“You will be disciplined.”
“I understand.”
Lament tries again. “Please, Sergeant Forst, you’ve got it wrong. It was me who—”
“And now you are interrupting,” she barks. “Leave my office at once, Mr. Bringer. And take Mr. Blue and Miss Bergmont with you.”
“But—”
“If I have to ask you twice,” she warns, “there will be consequences.”
I hear Lament’s teeth snap together. For one endless second, he doesn’t move. I can practically feel the coil of his bewilderment, sense his mind reaching and spinning. He doesn’t understand what I’m doing, and he’s not happy about it. He wants to set the record—well, notstraight, exactly, but back on its premeditated track. Yet he must recognize that Sergeant Forst isn’t making empty threats. That if he doesn’t leave now, he’ll just make things worse for all of us. With a final exhale (that may or may not actually be a sound of disbelief), Lament strides out of the office. Jester follows, then Vera, who reaches to brush her fingers against mine as she passes. That touch gives me courage, though I don’t look at her, don’t acknowledge the contact. I can’t risk breaking my composure.
As soon as they’re gone, the sergeant drops her shoulders. “Your officersat the Academy spoke so highly of you, Mr. Hartman. The behavior you displayed today was dangerous, and the consequences significant. You aided in the destruction of a Legion spacecraft. You killed a creature on the Intergalactic Protection List. You could have gottenyourselveskilled. Truly,” she sighs, “what were you thinking?”
I choose my words carefully. “I come from Planet Venthros.”
“Mount Kilmon’s planet, yes.”
“I was raised by a Master of the Order.”
“I am aware of your background.”
“We never meant to hurt the sand cephalopod. I only wanted to see it.” This is where it gets tricky. I’ve never been much of a liar. I’ve been told it’s my face—I can’t easily hide my thoughts—so I do what I’ve learned to do when the situation calls for it and weave in some truth.
“Before I decided to apply to the Academy, I’d considered making the journey to Mount Kilmon. I wanted to become a Master. The man I mentioned, the one who raised me, offered to begin my training, and I spent my childhood learning the ways of the Order under his instruction. The Order teaches us that life is the universe’s greatest marvel. They put a lot of emphasis on meeting as many species as possible so we can better respect them. But living on Venthros, I didn’t have the means to meet even a fraction of the universe’s creatures. So suddenly I had a ship and a team and I just… got carried away.”
I keep my breathing even, my expression open. As far as excuses go, it’s a pretty good one. If the sergeant decides to fact-check, she’ll see that the Order really does believe in seeking out as many species as possible. The Ten Thousand Meetings, they call it. The idea is that all life is precious, and the more time you spend in nature, the more you’ll grasp its value. It’s also the reason they’re so opposed to violence.
Imagine Master Ira’s shock—his crushing disappointment—when after everything he’d done to prepare me for the Order, raising me to be kind and gentle and charitable to life, I chose to become a marksman instead.
The sergeant must buy my story, because she’s shaking her head inthis sad kind of I-understand-it-can-be-hard-to-let-go-of-home-ties way. “Transitions are always difficult, Mr. Hartman. You are new to our unit, and as such, I feel this is partly my fault. I should have done a better job of overseeing your first day. Still, we do not use Legion resources for personal matters, no matter how meaningful.” And then, the words that make my stomach drop: “This is grounds for a red card.”
“Are—?” My voice sounds like it’s swallowed itself. “Are you sure?”
“The Directors will decide. We’ll put it to a vote.”
Which is how I find myself standing in the center of the sergeant’s too-empty office, listening to six strangers debate my future. As far as trials go, it’s terribly civil. One of the men seems to take charge, standing from his seat as he states the case against me. He’s on the far end of the group, dressed in a tailored tweed jacket and trousers. Small frame, late fifties maybe, with round spectacles and a white goatee. When his eyes fall on me, I feel a prickling at the base of my neck.
The votes are cast through their handhelds and counted.
“We have come to a verdict,” says tweed-jacket man.
I clasp my hands behind my back and try not to look too hopeful.
“The vote is unanimous. Mr. Hartman’s actions were premeditated and grossly irresponsible. We’re granting him a red card.”
My stomach dips painfully. I blink as if blinded.
Oh. Oh.
The sergeant nods her agreement, then goes on to explain red card protocols and what I’ll need to do to get mine removed from my file. I absorb almost none of it. A red card. Has anyone ever gotten a red card on their first day? Obviously not.
“In addition,” the sergeant says, “you and Mr. Bringer are both grounded until I see fit to release you. That means no leaving Skyhub and no spaceflights unless they are expressly tied to a mission. All our crafts have DNA monitors and will refuse you access should you attempt to break these stipulations.”
I feel a little like I’m drifting, trapped in a horrible new unreality. Ithought I’d be able to handle the sergeant and the Directors, to take the consequences (did I even think about the consequences?), but I’m having the kind of hot, distressed feelings that make escaping this room a pretty high priority.
“One more thing,” the sergeant says. She comes around the desk and holds out her hand.
