Three minutes before the Parade was set to begin, the room was a mad din of conversation, people shouting to be heard about the din, people shouting to be heard above the shouting. Commanders were going over their soldiers, getting them into line in the proper places, correcting any last uniform inadequacies and offering the occasional creatively bloody consequences should anyone or anything step out of line.

Two minutes, and the conversation was growing more hushed, more frantic, as the last few people scrambled to the right positions. The top ten Quads knew their proper sequence, but organization within the Quads themselves was a little less clear, left largely to the discretion of the commander. There were a few arguments, a few of which became heated, but no one came anywhere near to blows. Whatever their personal differences, everyone knew how important this review was. The words "career" and "record" could be sneered at on any other day, but for the moment, they were deadly weapons, and commanders didn't hesitate to use them.

Sixty seconds. The room was almost entirely silent now, except for the occassional hushed command to be silent. The room was still as well, but there was a good deal of surreptitious head turning as students looked around at what they were suddenly very aware they were a part of. Once this review was over with, they would go back to being Quads, to being individuals, but right now, everyone was IF, sharing the same apprehension, the same excitement. Camaraderie was swelling out of proportion, despite the rivalries between the Quads and between individuals, and a sense of pride attainable only by large groups of dedicated people.

Thirty seconds. Phoenix, at the head of the line, stirred a little, but Commander Sumner glared them back into motionless silence. The golden Phoenix on the red circle that adorned the inner lapel of the black uniform jackets each of his Quad wore was also on his arm, and as they received the signal to assume position, he walked calmly to take his place slightly ahead and left of his soldiers.

There was a single cough, and no one dared to look around to see who it might have been, but Sasha Illiet from Panther scowled horribly.

The parade began.

Phoenix was first, and flawless, Lemuel Sumner and his quad snapping a salute before turning and moving to the left side to take their positions and clear the path for the next Quad. Tyrel Okolo and his Griffins were second, and equally crisp as they moved into standing formation behind Phoenix, facing the podium. The Panthers were smooth and almost superior to Phoenix as they moved into their area at the front on the right, but one of the soldiers fell slightly out of step as they were coming to a halt, and Commander Illiet grimaced.

Python was surprisingly textbook, considering that Joseph Mercé had been saddled with two Charybdis probational students at the last minute, and they took their place behind Panther without event. Hydra was efficient, but Commander Pratt, though meticulously groomed, looked like he hadn't slept much recently, and it detracted from the overall appearance of the Quad as they slid in behind the Griffins. Wolf displayed the same level of excellence Phoenix and Griffin had; whatever her minor failures in the simulators, Bianca Westermin knew how to make her Quad look good, and their form didn't lapse as they stood at attention behind Python.

Coyote and Pegasus were unremarkably satisfactory, Coyote looking as good next to Hydra's worn commander as Pegasus looked poor next to Wolf. Tarantula was a little too fast, but they made no grave mistakes and drifted into comfortable obscurity behind Coyote. Diamondback was another good one. Young Mordecai Arceneaux had done a lot to improve that Quad since he'd taken command three months ago, and Pegasus looked even worse, bracketed by Diamondback and Wolf.

The march completed, the drums ceased, and Lieutenant Colonel Johan von Starnburg ascended the podium to look over the assembled students in silence.

These children had been taken from their families when they were still too young to know what being adult really meant. They would always be children now, in the same manner that all men who chose to dedicate themselves blindly to a cause would be children, no matter their age or personal wisdom, and it was for this reason that the IF took them so young. Childhood held a salient aspect that adulthood could not.

Faith.

The IF had allowed these children no religion, no spiritual guidance of any kind, just a strict set of rules in place of morals, and by demanding so much from these gifted young people, denied them much of the spare time necessary to research and become interested in it. Inhumanly dedicated to the IF? These young ones never had a chance.

It was with the air of a man who knew this that Von Starnburg began to speak.

"Soldiers of the International Fleet.

"Society, any society, is founded upon order. As members of the International Fleet, you will be an instrument of that order, and it is ever our responsibility as your teachers to make sure of your dedication. I am pleased to see, with a few minor exceptions," Johan paused to deliver a few well-placed withering glances, and then continued, "that you appear to have your priorities straight.

"The International Fleet is order. It is greater and stronger than any one of us could be, and with good reason; the International Fleet is also wiser and more just, and immortal, as long as a single one of you stands to keep it alive." The barest hint of sarcasm touched his voice, but was gone as quickly as it came. "The world below us is the defenseless babe, and we are the guardians who stand over the cradle. Civilians will never know what you endure so they can continue about their lives and pretend the buggers don't exist."

He gave a mirthless smile. "We know better."

"The time will come when you will have to prove your dedication to order runs deeper than the surface. The time will come when you have to fight and watch your comrades die next to you in battle. After that, you will know the price of the dedication that we require of you. If you live long enough to take your retirement, to raise a family, to enjoy the things that the civilians you protect take for granted, you will see the rewards." He looked over the assembly before him as if doubting any would survive that long.

"Some of you may think you're ready now."

A small, tolerant smile touched his mouth, the smile a teacher gave when speaking of an overly precocious student. "Two of you, in fact, have personally expressed a willingness to risk your lives for the sake of duty. All of you will come to this fate, eventually, but these two have asked that their dedication be tested and proven now, today, that the rest of you might benefit from their example. We cannot kill such superb students merely for their overeagerness, of course, but in deference to their request, I have arranged something special. Would Jordan Windhaven and Shimon Rabin step forward, please? And their commanders."

There was a slight, shocked pause, and Johan allowed a few moments to pass before his brow darkened enough to get them moving. Bianca Westermin followed Jordan Windhaven, and Jackson Pratt followed Shimon Rabin. All four faces were fiercely neutral.

The MPs waiting for them had prior instruction, and Rabin and Windhaven were made to kneel on the dais, facing away from the podium and in full view of the student body, their commanders left standing in front of them, looking down at them. The MPs efficiently removed the clothing from their upper bodies, and they did not resist.

Another man, a nervous-looking aide, handed something to Johan and quickly retreated.

"Yes, thank you. Do you see this?" Johan asked of the students, his voice louder, authoritative, reverent, as he held up the black metal object, a circular laser stamp with a two inch diameter of the IF seal, used on cargo loads to indicate IF possessions. "This is the seal of the International Fleet. This symbol is what you fight for. This symbol represents everything that the International Fleet holds important. Of all of you assembled here today, these two are the only ones who showed enough initiative to deserve wear it."

He turned to the four students on the dais. Westermin's eyes were wide, and Pratt's face had gone the color of paste, but to their credit, they did not flinch or otherwise give hint to what was about to occur. Rabin and Windhaven looked up into their commanders' faces, but no words were spoken.

Rabin took the stamp first, and he took it well, no sound or visible movement to indicate the searing pain on the center of his back, between his shoulder blades. Windhaven hissed, but did not flinch, though his muscles all clenched. The rest of the hall was absolutely silent.

Johan nodded to the MPs, who handed the uniform jackets back to the soldiers and gestured for them to leave the dais. They did, faces locked into stoney immobility against the pain, and resumed their positions. Johan's eyes met a gaze of sharded ice as Wick glared her fury, but he only offered her another tolerant smile before continuing with his speech.

The rest of it was long and detailed, concerning the many duties an officer of the International Fleet was expected to fulfill, and many of the students were quietly shifting back and forth on their feet before it was half done. When it finally drew to a close, many were straining to maintain attention. A few of the less-conditioned students were trembling. When Johan dismissed them, they were forced to recess in the manner they had entered, and it was far less impressive leaving than it had been coming in.

The small man walked up to what must have been the back and tapped on a small keypad. A ramp detached itself and slowly lowered itself to the ground. A door was revealed, and the four carrying von Starnburg quickly boarded the craft, the last one followed, palming the port shut.

Once inside, they were in a narrow corridor, with other small hallways radiating out from it. They turned left down the first, which contained two small holding cells, one of which appeared to be occupied. The colonel was dumped unceremoniously into the other and the door hissed shut behind him.

The Collectors proceeded to what must be referred to as the cockpit, but was really more a room where they could monitor the ship's progress as its computer flew them to their destination. There were also monitoring stations for each of the on-board cells - of which there were six, but only two occupied. Neither prisoner was conscious.

Under the watchful eye of their commander, the men prepped the shuttle for departure and received in due course their clearance to leave. The bay doors were opened, the ship lifted up and sped off into the eternal night.

***

Johan slowly drifted back to consciousness, a dull ache at the base of his neck. He glanced around first at his new surroundings - small and cramped, a small chair in one corner and a mirror on the back wall - then at himself, to see in what state his captors had left him. He was all there, more or less unruffled. They hadn't searched him, hadn't confiscated anything. Either his captors were supremely confident or supremely stupid. Perhaps both. He intended to find out.

The door hissed open, revealing the small grey man. He looked down at von Starnburg, quickly getting to his feet, angry at having been caught off guard. And yet, now, onboard, there was something different in the other man's manner. No longer so robot-like, he was relaxed, confident. He leaned arrogantly against the door frame, though his face was still as stone.

"Your friend is in the other cell," he said, motioning with his head. He had a slight english accent. "How we treat him depends largely on you. Now. We can't very well alter our orders, but if you give me your parole, we'll give you run of the ship. In honor of your previous position, what?" He had the decency to at least look apologetic as he said, "As far as our orders go, well. I'm told you shall be greeted with the greatest enthusiasm at your new home. Can't say as I envy you, old chap, but there it is. So. Behave yourself, and we'll see to it that your young friend is well looked after and arrives safely at the Academy. Alright?"

Johan thought briefly, and realized that here was his opportunity. He could get the run of the ship, and watch for a chance to overpower his captors. So with a resigned look on his face, he said, "Done. You have my parole, sir," and stepped out into the corridor.

"Sleeping quarters down the second hall to your left, mess on the right. Please try and stay out of the way." The man turned and walked back to the cockpit. Johan was left standing in the narrow hall, to contemplate his meager future. It was not appealing. He faced a fate probably many times worse than death, and he knew it. If he were any judge of character, that Dr. Reynolds would be nothing short of enthusiastic in her treatment of him. Ah well, might as well explore a little.

He peeked inside the other occupied cell, to see the boy Terrence hooked up to some portable medical equipment, asleep. Then he turned and wandered off down the other halls. There were more cells - empty - and a few small rooms - two dormitory-style sleeping quarters, neither of which had any gear in them, so he picked one at random; a mess hall big enough for six to squeeze into; a medical facility that was more closet than room; some supply and tech closets. There was also the door to the cockpit - locked - with another door beyond. All the Collectors were inside, each man absorbed in his duties. Through the viewing panel, he could see the navcomputer - they were going to IFC first. Excellent! Perhaps he could escape and explain himself.

Meanwhile, Starnburg realized, he was bloody exhausted. Might as well get some sleep while he could. He lay down on a cot, and closed his eyes, but sleep did not come easily. Somehow, the thought of going back to the Demon's Lair kept creeping back into his mind, a fiery snake of doubt and fear. Eventually, he drifted off into a troubled sleep, full of dark and disturbing dreams.

And so passed the next four days. He woke, he wandered, he slept, he became consumed by visions of the Institute and his place in it. He was left completely to himself; the Collectors never left the cockpit area by his door, and he assumed they must have their own separate quarters. The time alone only made his overstressed mind work more. Thus when they finally arrived at IFC, he was greatly relieved, but in no mental position to overpower anybody. His captors emerged long enough to lock him away again while they docked and off-loaded the boy. Time had little meaning; how long they stayed he couldn't tell, but eventually they pushed off, this time on the two-month journey to Earth and the Institute.

Released again, Starnburg was now completely on his own, with no hope of escape or overpowering his captors. Day by passing day, he grew more skittish, more unhinged. He was too disciplined to talk to himself, but he started at shadows and grew steadily more slovenly in appearance.

The breaking point came a month out from planetfall. He was in the dorm area, staring in the mirror. His eyes had sunk back in their sockets, ringed by dark, black lines. He was gaunt and dirty. A bristling beard grew on his face, lending him an even more wild look. his clothes were filthy, as they had not been changed, nor even washed, for nearly a month. His teeth were yellowing and his fingernails grew too long. Left with nothing to do for hours on end but think, he had spiraled into morbidity, and it showed.

They have taken everything, he thought. My position. My power. My safety. My sanity. He slapped his thigh in frustration, and realization dawned. Almost everything, he thought with a smile. He reached down and slowly drew his pistol from its holster.

Back in the original cell now. Sitting on the chair, back to the wall, alternating his gaze from the mirror to his gun and back again. In his mind's eye, memories of things real and fears of things possible chased each other in tightening spirals. Memories of interrogations dissolved into pictures of Institute experiments. A fierce gleam danced in his eyes. He looked in the mirror.

"Inform the good doctor," he said ruefully, a slight quaver to his voice, "that I most regretfully have but one life to give, and that I do not intend for it to be hers."

He put the barrel to his temple.

He pulled the trigger.

The small man turned away from the bloody collage on the computer monitor, a look of profound relief on his face.

Hale was standing before the entry hatch of the IFC shuttle, hands folded behind his back, his trademark stance. His eyes swept over the face of his students. Four of them. Simply unprecedented. Never before had four students made it to the L4 Final. And from the same cell, no less. They were, he had to admit, rather exceptional students. They had surprised him, all of them. All but Riya, that is; he'd known that she was perfect for Special Ops when he reviewed her file. Minerva had been a long shot; he'd not really expected her to come far, but her association with Riya seemed to have hardened her over the two years of the program, made a real soldier of her. And as for Solenis and Gabriel, well, they weren't ever supposed to have come this far at all.

They would probably all pass; the final was difficult, but so were all the ones before. Solenis and Gabriel, they would pass to spite him. It had been like a contest with them since the end of the first semester, when they gave up their secure little nest to sleep with the snakes. Since that day they had made it their quest to beat him at his own game. Hale had cheated in every way he knew how, but he knew better than most that there were people who, once they made up their mind about something, would accomplish it no matter what.

Simon Reiner had been one.

Riya and Minerva, they would pass simply because they were good at this. Minerva they would probably assign to a TAS; she would make a hell of a black ops commando. But Riya, Riya would be headed for Legion, no doubt about it. She was born for it.

Hale began.

"Today will be the last time any of you see me; please restrain your anguish until after you have boarded the shuttle. In about ninety minutes this craft will depart for IF Central Command Post, where you will engage in an undercover black op with minimally defined objectives and a limited timeframe in which to achieve them. You will find your mission specs in the dossiers waiting for you on your respective berths; your names are on the doors, so try to get the right room. This mission is to be treated as a real op; everyone with whom you interact will be unaware of your objectives, and will have no prior knowledge that any exercise is being carried out. Bear in mind: if you are caught, the International Fleet will prosecute you as a terrorist, and if they shoot at you it will be with live rounds. This is the real thing, ladies and gentlemen. The only people on the station that know this is only an exercise aren't going to save you if things go sour.

"This test will encompass all the main aspects of the trade; completion of your objectives will require sabotage, surveillance, systems manipulation, society integration, infiltration of secure facilities -- everything you've trained to do for the past two years, and which you'll continue to do for the duration of your career in the SOTF.

"You should know that you will all be monitored, as have all who have taken this exam. No means of accomplishing these objectives can be used twice, we see to that. The test gets harder every year, and I've been teaching this program for ten years now. Also, before each exercise I send recommendations to the station's security department, based upon my evaluations of each student's modus operandi. By the time you arrive, the changes to the security systems and procedures will be in effect. This exam will not be easy, ladies and gentlemen. As always, I've done all I can to ensure your failure.

"That is all. Get on the shuttle and go away. And good luck."

They boarded, after the shuttle had refueled and the customs crew had been through the ship. The shuttle's gravity regulation system wasn't powerful enough to counteract the initial launch acceleration, so they had to strap themselves into g-seats in the compartment behind the bridge. Once the acceleration forces were low enough, the GRS neutralized the inertial pull and instituted an artificial "downward" pull to simulate gravity in the living spaces.

They found their berths once they could leave their g-seats. Two rooms, with their names on the door. Riya and Minerva together in one, and Sol and Gabe in the other. They were little more than closets, really, with a pair of bunks in each. There was a shared bathroom in between, accessible from the corridor.

The shuttle accelerated away from Eros, away from the Command School, away from their home for the past four years. In a matter of moments it was a dot against the starfield, and then no more than a twinkle of light among the myriad sparkles of the heavens.