Four #2
without even speaking a word.
But instead Julian gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
“Good,” Dr. Iver said. “The guards will have gone through your suitcase and removed any illicit items. Please pass them your
cell phone, too. There is an academy-issued tablet and a stack of clothes by the door.”
Once again, the guard gave him no help with his things. Julian carried his own suitcase, the tablet, and the folded uniforms in a teetering pile through the courtyard and into the boys’ dormitory. It was little wonder, then, that he didn’t see his new roommate until he practically tripped over him.
“Hey!” came an indignant voice. “Look out!”
Julian managed to stumble through the threshold before all his things scattered to the floor. It was a small room, with two
narrow beds, two desks, and two wardrobes, far shabbier than what he was accustomed to at Exeter. Worst of all, though, was
the boy who stood before him, wearing the academy uniform and giving a dazed sort of grin.
“A roommate?” Julian choked out. “Why do I have a roommate?”
“All first years do,” the boy said. He had dark brown hair, mussed in a way that seemed intentional; sharp, intelligent brown
eyes; and a prominent aquiline nose. He was not quite as tall as Julian, but he had a leanly muscular, athletic frame. “I’m
Michael.”
The boy held out his hand. Julian glanced down at his cuff. It read KARCHENKO, MIKHAIL.
Julian hesitated a moment before offering his hand back. “Julian Joyce-Young the Third.”
“I know,” said Mikhail. “Nice to meet you in person, though.”
Julian withdrew his hand, a little too brusquely. “So you do get Wi-Fi here.”
“To a certain extent. Firewalls keep us from visiting most websites, including all social media platforms. But we are able
to read the news.”
Great. His reputation did, indeed, precede him.
“If you want to change, I’ll give you a tour,” Mikhail said. “And explain how everything works at Valeran. I’m sure it all
feels overwhelming.”
Generously, Mikhail waited outside their shared room while Julian undressed and put on his uniform. The navy pants, navy blazer,
and white button-down were all well-made and well-fitted. Allowing himself a moment of vanity, Julian checked his reflection
in the mirror on the back of his wardrobe.
His blond hair was more untidy than he would’ve liked, thanks to his awkward sleeping position on the bus, and he’d lost a noticeable amount of weight in the past month.
There were dark circles under his eyes, though his glasses mostly obscured them.
Overall, he looked like a greatly reduced version of Julian Joyce-Young III—downtrodden and weary. He hated it.
He hated the uniform more. Now that he had it on, he was one of them. A student, a prisoner, insignificant, sidelined, and trapped. He wasn’t sure which was worse: anonymity or infamy. At least
the guard had let him keep his watch.
Julian drew in a breath to steel himself and joined Mikhail in the corridor. His roommate was leaning against the wall, absorbed
in his tablet. Before he closed hurriedly out of the window, his cheeks pinking, Julian saw that he had been messaging someone
named Jane Lin.
“Ready?” Mikhail asked, flush still lingering.
Julian nodded.
Mikhail led him through the corridor, out of the boys’ dormitory and back into the courtyard. It was brighter now, sunlight
scattering the mist, and almost too warm. Julian itched under his blazer. Mikhail pointed out the girls’ dormitory, across
the lawn, and the amphitheater to the south, where combat training took place. Then he guided him back to the main building,
which contained the classrooms and administrative offices.
As they walked, Mikhail maintained a steady stream of mostly one-sided conversation.
“Dr. Iver draws up every student’s schedule by hand. Yours has already been uploaded to your tablet; I’ll show you how to
check it later. There are three main disciplines: Strategy and Statecraft, Espionage and Tradecraft, and Tactical Combat.
Technology is kind of an unofficial subdiscipline, but that’s what I focus on. . . .”
Julian realized that he had failed to ask Mikhail the most important question. Cutting him off, he blurted, “So what did you do to end up here?”
“Oh,” said Mikhail. “I hacked into B of A’s servers. I was bored one day and it seemed like fun. Don’t feel bad about not
knowing. It only made some of the New Jersey local papers.”
“I see.”
“Mind if I ask you something?” Mikhail stopped walking.
“Sure,” replied Julian, feeling magnanimous.
“Did you watch the SNL sketch they did about you?”
The memory rose up against his will. Not of the skit itself, which Julian would have found excruciatingly humorless even if
he hadn’t been the subject. But he had spent hours scrolling through the comments underneath the video of it that had been
uploaded online. He hadn’t been able to resist responding to some of them.
@sejunp2014: love this guy, he’s the total package. famous, the worst personality in existence, and definitely guilty of multiple federal
crimes.
@jjy-iii: you can kiss my ass.
Another reason Julian was grateful that his case hadn’t gone to trial. He had horrific visions of his comments being compiled
by the prosecution and projected on a screen before the jury.
“So you also found a way to hack the academy firewalls,” Julian said.
“Yeah, well.” Mikhail lifted a shoulder. “Sometimes I get bored here, too.”
They continued on to the main building in silence, passing briefly beneath the shadow of the sweeping elm trees that lined
the path. Occasionally they’d cross a group of students and Mikhail would wave or nod, but he didn’t stop to talk or to introduce
Julian. His roommate had definitely picked up on the mood.
“The second floor is for Statecraft and Strategy,” Mikhail said as they climbed the stairs. “I figured I’d show you first. This is where most of your classes will be.”
They walked by a dozen classrooms, groups of no more than a dozen students assembled in each one. What Julian could glimpse
through the windows was surprisingly mundane: desks, chalkboards, projector machines. Nothing that would have seemed out of
place at Exeter, or Harvard. He was almost disappointed.
Mikhail took him inside one of the reading rooms. It was small and stuffy, crowded with plush armchairs and couches. The enormous
fireplace was unlit but still grand, and the shelves were lined with leather-bound books. When Julian inhaled, he smelled
the faintest remnants of smoke, spilled ink, and old paper.
The room seemed like a relic of an earlier time, perhaps left intact while the rest of the academy underwent modernizing renovations.
There were several alcoves that provided a modicum of privacy, shadowy and angled away from the door. Julian made note of
them.
As they exited back into the corridor, Mikhail said, “Do you want to see the practice room?”
“The practice room?”
“For simulations,” said Mikhail. “They’re the cornerstone of the Strategy discipline. Students face off against each other,
playing as different states or factions in various scenarios that the professors cook up. It’s one of the main ways that grades
are determined and progress is evaluated. And winners always advance up the ranking board.”
“Ranking board?” Julian echoed keenly.
“It’s updated every night at midnight—check your tablet.
It doesn’t technically affect your grades, but it does affect your prestige and your reputation at the academy.
And Dr. Iver gives a reward to the highest-ranking student.
A weekend furlough.” Mikhail shook his head.
“I’ve only just managed to crack the top five.
As you’d imagine, it’s incredibly competitive. ”
Julian’s mind raced. A number-one ranking was something he could write home proudly about, something that would reassure his
mother that everything was going all right here. His father might even be modestly impressed. And a weekend furlough? He felt