Innes in Command
Copyright© 2026 by Lumpy
Chapter 1
“ ... and when you step aboard your first posting, you will carry with you not just the knowledge we have imparted, but the responsibility that comes with the uniform you wear.” Commandant Pelletier paused, his gaze sweeping across the assembled graduates. The old officer had commanded a battleship during the Fringe Skirmishes, and the scars on his left hand testified to a boarding action that had gone badly. “You are no longer students. You are officers of the Concordian Defense Fleet. The lives of your crew, the security of our systems, and the honor of our service rest on the decisions you will make. Some of those decisions will be easy. Many will not. But I charge you now to remember that duty is not a burden, it is a privilege earned through your sacrifice and dedication.”
Innes felt the weight of the moment settle over the assembly. Four years of simulations, tactical drills, engineering rotations, and command exercises had brought them to this point.
Pelletier stepped back from the podium. “Class of 5389, when you leave this parade ground, you will no longer be students. You will be officers of the Concordian Defense Fleet. The lives of those under your command will depend on your judgment, your courage, your willingness to act when action is required. There is no greater responsibility, and no greater honor.”
The commandant paused, his eyes sweeping across the assembled graduates. “Draw swords.”
Three hundred and twelve hands moved in unison. Innes pulled the training blade free, the carbon composite light in his grip. It was deliberately weakened at the center, scored to facilitate the break, but still it had carried him through four years of drill and ceremony.
It seemed odd to him that this was the tradition. If they faced an enemy directly, it would be in tac armor and with pulse cannons and dart guns, not a sword.
Hell, they had stopped using swords three thousand years ago, before the Diaspora. But old traditions die hard, he supposed.
“Break swords.”
The crack of breaking blades filled the parade ground, a sound like rifle fire rolling across the assembled ranks. Innes brought the blade down across his knee, felt the composite snap, and then raised both halves overhead. Around him, his classmates did the same, the broken swords held high in the traditional salute to the end of their training.
“Ground arms.”
The broken blades clattered to the ground.
“Assembly will stand for the oath of commission.”
Innes straightened, left hand over his heart, right hand raised. The words came automatically after four years of hearing them spoken at every major ceremony, but this time, they meant something different. This time, they were binding.
“I, Innes Kingsford, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of Concordia. That I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same. That I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion. That I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office upon which I am about to enter. I so vow.”
The commandant’s voice rang out one final time. “By the authority vested in me by the Protector, the House of Lords, and the House of Commons of Concordia, I hereby commission you as ensigns of the Concordian Defense Fleet. You are dismissed to your duties.”
The parade ground erupted in controlled chaos as three hundred and twelve newly commissioned ensigns broke formation, many turning to embrace classmates or shake hands with instructors. Innes found himself swept up in the crowd moving toward the reception hall, fielding congratulations from cadets in the lower classes who’d come to watch the ceremony.
The reception hall had been set up with tables bearing refreshments, nothing alcoholic, not yet, though Innes suspected that would change once families departed and the newly minted ensigns made their way to the traditional bars near campus. He accepted a glass of water and moved to one of the windows overlooking the parade ground, watching as work crews began collecting the broken training blades.
“Kingsford.”
He turned to find Trevor Forrester, one of his section mates from third year. They’d competed for top marks in Advanced Naval Tactics and ended up tied, both finishing with honors. Forrester came from merchant stock, his family wealthy enough to afford the Academy fees but not high enough born that he’d ever make it to flag rank.
It almost made him as unusual as Innes himself was.
“Forrester. Did your family make it?”
“My father’s here. Mother couldn’t travel; she’s dealing with contract negotiations in the Procyon system. Yours?”
“No.”
Forrester had the grace not to press. Everyone knew that Duke Rainier Kingsford had expected his heir to follow the traditional path into the diplomatic corps, preparing for the day that he would take over the great house, one of the oldest and most prominent in Concordia.
Even four years later, it was still common gossip that the great man himself had lost his oldest son, his heir, to the fleet. To be fair, Innes was pretty sure he was the only first son to ever do so.
There was something to be said for being first, he supposed.
The fact that the duke hadn’t attended his son’s graduation spoke volumes about the state of their relationship.
“What are you hoping for?” Forrester asked. “Assignment-wise?”
“Wherever they need me.”
“Come on. We both know you’ve got your preferences the same as everyone else. Home Fleet? Frontier patrol?”
Innes took a drink of water, buying himself a moment. He’d learned early in his Academy career that his last name drew attention, and he’d developed a habit of deflection that served him better than outright dishonesty.
“Somewhere I can be useful. The rest is above my pay grade.”
“You are absolutely no fun.”
“At least I’m consistent,” Innes said, which at least got him a laugh.
Magnus Dufresne joined them, still flushed from the ceremony. He’d barely made it through fourth year, his marks in orbital mechanics dragging down an otherwise solid record, but he could lead a squad through a tactical problem faster than anyone Innes had trained with, and he had a gift for keeping morale high even during the worst parts of hell week.
“Did you hear?” Dufresne said. “They’re already calling people in to PersDiv to get their postings. I heard the first person is supposed to report this afternoon. Can you believe it?”
“Not even a little,” Forrester said. “They never do anything that fast. It’ll be a week, minimum, before we get called up.”
“I swear, I heard it from two different sources.” Dufresne looked around the hall, then lowered his voice. “Also, I hear it’s going to be different this year. The majority of billets are going to frontier postings instead of the Home Fleet.”
That got Innes’s attention. The Home Fleet was the prestige posting, the one every noble-born ensign angled for. It meant proximity to Haven and New Aurora, opportunities for visibility and rapid advancement. Frontier postings were harder duty, longer deployments, but also came with more independence and more chance to actually command rather than serve as a steward.
“Where’d you hear that?” Forrester asked.
“Tillson’s sister works in the Ministry of War, and she told him.”
“Maybe she’s wrong, just ‘cause she’s in the ministry doesn’t mean she knows where they’re posting a bunch of ensigns,” Innes said.
“I’m just saying what I heard, but think about it. With all the increased activity along the Meryd border, it makes sense.”
That drew looks from several nearby ensigns who’d been only half-listening to their own conversations. Brooke Palmer moved closer, her family connections running deep into the intelligence services. She’d spent her entire fourth year studying Meryd fleet doctrine and had written her senior thesis on their expansion patterns over the last decade.
“It’s more than rumors. My uncle works in IntDiv. He wouldn’t give me details, but he told me to expect a more active first posting than I might have planned for.”
Innes thought about that. The Meryd Empire had been relatively quiet since the failed treaty negotiations six months ago. The peace had held for nearly fifty years since the last border skirmish, and it seemed crazy that they’d want to set it all aside now.
“Active how?” Forrester asked.
“He didn’t say, just to prepare myself.”
“That could mean anything,” Magnus said. “Pirate suppression, anti-smuggling operations...”
“Or it could mean they’re expecting trouble.” Sienna Wright had joined the conversation, her auburn hair pulled back into a tight bun. “My mother’s on staff at fleet headquarters. She said something similar last time we talked. Nothing direct, but the implication was there.”
The conversation continued, drawing in more ensigns as word spread about potential assignment changes and increased frontier activity. Innes listened much more than he spoke, something he normally did.
His father had always told him the goal of any conversation was to say the least number of words, that people who talk give away their plans. He noted who seemed excited by the prospect of action, who looked nervous, who was already calculating how to leverage a frontier posting into something more advantageous down the line.
Kieran St. Pierre appeared with a plate of food, somehow managing to look relaxed despite the tension in the conversation. Of course, he would. Less home fleet assignments meant nothing to him. The grandnephew of the current Protector would get a billet at fleet itself, probably an aide to a flag officer and rapid promotion to PlanDiv or OpsDiv.
Something cushy and safe.
“You’re all getting worked up over nothing. Even if there is increased activity, it doesn’t mean war. Could be exercises, could be posturing, could be internal Meryd politics spilling over into their force disposition.”
“Could be,” Palmer said. “But it could also be preparation for something bigger. Everyone’s heard the rumors. I mean, hell, you heard that leaked speech from their emperor about their rights to all systems their ships touch.”
“Then we deal with it when it comes.” St. Pierre took a bite of sandwich. “Besides, it’s not like we’re going to be in on the planning meetings. We follow orders and we keep our people alive.”
Innes could appreciate the practical nature of his perspective, but again, it was easy to say when you wouldn’t be on a battle cruiser all on your own when a Meryd fleet gated in.
Seth MacKenzie pushed through the crowd, his dress uniform slightly askew as usual. He’d graduated middle of the class but had a reputation for creative thinking that had saved his squad more than once during tactical exercises. “Anyone else notice the guest list today? Or rather, who wasn’t on it?”
“What do you mean?” Eliza Beck asked.
“Count the flags. Count how many of the Houses had representatives here. Because I’m seeing a lot of empty seats where there should’ve been someone in them.”
Innes had noticed, though he hadn’t planned to mention it. His own father’s absence was hardly unique. Several of the major houses had sent junior representatives or skipped the ceremony entirely, claiming scheduling conflicts or pressing business. It was unusual, but not unprecedented.
“My father’s dealing with some kind of emergency session in the House of Lords,” Wright said. “He apologized, but said he couldn’t miss it.”
“Mine, too,” another added. “Something about the Kumo task force. They’re actually going through with it.”
“Going through with what?” Magnus asked.
“Hell, Magnus, do you ever pay attention to current events? They’re disbanding the whole task force and replacing it with a single patrol ship.”
“But in the middle of graduation week?” Palmer’s skepticism was clear. “The Lords haven’t held emergency sessions during Academy graduations in over a decade. They deliberately schedule around it.”
“I think it may have been the shock of it and the bath the Centrist Coalition took,” he said, and then paused, looking at Innes, whose father they all knew was the head of that coalition. “They didn’t see this coming at all, which is fair. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of the Progressives and the Protectionist coalitions ever working together before.”
“The Progressives got played,” Wright said. “They have been pushing for years for the Republic to better uphold the Kumo administration’s right for the system to be semi-autonomous, but literally everyone knows the Protectionists couldn’t care less about Dongbei autonomy. They’ve been trying to strip Dongbei rights for damn near a century and either push them out entirely or make them legal second-class citizens. So the sudden backing of the Progressives’ forever bill to ‘pull military assets from the system’ is crazy.”
“And now, of all times,” Forrester said. “To reduce one of the entry points from Meryd into Republic space from a full task force to a single patrol ship. It’s like they want a war.”
“Maybe they do,” Palmer pointed out. “They have always thumped their chests about how we could take anyone else. Or maybe they just don’t think the Meryd have the stones for it.”
“I doubt they thought about it at all,” Wright said. “They just want to cut funding to Kumo so they can redirect it to ‘home’ systems. They played the Progressives. Plain and simple.”
“That’s politics,” St. Pierre said, which was the universal sign around the academy to back off the politics talk.
“We don’t know anything for certain,” Innes said. “And speculation without information is just anxiety in disguise.”
“Always with your rules,” someone muttered from the edge of the group, not quite quiet enough that others didn’t hear.
Forrester laughed, as did most of the group. Innes knew they didn’t take him seriously, but it was something he’d started doing second year. Sharing the rules that if you stuck to them, you’d get in less trouble. Rules like “Don’t assume someone is incompetent because they disagree with you” and “Always bring receipts.”
He knew most of his classmates thought they were a joke, but they’d served Innes well. Besides, he’d learned to ignore the muttered comments and stares early on.