning Academy. Congratulations, and good luck.”