Snippet – Exiled to Glory (Morningstar I)

This is a completely new series, set in a completely new universe. I do have a fairly detailed plan for the long-term development of this universe, and this character (and the supporting cast) but this novel is intended to serve as both a stand-alone book and the launch pad for something greater.

If you have any comments, suggestions, spelling corrections, or any other feedback please don’t hesitate to offer it. I read every piece of feedback I get and often integrate it into the final whole.

You can find some universe details here:

An Introduction To The Morningstar Universe

Prologue I

From: Transcript of Remarks by Grand Senator (Admiral) Sullivan, Presented at the Daybreak Naval Academy Graduation Ceremony. Daybreak. Year 204.

There is a question we are asked, time and time again, and that is this: why empire?

The people who ask that question, by and large, wish to believe that our empire is evil, and that by extension we are evil, that we are building our empire for our own self-aggrandizement. They do not wish to consider that we might have good cause for reuniting the human race under our banner, nor that their former independence was doing them more harm than good. They cannot be blamed for mourning their lost freedoms, nor can they be punished for questioning our motives. But they cannot, also, be allowed to be free.

It is a strong trait of our society that we always look truth in the face, that we do not permit the punishment of those who speak truth, no matter how unwelcome. It is not an easy standard to maintain, as no one enjoys being told something they do not wish to hear, but it has been the key to our success for so long that anyone who tries to sugar-coat the truth, or suppress it, must be counted as an enemy of civilisation.

And it is of civilisation that I wish to speak to you tonight.

Civilisation is a constant struggle. Those of you who have studied history will note that there have been hundreds of civilisations that had flourished, then collapsed and vanished … either through conquest, as has happened many times, or internal decay. The former is often spurred by the latter. A strong and resolute civilisation, with the ability to make best use of its manpower, technology and weapons – and develop more – is unbeatable, as long as it does not fall to internal enemies. And yet, such civilisations often have fallen? Why?

The paradox of civilisation is this; to maintain a civilisation, one must maintain the laws that created and shaped that civilisation. Yet, as that civilisation gets more developed it starts to forget the underlying reality of human nature; they start to forget that there is nothing natural about their peace and freedom, which leads – inevitably – to the collapse of their peace and freedom. They make excuses for bad behaviour, rather than confronting it openly; they allow themselves to be shamed into passivity, rather than standing up for their rights and upholding the foundations of their civilisation; they tolerate the smart prissy intellectuals who make subtle arguments that sound good, and defy anyone to speak against them, yet have no experience of the real world and therefore make fools of themselves. A civilisation, therefore, often harbours the seeds of its own destruction.

Maintaining civilisation requires, therefore, a certain degree of balance between too much freedom and too little. A completely free society, with no rules or customs, will collapse into chaos, either leading to extinction or the rule of the strong. A society with no personal freedom will decay from within, eventually – again – collapsing into chaos or the rule of the strong. It is not easy to strike a balance between the two points, to grant the maximum of personal – private – freedom while preventing individuals from infringing on the rights of others. Too much intrusion into private lives is often just as dangerous as too little.

If a failure to maintain the law through upholding and enforcing it can weaken or destroy a civilisation, a failure to uphold the convents of international – and interstellar – law can destroy an entire species. The intellectuals I mentioned above spoke of international codes of conduct that would bind nations, on the assumption that all nations would consider them binding and therefore war would be civilised … and ran, hard, into the cold reality that it was, and remains, incredibly difficult to force a nation to abide by such codes. They were unenforceable, save by force, and the lack of any power with both the demonstrated ability and willingness to enforce them ensured they were worse than useless. Indeed, having proven that international convents were worthless, they spurred the decay of older convents drawn up by wiser men, ensuring that war, never civilised, became even less so.

The great mistake of the United Nations was in launching thousands – perhaps hundreds of thousands – of colony missions without laying the groundwork for any framework of interstellar law, and enforcement, that could prevent large-scale interstellar conflict. It was a failure that would cost it dear, as jump drives improved and military operations became more than just random pirates and raiders preying on worlds too weak to defend themselves. The lack of any strong authority to keep the spacelanes open led directly to war, a series of minor conflicts that rapidly expanded into a holocaust that came far too close to destroying the entire human race. It may seem absurd, but so too did some fool thing in the Balkans that led to a war that set the entire world on fire.

That is the reason behind our empire, our ever-expanding control over the spacelanes and our determination to ensure the human race is reunited. We are a strong, ruthlessly pragmatic power that can and will impose our will on the rest of the universe. We keep smaller conflicts under control, sometimes by enforcing a peace and sometimes by transporting one side to another world; we provide a neutral forum for debates, and courts which follow a series of simple laws, backed by naked force. We do not allow ourselves any illusions about the true nature of humanity, or the universe itself. Our goal is to prevent a second war, because – in the end – there is no guarantee there will be anyone left, after a second war, to rebuild and fight a third.

As the old saying goes, “good times make weak men; weak men make hard times; hard times make strong men; strong men make good times.”

We are the strong men. And we will do everything in our power to ensure weak men do not have the chance to tear down what we’ve built from within …

You cadets have all passed through the most gruelling space naval training program known to man. You are well-versed in everything from modern engineering to history, moral philosophy, and basic interstellar law. You will go to your ships and serve the empire, and in doing so, serve the human race itself. You must never forget that you are part of a society – a ruling class – that seeks to prevent a second war, you must never let yourself get too close to local concerns and forget your duty.

And as you advance in the ranks, as many of you will, you must never forget how the universe truly works.

We are harsh and stern father figures. It cannot be denied. But the alternative is worse.

You must never forget that, either.

Prologue II

The young man waiting in the antechamber, Deputy Commandant Horace Valerian thought sourly, could have stepped off a recruiting poster.

He had been on a poster, according to his file. The Daybreak Naval Academy regularly showcased the careers of talented young cadets, highlighting their struggles as they tried to become naval officers in a bid to invite others to sign up. The training program was deliberately hard, to ensure that only the best passed the four years of training they needed to become an officer and start a climb that could easily take them to the very top, and the young man had been one of the best. No, the best. He wouldn’t have become class valedictorian three years out of four if he hadn’t had the right combination of aptitude, skill and luck – and a willingness to work hard – to pass. And yet …

Horace rubbed his eyes, cursing the young man under his breath. It was impossible to think him a fool – space was an unforgiving environment, and anyone who lacked a brain and the wisdom to use it was unlikely to survive long enough to be expelled – and yet, he’d done something incredibly foolish. Or had he? The timing was exact, almost perfect. A week earlier and the politics could have been finessed, ensuring the Academy wouldn’t have to tolerate such a cad giving the final address at graduation; a week later and it would be someone else’s problem, someone who might solve the problem by summarily busting the young idiot down to crewman or assigning him to detached duty, ensuring he’d never be troubled again. Horace had no idea if the twit had done it deliberately or not – there was no hint, in any of the overt and covert assessments he’d passed over the years, that he harboured a deep hatred for the Academy – and yet, it hardly mattered. The Academy was going to take one hell of a black eye, and it was all the fault of the young man waiting outside.

A flash of anger ran through Horace, a reminder of the old shame that came from spending most of his career in the rear. He’d always been more of a bureaucratic administrator than a warfighter and he knew, without false modesty, that he’d never be anything more. The odds of him becoming Commandant were very low, and the odds of him ever rising high were even lower. The cadets might respect his administrative ability, how he judged schedules and balanced the egos of training officers who were often experts in their fields and complete naifs in others, but they knew better than to emulate him. They wanted to win glory, to carry the flag into the distant reaches of space, to bring new worlds and civilisations into the empire and, in doing so, boost their careers into heights even they could barely imagine. Horace had thought, privately, that the class valedictorian was just another overly-ambitious young man, one who would learn many hard lessons before he rose to the top. And instead …

He shook his head, trying not to glance at the antique clock ticking in the corner. There were bare hours before the graduation ceremony was due to begin, when the academy would have to decide between allowing the valedictorian to give his damned speech or coming up with some excuse, no matter how absurd, to deny it. They were fucked either way, Horace thought, using words he would never say out loud. If they let the fool speak, they’d wind up with egg on their faces; if they denied him, the young man’s patron would be angry and the consequences of that were incalculable. The Grand Senator might believe his young client deserved punishment – no one reached the highest senatorial rank without a firm grasp of reality and a willingness to cut a misbehaving client loose if they became an embarrassment – but no patron could afford to be seen as abandoning a client without very good cause. A week earlier and it might have been possible to come to terms, to ensure there was good cause, but the timing simply hadn’t worked out. Horace was an old master at playing the political game and he knew there was no time. No matter what he did, the Academy was going to get a black eye …

… And Horace was morbidly sure he’d be the one taking the blame.

Angry boiled through him. Commandant O’Hara could not be faulted for stepping aside and allowing his deputy to handle the crisis, damn the man. No court martial board in existence would accept a man so hurt, so betrayed, passing judgement on the man who had betrayed him. Horace knew anything his superior did would be questioned savagely, perhaps overturned, by the board of inquiry. Commandant O’Hara had enemies – no one rose so high without making a few enemies along the way – and they’d gather like flies on shit, pointing out the sheer injustice and undermining his position, without a single care for the legalities of the affair. Why would they care, when they had a perfect opportunity to bring their enemy down? No, Horace could hardly fault the Commandant for passing the poisonous charge to him. But his understanding would not save his career.

His thoughts ran in circles. The young fool cannot be allowed to give the address, because the Academy cannot afford to turn a blind eye to his conduct, or be seen to be affirming it. The young fool cannot be stripped of rank and title, because it would bring his patron down on our heads. We don’t have time to call the Grand Senator and discuss the matter and … what the hell are we going to do?

He scowled as another message popped up on his terminal. Preparations for the ceremony were well underway. Families, patrons and journalists were already arriving in the nearest town, to watch the cadets pass out – and take their relatives out for lunch – before the young men reported to their first real duty stations. He should be out there, supervising his crew and making damn sure that everything was in order, before the crowd arrived at the Academy itself. The slightest mistake could – would – be horrifically embarrassing. The eyes of the galaxy were upon them, some looking to the benefits of empire and others watching for signs the empire’s ability to enforce its will was declining. Horace had no illusions. If something went wrong, no matter how minor, the consequences would be felt hundreds of light years away.

And they won’t stop, he reflected ruefully, with the destruction of my career.

He sat back in his seat, trying to think of something – anything – that could get him and the navy out of the political nightmare the young idiot had created. It was hard to remember – to force himself to believe – that the fool hadn’t intended to craft such a nightmare … in truth, Horace didn’t really believe it. The timing was just too good. It was … far too good.

I can’t demote him, I can’t expel him, I can’t …

Horace stopped, his mouth hanging open as a thought occurred to him. What if … his hands darted to the terminal, bringing up nearly two hundred years of naval history in a desperate search for a precedent. The idea was absurd, on paper; it was the kind of concept that, under normal circumstances, would land him in very hot water indeed. There were limits to just how much a patron, no matter how important, could boost a client’s career. And Horace wasn’t even the young fool’s patron. People would talk …

But would it solve the problem?

A flash of excitement ran through Horace, even as he checked and rechecked the files to make absolutely sure he wasn’t crossing a line. The precedents existed … barely. It would be one hell of a court martial, if the matter became public before it was too late, but who would discuss the issue openly? Everyone involved, even the young fool himself, had excellent reason to keep their mouths firmly shut. Horace was too old a hand to believe it would remain a secret indefinitely – the political graveyards were littered with men who believed their secrets would never be uncovered – but by the time it came out the issue would be resolved, one way or the other. It galled him to be rewarding the young man, even if it was a reward that came with a sting in the tail, yet …

It wasn’t a perfect solution, Horace reflected as he worked his way through the paperwork with terrifying speed, then called a handful of friends in various departments to ensure the paperwork was submitted and processed. It helped that the post-graduation assignments were never revealed, not even to patrons, before the ceremony was completed. There’d be no one in a position to both notice the discrepancy and do something about it … and anyone who did, he was sure, wouldn’t realise what had really happened. Whoever heard of punishing someone by giving him a promotion?

The terminal pinged. The orders were ready. Horace printed them – by long custom, duty assignments were always on paper – and leaned back in his chair, congratulating himself on his own cleverness. It had been a very close run thing, but he’d made it. One way or another, he told himself, the matter would be resolved to the satisfaction of all parties. And there was no way the young idiot could protest, not without sinking his entire career.

And if nothing else, he reflected as he called his secretary and asked her to send Cadet Morningstar into his office, he would never have to see the young man again.

Chapter One

Cadet – Provisional Lieutenant – Leo Morningstar sat outside the Deputy Commandant’s office and waited.

He was not, precisely, under arrest. The provosts who had taken custody of him, after the shore patrol had caught him in flagrante delicto, had neither handcuffed him nor stripped his rank badges from his uniform, before marching him to the outer office and ordering him to wait. Leo had spent a couple of nights in the guardhouse – it was almost a rite of passage, after completing the first year at the academy – and he knew what it was like, but this was different. He wasn’t sure just how much trouble he was in, although the fact he’d been brought to the office – rather than the guardhouse – suggested he was not on the verge of being expelled. That would be awkward, to say the least. And yet …

His lips quirked, briefly, as he tried to force himself to relax. He had graduated. He couldn’t be expelled, not now, and he doubted he could be put in front of a court martial board. The Old Man – Commandant O’Hara – was no doubt trying to find a way to do just that, but it was a legal impossibility. The mere fact he was sitting outside the Deputy Commandant’s office suggested O’Hara agreed, although there was no way to be sure. Leo hadn’t been in naval service for long, but he was all too aware that the letter of the law could be manipulated to evade the spirit. Daybreak prided itself on keeping the law as simple as possible, to make it harder for a planet to ignore its responsibilities to the interstellar union, yet there was plenty of precedent for a legal officer finding ways to get whatever his CO wanted done with a veneer of legality. They didn’t always get away with it, when their decisions were reviewed by the Senate, but it was often too late to help the planet adversely impacted by the poor legal work. And that meant …

He took another breath. He had gradated. And he had a powerful patron. He was safe.

The secretary looked up. “Cadet Morningstar, you may enter the office.”

Leo stood, keeping his irritation under tight control. A cadet who passed the first two years had the right to be addressed as Midshipman, and Leo was one of the few – the very few – cadets who had been promoted to Lieutenant before formally graduating. It was a provisional rank, and it could be lost very easily, but it was still a mark of accomplishment, as well as the faith his tutors had in him. He had promised himself that he would not lose the rank, and indeed he would strive to see it confirmed within the year. It was not unprecedented. And the few who had achieved it before had gone on to great things indeed.

He stepped into the Deputy Commandant’s office and saluted, trying not to look around with interest. It was hardly the first time he’d met Deputy Commandant Horace Valerian, but he’d never actually been in the man’s office before and he had to admit he was a little curious. The office was surprisingly spartan – like most of the academy – but there were a handful of antiques scattered around, including a grandfather clock that ticked loudly, something that bothered Leo more than he cared to admit. The man himself wore a dress uniform carefully tailored to hide his paunch, but he still managed to give off the air of being more at home behind a desk than on a starship’s bridge. Leo wondered, idly, how he’d managed to avoid being rotated back to front-line service, a legal requirement to keep rear-area officers losing track of what was actually important. Perhaps Valerian believed he would never be promoted again. It wasn’t impossible. The Daybreak Navy was constantly expanding, but there were limits to just how many men could hold high-ranking positions at any one time. The senatorial rolls listed hundreds, perhaps thousands, of officers who would never see a combat command again.

Valerian nodded curtly, then studied a datapad thoughtfully. Leo remained calm and composed, standing at attention and waiting to be ordered to relax. The Deputy Commandant was playing a power game by forcing him to wait, something that would have been a little more effective if Leo’s old headmaster hadn’t done the same, back when he’d been a simple schoolboy. He might have been firmly convinced that sparing the rod was spoiling the child, and he’d often put theory into practice, but making someone wait just betrayed a certain kind of insecurity. Leo knew he was young, barely twenty, and yet even he could tell the difference between someone who knew what he was talking about – and was therefore worth listening to – and someone who was faking it in the certain knowledge there was no way he could make it. The two men would have been shocked if they knew he’d compared the two, but they had a great deal in common …

“Leo Morningstar,” Valerian said. He didn’t look up from his datapad, although there was something in his manner that suggested he’d read the file already, before summoning Leo into his office. “Born, Year 184. Father, Senior Crew Chief Davis on RSS Morningstar, who was awarded the Navy Cross by then-Captain Sullivan and took the name of his ship in thanks, as was and remains customary for recipients of the Cross. Mother, Hoshiko Davis, nee Yu, the daughter of a pair of immigrants who were granted citizenship in Year 160 and, after doing her planetary service, became a teacher, married Davis, and gave birth to six children, including you.”

He paused, as if he were inviting comment. Leo knew better than to say a word.

“You grew up in Cold Harbour, a suburb of Augustus City, because your mother worked in the local school. Your father died saving his commander’s life, for which he gave you and your family patronage, ensuring you would study at a very good secondary school and then enter the Naval Academy itself at sixteen, a year younger than most cadets. You did very well, in your first year, and would have probably made valedictorian if you hadn’t got into a fight with a senior cadet …”

He looked up. “Why?”

“He insulted my mother, sir,” Leo said.

The Deputy Commandant cocked his head. “And that justified beating Senior Cadet Francis Blackthrone to within an inch of his life?”

“Yes, sir,” Leo said. It had been one thing to be harassed himself – he understood he’d be put through the wringer, to make sure the men were separated from the boys before it was too late – but quite another to tolerate suggestions his mother had been a whore, earning a patron through providing sexual services to her husband’s CO. “He deserved it.”

It was hard not to smile. Blackthrone had been an idiot. It was bad enough to make the snide accusations, time and time again, but far worse to do it when he was well within range. Leo had struck fast and hard, ramming his fist into the older cadet’s chest and then following up with a kick that had ended the fight for good. It hadn’t really been a fight, to be honest. Leo had no idea how Blackthrone had gotten through the unarmed combat course, but even he should have known to keep his distance if he was going to shout unbearable insults. But then, it was rare for a junior to try to put a senior in his place. The few who tried followed protocol and did it openly.

“You were nearly expelled, and your career was only saved through the direct intervention of Grand Senator Sullivan,” Valerian continued. “You went on to do extremely well in your second year, which ensured you did your third year on a training ship rather than a station, and you earned a converted – if provisional – promotion to lieutenant after saving the lives of both your peers and training officers. The only black mark on your record, as you went into your fourth and final year, was that you asked the training supervisor if the incident had been faked to test you. He was not pleased.”

“No, sir,” Leo said. The supervisor had never raised his voice, but he’d still managed to put him in his place with a sharp lecture, pointing out that the staff would never risk putting the cadets in very real danger. Not like that, certainly. “He wasn’t.”

Valerian nodded. “You recently completed your fourth year, without losing your provisional promotion, and became – for a third time – class valedictorian, ensuring you were granted the right to give the valedictorian address at the graduation ceremony. Your classmates also voted you the Marty Sue Award, although you were denied the full honours” – his lips quirked – “because you didn’t make valedictorian during your first year. There was no reason to believe you wouldn’t give your speech, then report to your first duty station and go on to a long and honourable naval career.”

He paused. “And then, only a few short hours ago, you were caught in bed with the Commandant’s wife.”

“Yes, sir.”

Valerian looked up at him. “Explain.”

Leo said nothing. He hadn’t known who Fleur O’Hara was, when he’d met her the first time, and even after he’d realised he hadn’t abandoned the affair. She’d been bored and desperately lonely, her husband largely uninterested in her … Leo had wondered, privately, if picking up a cadet was her way of getting back at her husband, although the sex had been great and completely without any strings attached. They had both known the affair would come to an end, eventually, but … he cursed, inwardly. In hindsight, it might have been smarter to insist they went to a love hotel, rather than her apartment. But she had insisted she could not be seen anywhere near such an establishment.

“Explain,” Valerian repeated.

“I met her in the bar,” Leo said, keeping the details as vague as possible. He wasn’t sure how much the older man knew. “I didn’t realise who she was, at first. We had sex, which is how we were caught …”

It was hard to hide his anger. Fleur had assured him her neighbours were discreet and yet … someone had clearly called the shore patrol. Who, and why? It was rare for cadets to visit the married quarters, certainly so close to graduation. A previous commandant had landed himself in hot water after ordering a cadet to mow his lawn, from what he’d heard, and a surprising number of military spouses thought they shared their partner’s rank. Better to stay away, the cadets had been cautioned, rather than wind up on report for ignoring orders from civilians – even citizens – who thought they had the right to issue them.

“You are fortunate that Mrs O’Hara swore blind she seduced you, rather than insisting you picked her up … or raped her,” Valerian said, coldly. “Regardless, your actions have brought great shame on the Naval Academy, and the Commandant is insisting you be severely punished.”

He paused. “You may not have openly broken any regulations, young man, but you certainly bent the honour code into a pretzel. You have also ensured, thanks to the mystery informant, that the incident cannot be covered up. Worse, your timing was extremely good. You cannot be punished, not easily, and yet you are unworthy to serve as valedictorian. A young naval officer is expected to be a model of pure-perfect rectitude at all times. How does that square with an illicit affair with a senior officer’s wife?”

Leo took a breath. He had read the rules and regulations and he was fairly sure he couldn’t be given more than a slap on the wrist, not now. Any demotion – let alone expulsion – would have to be justified and doing that would be difficult, if not impossible, without provoking the wrath of his patron and – or – a public enquiry. The Commandant and his Deputy had to answer to the Board of Directors, which in turn answered to the Senate, and it would be difficult to convince all of them that their actions had been justified. His patron would certainly not be very pleased.

“You are thinking you cannot be punished,” Valerian said, as if he’d been reading Leo’s thoughts. Leo remembered, too late, that Valerian might be a paper-pusher, rather than an officer who led from the front, but he was very far from being a fool. “In a sense, young man, you are quite right. We cannot demote or expel you, nor can we contrive an excuse to deny you the position and honours you have earned, certainly not without causing problems we cannot overcome.”

Leo felt a flash of hope. Perhaps, just perhaps, the whole affair could be buried …

“So we’re prompting you,” Valerian said. His lips curved into a humourless smile. “Congratulations, Lieutenant-Commander Morningstar.”

“What?” Leo boggled. His Lieutenancy was provisional, a point that had been made clear to him time and time again. The idea of being jumped up two ranks without even a day of real starship service was just absurd. No one would take him seriously, and everyone would check his service record and ask pointed questions of the men who’d promoted him. “Sir, I …”

Valerian’s smile grew wider. “It is a honour to be promoted so quickly,” he said. “And your new duty station has already been assigned. You will be heading there shortly, to take up your new post. Unfortunately, you will not have the time to attend your own graduation and give your planned speech, but everyone will understand that there was no choice.”

Leo stared at him. “Sir …”

“You are aware, of course, that we have recently started the process of incorporating several new sectors into our empire,” Valerian continued. “Those sectors have seen little law and order since the First Interstellar War, and they have suffered for it. The Senate believes it is vitally important to establish our authority, and in doing so convince the locals that they have a better future with us, rather than remaining independent and vulnerable to both pirates and predatory neighbours. They have put pressure on the navy to assign more ships to the sector, despite the massive commitments elsewhere. One of those ships is RSS Waterhen.”

Leo frowned. He’d never heard of Waterhen.

“It is a sad story,” Valerian said. “She was a noble ship, in her time, but now she is somewhat outdated, and would be withdrawn from service if we were not so desperate for hulls. She remains on the fleet list, yet her commanding officer is very hands-off. So hands-off, in fact, that he has managed to ensure his command remained in-system, allowing him to spend most of his time in the pleasure dens rather than doing his job. If he were not so well-connected, he would have been ordered to get on with it by now, or summarily stripped of rank, but …”

He shrugged, expressively. “His ship remains in-system. And he remains planetside.”

“Sir …” Leo found it hard to put his thoughts into words. “And he gets away with it?”

“It is astonishing what someone can get away with, if they have good connections and they avoid unwanted attention,” Valerian said. “If Captain Reginald Archibald were in command of a modern starship, he would have been court-martialed by now and even his connections wouldn’t be enough to save him. As it is, Waterhen is simply too unimportant for anyone to notice. The handful of crew assigned to her are the dregs of the service – anyone with any common sense starts bucking for a transfer, the moment they realise that staying on Waterhen will kill their careers – and none, I suspect, have any inkling that they’re supposed to be preparing to leave Daybreak and make their way to their assigned posting.”

He met Leo’s eyes. “And you will be in command.”

Leo blinked. That was impossible. “What?”

“Oh, not on paper,” Valerian assured him. “On paper, Captain Archibald will be in command and you will be nothing more than third-ranking officer. In practice, you will be the commander because the CO is going to remain behind and the XO managed to get herself transferred to an asteroid station. It must have seemed an improvement over Waterhen.”

He paused. “Your promotion is quite valid, I assure you. But you won’t be back here in a hurry.”

Leo felt a flicker of dull respect, mingled with anger and horror. The promotion was bad enough. No one would believe he’d earned it, because he hadn’t. And yet, there was no way he could refuse it either. It was vanishingly rare for anyone who declined a promotion to be offered a second chance … hell, there was no way his patron could complain. On paper, he was being rewarded … he cursed under his breath, realising just how well he’d been stitched up. He might be the de facto commander of an entire starship, but his assignment to the far edge of explored and incorporated space would limit his chances to be noticed. His unearned promotion would be the last, no matter how well he did …

And the moment another ship was assigned to the sector, he’d find himself effectively demoted.

Valerian passed him a folder. “Everything is in order,” he said. “Your shuttle is already arranged; you have just under an hour to grab your bags, then hurry to the pad before it’s too late. Your mother will be informed of your promotion, and we’ll arrange for her to be greeted and honoured instead of attending the graduation. I imagine you’ll have time to message her before you jump out. If you miss the shuttle, you’ll find yourself in very hot water indeed.”

Leo swallowed, still stunned. “Sir, I …”

“You were the most promising cadet we had over the past few years,” Valerian said, bluntly. “You knew your worth very well. And now you have thrown it all away, and risked hitting us with a scandal that could – that still might – do immense damage to the Academy and the Navy itself. If we had time to arrange it, your fate would not be so kind.”

He met Leo’s eyes. “I hope you enjoy your new assignment. Command at such a young age will look very good on your record, even if you don’t enjoy command rank. But one way or another, young man, we will never see each other again.

“Dismissed.”