Whenever I did something unbelievably stupid, as young men often do, my dad would ask me "Did you take a stupid pill this morning, son?"

When I was discharged, after eighteen years in the Terran Marines, to accept an appointment to the Space Academy, I heard his voice. Two years from retirement and I bailed.

I was giving up a career to join a bunch of snotty nosed youngsters being tormented by older snotty nosed youngsters, all in the hopes of becoming one of those officers I had always looked down on.

Yep. That's me, all right.

I did it for several reasons, mostly involving my future. The regs, beloved by all garrison lawyers, contain a curious provision. A Marine with at least fifteen years of service who is accepted into the Academy carries his longevity with him. In other words, I would reach my twenty as a wet behind the ears Kay-det.

It meant a number of other things, as well. My pay would be based on my years of service as well as my rank, so I would be making, on graduation, far more than any of my fellow, newly commissioned second lieutenants. As an officer, upon retirement, I would be entitled to free transportation anywhere in Terran space for life, and the Navy would pay my landing fees should I emigrate to a colony planet.

Oh, yeah, the way things were going in the war with the Bluecoats, an enlisted Marine could get himself killed. Naval officers died in combat far less often. It's my skin and I've grown fond of it.

Planet bound military academies in the old days were four year programs. The cadets had their summers for drill and training. The Naval Academy was a five year program, with the entire third year spent on a training cruise in space. Take a wild guess as to who was low man on the totem pole on these cruises.

I was in good shape, and had lots of zero gee experience, so I wasn't as exhausted by the run everywhere and always be late cruise routine. Book work came easy, so I managed to keep up with the constant assignment of manuals, and schematics, and inventories by hand that also went with the cruise.

I even found time to teach some friendly engine room ratings the probabilities of poker.

I was up several hundred dollars for the cruise when bad things happened.

There are gradients of bad things. Some make you say Oh, shit! Some cause you to exclaim Oh, frack! And, then there are those times when the shit is rolling down hill so fast you don't have time to speak.

The sole official duty of a Space Academy cadet was to be

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