Free Asimov's Science Fiction: July 2013 by Penny Publications

attracted high-level attention in the government. I am sure you can guess what sort of attention."
    Miroslav was certain he could. His family name had secured him some small notoriety in his early career, and his successes in the ongoing Chechen campaign had earned him more, but having an uncle as a very senior Kremlin off icial meant that Miroslav endured more jealousy from peers and more entreaties from sycophants than he cared to acknowledge. It also meant that his failure in his most recent skirmish would have attracted the wrong sort of attention.
    "Yes, Colonel, I believe I can."
    "Good. We would not want to disappoint your powerful friends."
    "No," Miroslav said, "of course not."
    "Then I am to give you this," Colonel Lutrov said, and pulled a thick brown envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. He read aloud the white label on the front. "Captain Miroslav Aleksandrovich Ponomarenko, you are ordered to proceed to the Nikita Trubetskoy Military Sub-Academy and present yourself there on 17 June. Report in civilian attire." The colonel stood, stepped to the bed, and offered the envelope to Miroslav.
    Dubious, Miroslav took the envelope and read the label himself. He turned it over, ready to open it and read the contents, but the colonel extended a hand as Miroslav saw the bold print over the flap: TO BE OPENED ONLY BY TRUBETSKOY SUBACADEMY DIRECTOR.
    "What is this?" Miroslav asked, his fatigued muscles tensing like primed explosives ready for a firing signal. "Am I to be a spectacle, to frighten children?"
    Colonel Lutrov returned to the chair and sat as alert and observant as before. "I am not at liberty to discuss the details, but I can say that you will observe and interact with the cadets. You went to Trubetskoy, did you not? Surely recent heroes visited you from time to time."
    Miroslav sniffed, as much at the title "hero" as at the memory of the dignitaries who visited the school when he was a cadet. Most were old men, perhaps important or even powerful in their own ways, but none of them particularly inspiring.
    "I thought you were bringing me discharge papers," he said.
    The colonel raised his eyebrows. "Not today. Just orders."
    "Ridiculous orders," Miroslav argued. "This is less than a week away."
    Colonel Lutrov shrugged. "You said you were getting stronger." When Miroslav did not challenge this statement or ask any more questions, the colonel stood. "I have done my duty here, Captain, so I bid good day to you. I will alert the staff that you will be discharged soon. I am certain your remaining therapy here will be enough to prepare you for your journey. I hope to meet you again, and to hear about your... return to your youth."
    He left Miroslav turning the envelope over and over, reading each side again and again, and wondering at how far he had fallen.
    Miroslav's stump itched where it met his prosthesis. The itch intensif ied the longer he stood still, yet he could not make himself move. He should just cross the street and go inside, but doubt and memory kept him rooted to the grimy sidewalk. A coughing, asthmatic panel van lurched down the street. Miroslav resisted the urge to scratch his stump.
    He also resisted the urge to return to the Metro station, and from there to the base to ask for discharge papers instead of the strange, sealed envelope he had been given. He must be the subject of some complicated and expensive practical joke. Or worse, an attempt to honor him.
    In the absence of further movement on the street, Miroslav studied his destination. He was surprised how much the sub-academy looked exactly as it had when he graduated from it twelve years before. The school dominated the street, its bleak concrete face seeming slightly smaller than he remembered. Three stories high, grey as everything else in the old suburb, its rows of small windows protected with iron grates still reminded him of a prison.
    He regarded the rest of the block, and found little to impress him there, either. The