Constantine thought about the isolation gradient and David-Baer’s lectures on how the Cascade Drive’s speed limitations created natural tiers of connection across human space. A colony five hundred light-years from the nearest sector hub could call for help through the Resonance Network and have an answer in minutes. The fleet response would take months at Class II speeds, a year at Class I.

  Below, Charlie’s breathing had settled back into sleep. Around the room, five other cadets dreamed whatever futures they’d imagined for themselves.

  Three years and eleven months remained.

  Constantine rolled over and went to sleep. He had a problem set due in three days and he intended to finish it.

  Chapter 8: FIRST BLOOD

  The scenario room smelled like nervous sweat. Constantine studied the holographic display floating above the central table, watching simulated raiders approach the frontier colony his team was supposed to defend.

  "They’re coming through the northern pass." Matthew Hazlett tapped the display, highlighting enemy movements. "If we position our forces here and here, we can create a crossfire."

  "We’d be leaving the evacuation shuttles exposed." Valentine leaned forward, dark hair escaping its regulation tie. "One flanking manoeuvre and we lose our extraction capability."

  Constantine frowned at the tactical overlay. Team Three had drawn a nightmare scenario: defend Colony Hestia against raiders while evacuating twelve thousand civilians with transport capacity for eight thousand. The maths was brutal. Four thousand people wouldn’t make it.

  "What if we split the defence?" Jenna Park suggested. "Main force at the northern pass, mobile reserve protecting the shuttles."

  "With what reserve?" Tobias Reinholt shook his head. "We barely have enough troops to hold one position. Splitting them guarantees we fail at both."

  They argued as if Constantine wasn’t there. The debate had cycled three times in twenty minutes. Matthew wanted aggressive defence. Valentine prioritised extraction. Jenna sought compromise. Tobias catalogued reasons everything would fail. And Constantine couldn’t find the answer that made everyone right.

  "What about the civilian population distribution?" He pulled up demographic data. "If we prioritise based on strategic value—"

  "You mean genetic profiles," Valentine said. "Deciding who lives based on eugenic ratings."

  "Skills essential for colony survival post-evacuation. Engineers. Medical personnel. Agricultural specialists."

  "And their children, naturally. Young, healthy genetics." Valentine crossed his arms. "That’s straight Mandate logic."

  Matthew had been quiet through the exchange, watching. Now he stepped to the central display and expanded it with a sharp gesture.

  "Enough. Here’s what we’re doing." He highlighted positions on the map with quick strokes. "Defensive line at the northern pass. Valentine, you’re commanding. Tobias, logistics. I want those defences optimised for maximum delay, not victory. Your job is to buy time."

  Valentine opened his mouth, then closed it. Matthew’s tone didn’t invite debate.

  "Constantine, Jenna, you’re on evacuation. Full shuttles launch every forty-five minutes. Essential personnel first, then families with children, then general population. We’re not separating parents from kids."

  "That’s not what the instructors want us to do," Tobias protested.

  "Colonists who see us tear their families apart won’t follow the evac orders." Matthew met his eyes. "Think your objections through before you raise them, Toby."

  The tension snapped. Constantine felt relief rather than resentment. At least someone had made the call. The paralysis broke.

  "What about the four thousand we can’t evacuate?" Jenna asked.

  Matthew paused. The command mask slipped for half a second.

  "We tell them the truth. We don’t have enough transports and we’re prioritising based on colony survival needs." His voice was steady. "And we give them weapons. Let them fight. Die with purpose instead of waiting."

  "What if they don’t fight?" Valentine said.

  "Then they don’t. We don’t actually need them to. Anyone have a better option?"

  Nobody did.

  They moved to their tasks. Constantine worked alongside Jenna, calculating shuttle capacity and boarding times, trying to ignore the growing list of names that wouldn’t make it off Colony Hestia.

  * * *

  Three days later, eight teams stood at command stations arrayed around the circular amphitheatre. Elena’s Team Seven occupied the position directly across from them. Sebastien’s Team Four anchored the far end.

  Colonel Grimm stood at the central podium.

  "Eight teams. One scenario." His grey eyes swept across them. "You have six hours to survive, evacuate, and defend. There are no good outcomes. There are only difficult choices. The team that accepts and acts on this will perform best."

  Constantine stepped forward with the other seven leaders to confirm readiness. Elena caught his eye across the amphitheatre. Sebastien didn’t bother looking at anyone.

  The horn sounded.

  Colony Hestia bloomed into existence around them. Frontier dust underfoot, the distant rumble of approaching raiders, the acrid smell of fear from simulated civilians crowding the evacuation zone. The Academy’s simulation technology was terrifyingly good.

  The opening phase proceeded according to plan. Valentine’s defensive line engaged the initial raider probes, bleeding them without committing to decisive engagement. Tobias managed supply distribution with ruthless efficiency. Shuttle One lifted off with its full complement of eight hundred souls bought by forty-five minutes of desperate defence.

  Then the raiders adapted.

  "Flanking force detected." Matthew highlighted the new threat vector. "They’re bypassing the northern pass. Coming through the eastern drainage system."

  "Valentine, can you redeploy?"

  "Not without weakening the northern line below minimum strength. If I pull forces, the assault breaks through."

  There it was. The impossible choice, arriving faster than expected. Defend the north, lose the evacuation zone. Defend the east, lose the defensive line. Split forces, lose both.

  Three days ago, Constantine had frozen at this moment. Searched for alternatives that didn’t exist. Let Matthew take over.

  Today, he made the decision.

  "Northern line holds. Fighting retreat when necessary." His voice came out steadier than he felt. "I’m taking the mobile reserve east to delay the flanking force."

  "That’s twelve people against unknown strength," Tobias said.

  "Twelve people buying time for shuttles two and three to launch." Constantine was already moving. "Matthew, you have tactical command. Keep the evacuation running."

  He didn’t wait for confirmation.

  The eastern drainage system was as unpleasant as its name suggested, maintenance tunnels designed for Colony Hestia’s waste processing. Constantine led his small force through shin-deep muck, weapon lights cutting through the darkness.

  "Contact. Thirty metres, multiple signatures."

  He positioned his people at a chokepoint where the tunnel narrowed. Poor ground, but better than open ground when you were outnumbered. The raiders came in a rush, expecting minimal resistance. The confined space neutralised their numerical advantage. Bodies piled in the muck.

  They held. Constantine lost two of his twelve, then a third. Nine against unknown numbers, ammunition depleting. But the shuttles were launching. He tracked the evacuation on his HUD: shuttle two away, shuttle three loading.

  "Fall back to secondary."

  They retreated through the tunnels, buying minutes with lives. Two more simulated deaths bought fifteen minutes of evacuation time at roughly five hundred colonists per teammate lost. The score indicated a good trade. Constantine wasn’t sure he agreed, but he kept retreating and fighting and counting the shuttles lifting off.

  They reached their secondary position just as shuttle four launched. Half his original force remained.

  "Constantine." Matthew’s voice crackled through the comm. "Northern line is collapsing. Valentine’s pulling back to the final perimeter. Shuttles five and six are loading."

  "How long?"

  "Twenty minutes."

  Constantine looked at his people. "We hold for twenty minutes."

  They held for eighteen.

  The raiders breached their position with overwhelming force. Constantine went down fighting, the system’s simulated death hitting like a punch to the chest as it cut him from the scenario.

  He woke in the observation gallery, watching the final minutes play out on the amphitheatre’s displays. Valentine’s defensive perimeter crumbled. Shuttle five launched successfully. Shuttle six took damage during takeoff but made orbit. The raiders reached the evacuation zone. The remaining colonists were either taken captive or killed.

  "Simulation complete." Grimm’s voice cut through the amphitheatre. "Team Three, total civilian casualties: four thousand eight hundred and twelve out of twelve thousand. Marine casualties: eighteen out of twenty-four. Strategic resources: eighteen percent preserved."

  Forty percent casualties.

  Elena’s Team Seven: forty-five percent civilian casualties, but successful evacuation of all priority personnel. Sebastien’s Team Four: fifty-two percent casualties, but complete resource preservation and minimal military losses.

  "Team rankings." Grimm read them off. "First place: Team Four, Cabot-Winthrop commanding. Second place: Team Seven, Sørensen commanding."

  He worked through the list. Constantine already knew where it was going.

  "Eighth place: Team Three, Hazlett commanding."

  Dead last.

  * * *

  The amphitheatre emptied. Grimm approached the observation gallery where Constantine waited.

  "Tell me what you did wrong, cadet."

  Constantine had been running the analysis since his simulated self died. "I split our forces when I personally led the flanking defence. That took me out of the command loop during a critical phase."

  "What else?"

  "If I’d let the flanking force through and focused on optimising the shuttle evacuations, we might have gotten more colonists out."

  "Might have." Grimm’s mechanical arm whirred as he crossed his arms. "Or the flanking force might have reached the evacuation zone and killed everyone while they were loading."

  "Then what was my mistake?"

  "Your mistake was believing you had to save everyone." Grimm’s scarred face showed nothing. "You tried to defend the eastern flank because you couldn’t accept writing it off. You led the defence personally because you thought no one else could hold as effectively."

  "Cabot-Winthrop abandoned his eastern approach immediately," Grimm continued. "Wrote off those colonists as acceptable losses. Focused everything on optimising evacuations from areas he could defend without sacrificing irreplaceable military resources. That’s why he won. Not because he’s smarter than you, because he accepted the reality of the situation faster."

  Constantine’s throat tightened. "So I should have let them die."

  "Absolutely. They were going to die regardless. Four thousand colonists never had a chance. The question was whether you’d let them die, or let them drag others down with them."

  "And I sacrificed my entire force for nothing."

  "Exactly." Grimm’s voice didn’t soften. "The day you stop feeling sick about it is the day you become dangerous. But until you can make those calls, you’re worse than useless."

  He turned and walked out.

  Constantine stood alone in the empty gallery. It wasn’t fair. But it was true.

  * * *

  Word travelled fast at the Academy. By the time Constantine reached the mess hall, conversations died in pockets as he passed. Eighth place. Dead last. The cadet who’d abandoned a defensible position to save colonists who were already doomed.

  He found an empty table in the corner. The chair across from him scraped against the floor. Elena set down her tray.

  "You’re radiating ‘leave me alone’ so strongly I’m surprised the first-years aren’t running for cover."

  "We are first-years."

  "Figure of speech." She speared a piece of protein. "Grimm did a number on you."

  "I screwed up. My team finished last because of my decisions."

  "Your team finished last because you tried to defend the indefensible." She chewed, swallowed. "Which brings me to my question. What’s holding you back?"

  "How do you mean?"

  "You’re smart. You’re capable. Your instincts are sound, and you started ranked high for a reason."

  "And it’s been downhill since."

  "That means something when you understand the gap." She set down her fork. "You knew the eastern flank was lost. I saw your face when the raiders appeared on that vector. You ran the same calculations I did."

  "So?"

  "So why did you take twelve people into the drainage system when it wouldn’t change the outcome?"

  "Because people were going to die."

  "People were going to die no matter what you did."

  "That doesn’t mean I had to choose which four thousand."

  "Actually, that’s exactly what it means." She studied his face. "You helped Charlie during the Gauntlet and finished in the bottom ten percent because you couldn’t leave him behind. Now you’re finishing last in tactical competitions because you can’t accept necessary losses. There’s a pattern."

  "So I should stop caring."

  "No, you should stop being a coward." Something close to amusement crossed her face. "We can’t all be Sebastien. But he preserved all his resources and all his soldiers while fifty-two percent of his colonists died. You got all your people killed to save twenty-three percent more civilians. Who do you think soldiers would rather follow?"

  "I never thought of it that way."

  "You can’t lead people who think you’re going to get them killed." She picked up her fork. "I’m not saying Sebastien is always right. I kept family units together during the evacuation, and still came in second."

  Constantine looked at her. "You did?"

  "You can make hard choices without being completely heartless about it. Your problem isn’t that you care. It’s that you let caring paralyse you. You waste time you don’t have. I looked it up. You spent twenty-five seconds searching for an alternative that didn’t exist, then threw away all your soldiers. I spent two seconds accepting the situation and moved on to do what I could."

  She was right. He knew she was right.

  Elena stood, tray in hand. "I’m happy at the top of the rankings. I work hard for it and I intend to stay there. But I don’t want to see someone of your calibre wash out because he can’t figure out how to balance compassion and competence."

  She left. Constantine sat with his cold food and thought about the difference between two seconds and twenty-five.

  Chapter 9: CRACKS IN THE FACADE

  The weeks blurred together.

  Constantine’s alarm shrieked at 0445 each morning, fifteen minutes before mandatory wake-up, because those fifteen minutes meant the difference between a cold shower and no shower at all. Physical training. Breakfast. Classes. Tactical simulations. Study period. Collapse. Repeat.

  He threw himself into it with the focus of a man who’d finished last and didn’t intend to do it again. Morning runs through the Proving Ground became opportunities to push harder, faster. His body had adapted to the Academy’s demands in ways his colonial upbringing hadn’t prepared it for with muscle density increasing, reaction times sharpening, the constant low-grade exhaustion becoming a baseline he could function through rather than an obstacle.

  The tactical simulations showed the biggest change. In the third week after Hestia, Grimm ran a supply depot scenario. There were raiders inbound, insufficient defensive assets, two possible evacuation routes with different risk profiles. Constantine’s team drew the assignment, and when the flanking force appeared on the eastern vector, he made the call in four seconds. Abandon the eastern depot. Concentrate defences on the primary route. Accept the loss.

  His team placed second out of eight. Elena placed first, by a margin that came down to supply preservation calculations in the final minutes.

  Grimm said nothing about the improvement. He didn’t need to. The rankings spoke.

  Elena raised a brow in the study hall one evening. "You’re faster. Your response times in the last three simulations were twenty percent better than your baseline."

  "I stopped looking for solutions that don’t exist."

  "Good." She returned to her datapad. Constantine caught the slight curve of her lips. Not quite a smile, but close.

  Charlie Webb was fading.

  Not literally, though some days Constantine wondered. The sandy-haired cadet who’d researched frontier living conditions with such enthusiasm during orientation week had become a ghost of himself. Dark circles carved shadows beneath his eyes. His uniform hung loose on a frame that had never been robust. His hands shook during morning formations.

  He struggled through a zero-G manoeuvring exercise, his movements uneven where they needed to be fluid. The other cadets had compensated for weightlessness within the first few sessions. Charlie still fought the absence of gravity, his inner ear locked in a battle with physics that physics was always going to win.

  After the exercise, Constantine found him in the corridor, forehead pressed against the cool metal wall.

  "Charlie—"

  "Don’t." The word came out ragged. "Please. I know what you’re going to say."

  Constantine stood there for a moment. "Okay. But I’m here if you change your mind."

  Charlie didn’t respond.

  Elena spent her free time tutoring him anyway. The barracks gossip couldn’t make sense of it. Why would one of the Academy’s top-ranked first-years spend time with a cadet clearly headed for washout? Rumours spread regardless.

  Sebastien put it more cruelly. "More charity today, Sørensen?" His voice cut across the mess hall loud enough for everyone to hear. "Or are you just collecting broken things?"