2065 - The Academy

Captain Bartlett smiled in Victor’s direction. “Get over here, f*g—and the rest of you, too.”

Victor grinned in reply, flashing that cocky half-smile of his, and it was evident he viewed this particular use of the slur as playful banter, rather than an insult. David wasn’t sure how the two of them knew each other, but there was clearly something of a rapport between them. Victor was good at that—charming his way into other people’s lives.

“No one’s getting in trouble tonight, because no one’s going to talk about it,” Captain Bartlett said as they crossed the room and sat down. “If you’re here, it’s because we trust you. I even trust F*ggot over there enough to let him bring his . . . whatever you call each other these days.”

“Friend,” Victor answered.

David reluctantly took a seat with the others. Captain Bartlett watched them as he shuffled the cards, but something about David’s face gave him pause.

“Your friend seems nervous. What’s wrong with him?” He nodded at Victor.

“He’s fine. He’ll loosen up once he has a few drinks.”

One of the upperclassmen cast a longer glance in David’s direction from across the table. He was smiling too, but there was something vaguely judgmental to it.

“How’s that supposed to work—admitting both of them?” he asked. “What’s next, are we going to be planning their wedding?”

“Sure,” Victor grinned. “If you wear a dress and bake the cake, I’ll be there.”

The cadet sitting next to them, one of the second-years, shifted at these words. David barely knew him, but from what little he’d heard, he remembered he was widely regarded as agreeable, with a tendency to be overly friendly. However, everything about him was slow, from his movements, to his speech, to his thoughts, and he had a soft, doughy appearance that never seemed to improve despite any amount of military training.

Edgar, David recalled his name now.

Edgar looked at them through heavy-lidded eyes that always seemed to take a few seconds to process what they saw, and shrugged. “A f*g wedding’s no different than any other wedding, I guess.”

Bartlett smirked. “Yes, well, you heard the word ‘cake’ and that’s all that mattered.” He glanced at the rest of them. “Edgar’s my cousin, by the way. If he says something embarrassing, I apologize.”

“Are you sure we won’t get in trouble for this?” someone asked, abruptly changing the subject.

It was the other second-year, and he wasn’t smiling at all. He was Edgar’s opposite in every way—always frantic and fidgety, with jerky movements and a temper that flared easily. His words tumbled out in a jumble of rapid, high-pitched speech, and there was something vaguely weasel-like about his features. In fact, that was what they called him. David was sure he had a name, but he’d never heard it. He was simply “Weasel.”

Bartlett shrugged. “We do it every year, and we’ve never been caught. In fact, that’s one of the requirements for membership—break a rule without drawing attention.”

“Why Howard’s classroom, though?” Weasel asked.

“Because that’s one of the only places on campus to find alcohol,” Bartlett replied. “Drinking’s prohibited on Academy grounds, unless you’re the chancellor. Then you can do whatever you want.” He nodded at the liquor bottle. “Howard keeps that in the bottom drawer of his desk, and if he was smart, he would’ve locked it.”

“You don’t think he’ll notice it’s gone?”

“Oh, I’m sure he will, but rumor has it he’s got something of a drinking problem. He’ll probably just assume he finished it himself, because that’s what he does when he’s alone. Quite frankly, it’s pathetic.”

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“How do you know that?” Edgar asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“Everyone knows that,” the judgmental upperclassman smirked as he idly stacked the poker chips. “Howard’s a loser-general. My dad was stationed under him a few years back, and said his promotion was based on little more than seniority. He’s spent the majority of his career behind a desk, and if he was worth anything as an officer, they’d have put him in a real command post rather than overseeing cadet training. I don’t think anyone likes Howard, and from what I understand, he’s not exactly popular among the school’s administration, either. Senior command seems to be in a hurry to get rid of him, and I think they’re all counting the days until he retires—him included.”

Edgar nodded. “Every time I see him, he looks miserable.”

“Well, retirement won’t help with that,” the third upperclassman said. “These officers have been here so long that when they leave, they don’t know what to do with themselves. I saw it with my grandfather. They complain endlessly about the Corps while they’re in, but they don’t have a life outside of it, so when they’re out, all they do is make their wife miserable too.”

“Wife?” Captain Bartlett grinned. “Howard doesn’t have one of those, because no woman’s ever been willing to so much as look at him.” He glanced at Victor. “Or . . . man. Nobody wants Howard. He’s alone, and the only girlfriend he’s ever had is a liquor bottle.”

Weasel shrugged. “He might’ve had better luck if he transferred abroad. He could go to one of our foreign offices; there’s plenty in the Soviet Union.”

“That would require him to be able to speak Russian,” Victor said.

Edgar frowned. “He can, though.”

“In theory,” Victor replied. “But I wouldn’t call anything that comes out of his mouth ‘Russian.’ Have you heard him? With that accent?”

He uttered a Russian phrase, mocking the chancellor’s manner of speech in the way only a native speaker could. David didn’t understand a word of it, but the three upperclassmen laughed, and Victor smiled. “It’s ‘bloody awful,’ as he’d say.”

David shifted uncomfortably. He found it shocking—the disrespectful behavior on display, and the manner in which these cadets spoke of a general.

I like you, Victor, he thought, but not so much the company you keep, or the person you become when you’re around them.

He glanced around the table, hoping someone might show the slightest bit of restraint, but they all seemed fully engaged in the conversation.

All but one.

David’s roommate didn’t seem to find this nearly as amusing as the others. “Are we going to drink that, or are we going to stare at it all night?” he asked, nodding at the bottle.

“Soon enough,” Captain Bartlett said. “But before we do, let’s get the formalities out of the way.” He leaned back in his chair and gestured around the table. “Welcome to initiation night for Xi Kappa Rho. Most of you already know what this is, but for those who don’t, here’s a quick introduction. Xi-Rho, as we call ourselves, has a legacy going back to the Academy’s foundation.”

Weasel frowned. “Why have I never heard of it, then?”

“Because we’re not officially sanctioned by the Academy,” Bartlett said. “We used to be, but our charter was revoked after a series of rule violations. That didn’t stop us, though. We’ve come to be known as something of a general’s club thanks to our legacy of producing senior officers. It goes back to our beginning—the founding member of Xi-Rho was none other than General Frederick Gray himself, back when he was a cadet. The only reason he wasn’t expelled for the things he did that year was because his family donated a substantial sum of money to the school. He continued the club on an unofficial basis even after it was disbanded, and the legacy lives on; almost every single member of the Council is one of our alumni. In fact, that’s how we’re able to be here tonight—my uncle’s a lieutenant colonel, and he always makes sure our initiations go off without a hitch.”

He paused and took a deep breath. “The existence of Xi-Rho is well-known, but that doesn’t change the fact that this is an unofficial fraternity, so you shouldn’t advertise your membership. We’ll give you ways to identify each other, but don’t disclose it. And I think it goes without saying that you should all consider yourselves very lucky to be here. Xi-Rho is invitation-only, and we recruit based on four metrics—recommendations from current members, likelihood of becoming a senior officer one day, family legacy, and finally, whether we like you or not. That last one is the most important, so the impression you make tonight determines whether we proceed with your membership. Now,” he reached over and grabbed the bottle, “I think it’s high time we got started.”

He moved to pour himself a glass, but stopped when he saw Weasel’s face.

“What’s that look for?” he frowned.

Weasel wore an expression of sheer, muted horror. His eyes weren’t trained on Captain Bartlett, though, but rather something behind him.

David’s back was to the door, but he knew what to expect before he saw it. He still turned around, though—they all did—as they followed Weasel’s gaze.

General Howard was leaning against the doorframe, staring at them.

He didn’t appear surprised, or even angry. He seemed slightly bemused, as if he’d been waiting to see just how long it would take them to notice his presence.

They stood in unison. Howard didn’t say anything, though. He simply stared back.

When David had conjured such a scenario in his anxious imagination, he’d expected an immediate barrage of yelling, or shouted threats of some sort, but all of that would’ve been preferable to standing beneath that withering gaze.

There was power in words unspoken, and this man’s silence was more threatening than anything he could ever say.

It couldn’t last forever, though, and Howard let a nascent grin slip through that stern demeanor as he finally spoke.

“You boys picked the wrong night.”