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and he had only been able to sustain it because the opposition had split between a minority of pacifists, who resisted any non-diplomatic measures, and a larger block that insisted that Lacaille be held accountable and either hand over Mankho and all his supporters for a military trial and execution, or face the consequences—which were clearly meant to include regime change.
    The proponents of this latter position were hamstrung by Archon holding what he thought was his diplomatic ace-in-the-hole: the threat of Bannerman intervention. Lacaille was a former Bannerman colony and this threat was further backstopped by the knowledge (the most secret and confidential knowledge) that Halith had supported Mankho’s plot. It was by making use of these threats (quite privately, for neither had been—and the Halith connection certainly could not be—publicly acknowledged) that the Archon maintained his majority.
    But it was a frail majority and would not likely stand the strain exerted by the killing of twenty-four elite Nedaeman soldiers. The outrage that was even now building would certainly sideline the pacifists and likely peel off enough of his supporters to call for a vote of confidence that the Archon, unable to fully explain his rationale for engaging in what had been shown to be foolish and risky half-measures, would be ill-placed to survive. So Trin Wesselby rather thought that he was about to find his ace-in-the-hole turned into Scylla against the Halith Charybdis, and she could not find it in herself to weep for that. Far from it.
    “Hooray for our side,” Taliaferro said and recovered his scotch.
    “Is he going ahead with his address tomorrow—I mean, later today?”
    Taliaferro nodded.
    “Any idea how he’s going to handle it?”
    Taliaferro’s dark face became a shade darker. “Anything short of ritual suicide won’t be good enough for me.”

Chapter Four
    CEF Academy Orbital Campus
Deimos, Mars, Sol
    Deimos was an indifferent satellite—as a moon, its qualities would have recommended it nowhere—but as an orbital campus, it served very well. Extensively hollowed out, it afforded plenty of room for every environment a naval education could make use of, from weightless spaces that could be used for EVA training and drills, in vacuum and not, to classrooms and living quarters supplied with a full gee, to replicas of the interior spaces of various ship classes where the atmosphere and gravity could be regulated at will; and almost anything the cadets might be called on to do as officers could be simulated with a high degree of precision.
    The fifty-six members of Class 1861 installed themselves in these new surroundings, and except for the lack of anything like an outside, they were comfortable enough. In spite of the promises of bad food, bad air, and cramped quarters, all of these were adequate, and to Kris, more than adequate. She’d had a taste of genuine luxury on Nedaema and while it was certainly pleasant enough, Kris liked what she was used to and this was much more like what she was used to. The same could not be said of some of her classmates, a few of whom appeared to have led quite pampered lives, but after a few weeks even their complaints took on a pro forma nature, as if in rehearsal for the inveterate bitching some of them imagined military personnel constantly indulged in.
    They were divided into fourteen studies, four cadets to a study, and expected to live, eat, train, and learn together. Cadets were required to surrender their calling cards, if they had any, and their personal xels to the Sergeant-at-Arms, and they were issued a derated military version along with a tablet they would do all their course work on. No outside contact was allowed for the first month—not even email—and thereafter communication with family and friends was strictly limited, while cloud access remained embargoed.
    This was the most painful dislocation of all for most cadets, especially the Homeworlders who