“Okay.”
“Finally, you will have Court Protocol taught by a special personal tutor. It is a class that is normally taught to Citizens—”
“Oh!” I exclaim.
But he shakes his head with a cold glance. “Don’t get your hopes up. In your case you simply need to become well versed in the standards of interaction with upper ranking members of society, because you are an Aide to the CCO. All my Aides are fluent in matters of protocol since they have to attend a member of the Imperial Family.”
“In other words, you. . . .”
“Yes.” His answer comes very softly.
I nod, feeling my cheeks burn for some reason, as I watch his beautiful profile and the fall of his golden hair.
“Wow, that’s a lot of classes,” I say. “What about my work hours?”
“I allocated only two classes each day for you. A few days will have three, but no more. Check your schedule and fear not.”
“Oh, I am not afraid of an academic overload!” I exclaim.
At my response his lips quiver momentarily, so that I almost think he holds back a smile. “Good,” he tells me.
And we head back to the CCO.
Chapter Eight
I help Gennio and Anu with the post-assembly cleanup of the office, while Aeson Kassiopei gets his desk back in one piece, calls up his various consoles, and gets to work, promptly ignoring all three of us.
I spend the hours before lunch working at a small console in the corner of the office, next to Anu and Gennio, entering data and occasionally glancing in Aeson’s direction, out of simple curiosity. Gennio runs various software diagnostics while Anu looks over email and personnel data and makes catty remarks about random individuals, muttering under his breath. The three of us aides then head out to eat, while the Command Pilot remains working alone in his office, his face serious and absentminded, as he consults what appears to be intricate star charts, and makes occasional face-to-face calls with Atlantean officers.
And then, it’s 1:00 PM, and time for my first class onboard the Atlantean starship.
Pilot Training.
“Good luck, Gwen, you’ll do fine. This is a very important class!” Gennio waves at me at the end of our meal, while Anu merely nods, as I empty my tray at the Cadet Deck Two Meal Hall. The room is noisy and filled with savory food smells and with Qualified Earth teens, mostly from the Blue Quadrant, since this is their meal hall. Everyone is chattering about the upcoming Pilot Training, which means most of us will be going to the same class in a few minutes.
It’s interesting that now the Cadets are all wearing small four-point-star gold buttons next to their ID tokens. I’d noticed it earlier this morning as I passed some of them in the ship corridors—must be a new thing.
I follow the Cadets out of the meal hall, and down a network of corridors to an open deck instruction area, the size of a large classroom. It has about twenty rows of desk-like double-seater cubicles, six per row, each with strange attached circular terminals before them—not precisely computer screens but more like gaming consoles.
“Flight simulators!” a boy exclaims, grabbing one of the places near me.
I think he’s right.
I take a seat in the second row, at one of the weird double desks, and watch the room fill up around me. I think I’m the only Yellow in a sea of Blues, with a small sprinkling of Reds and Greens. I’m also the only person without a four-point star button on my uniform.
“Hey, Yellow. You’re in the wrong section. Are you supposed to be here?” a serious dark-haired boy with a blue armband says in accented English, glancing at my shirt with its obvious lack of a star button. He looks possibly Latin American.
“Yes,” I say curtly. “I am.” And I stay silent while he shrugs, then takes the other seat next to me.
I watch as more people arrive, and hear conversations in different languages. To my surprise I see two athletic Asian teens with short blue-black spiked hair, and recognize Erin and Roy Tai, sister and brother, the #1 and #2 top Standing Score contenders from my own Pennsylvania RQC-3. Furthermore, there’s also Kadeem Cantrell, African American parkour free runner god and #3 contender. Not surprising at all that they made it through Qualification, or that they were chosen to be on this particular ship ICS-2 under the command of the best Pilot in the Fleet. But it’s kind of amazing that I’m going to be in the same class with them. Okay, I’m so out of my league!
At one point I also notice the entrance of two other teens—a muscular arrogant boy with wavy brown hair and a green armband, and a girl with long dark hair with purple highlights and a red armband. They are the same sarcastic pair of alphas from the observation deck the night before, who made smirking fun of Gennio. They don’t recognize or notice me, and I am glad.
Another minute, and the room is packed. Every seat is taken, and there are many teens standing in the back, with no place to sit. Noisy waves of conversation move around the deck.
Our Instructor arrives and everyone falls silent.
He is rather unusual—visibly older than all the other Atlanteans I have seen to date. If he was an Earth man, I would call him middle-aged, somewhere in his late forties, but of course with Atlanteans you never know, he might as well be ninety. He is average-height, lean and wiry, with deeply tanned skin that has a dry and weathered look, short hair that is not dyed metallic gold but instead is naturally dark, with silver at the temples. He wears a very minimal line of dark kohl highlight around his brown eyes, almost like an afterthought. His expression is so grim and stony that he appears angry even without opening his mouth. The armband on his left uniform sleeve is blue.
The Instructor walks to the front of the classroom and stands coldly, feet apart, before the rows of console desks.
“Attention!” he suddenly barks. “Cadets, stand and salute!”
The room is thrown into momentary chaos. I jump out of my seat together with everyone else, except I have no idea what I’m doing.
Fortunately, neither does most of the class. A few of the Cadets clumsily perform the same salute I’ve seen the Atlanteans do—head inclined, left hand raised, fingers touching forehead, thumb touching lips.
The Atlantean Instructor watches us in disgust.
“At ease! You are all unfit, and next time you will salute properly. Now, sit down and listen.”
Again, the room shakes with the noise of people taking seats.
“I am Mithrat Okoi,” says the older Atlantean. “And I will be teaching you Pilot Training. By the time we are done, each one of you will be able to drive and navigate a basic shuttle, and some of you will advance to pilot a variety of more sophisticated spacecrafts.”
The Atlantean pauses to glare at us, and the whole classroom stares back in rapt attention.
He points to the flight consoles. “If you require translation from English to another Earth language, use the dubbing earpiece on the side of the console. Language selection is made verbally. From this moment on you will make no excuse for lack of understanding.”
As I glance around, a few in the room immediately reach for the translator earpieces.
“Before we begin—” His oppressive gaze again sweeps the room. “Every one of you in this room should be wearing the star insignia of the Fleet Cadet Corps. If there is anyone here without a star, I want you to get up and get out. Do it now!”
I freeze. My heart starts pounding, and I don’t dare breathe, or move. Instead I watch from the corner of my eye as at least three people rise from their seats, look around with embarrassment, and quietly leave the classroom.
The kid in the chair next to me gives me a dirty look.
I remain in my seat.
Instructor Okoi starts to pace among the rows of our desks, looking closely at each one of us, as he speaks. “Pilot Training is the core fundamental training you will receive as members of the Fleet. Every refugee from Earth is required to pass basic Pilot Training, but this is a higher-level introductory class, intended for Cadets
who will one day attain the rank of Pilots. What does that mean?”
He pauses and stops to point to one of the teens. “You! Tell me what you think it means.”
The boy blinks at being singled out. “It means it’s a hard class?”
The Atlantean frowns and turns to another student, this one an older girl. He barks out at her: “What else?”
“It—it means we will be expected to excel?” she mutters.
“What else?” And Instructor Okoi moves down the rows and points at Erin Tsai.
“It means that we will cover more material at a faster rate,” she says in a cold hard voice, sitting straight-backed at attention, so that the Atlantean nods at her, almost pleased.
“What this means for all of you,” he says after a small pause, “is that unless you pass Pilot Training to my satisfaction, you will not become a Cadet of the Imperial Fleet of Atlantida—no matter how well you do in any of your other classes. Is that clear?”
We mutter and nod, “Yes.”
“Is that clear, yes sir!” Instructor Okoi roars at us.
“Yes, sir!” we yell back in unison, raising our voices to parallel his.
“Good!” He approaches the area behind him that has to be a large smart wall, or a projection screen. He taps the surface with his hand, and we see a simulation window view-screen with nothing but stars and space—the same kind I recall seeing on my arriving flight here in the small shuttle.
In that same instant, the display in front of me—and on every one of the student desk consoles—suddenly comes to life with the same view projection. I stare at what looks to be a window into immense interstellar space before me. The illusion is so real, so incredible, that I feel an instant pang of vertigo.
“Whoa! Awesome!” someone exclaims softly.
Other similar voiced reactions sound around the room.
“For the next four months, you will train on these flight simulator consoles,” the Atlantean says. “Then, on the fifth month, you will fly real shuttles, outside, in the Quantum Stream. At the end of that fifth month, you will take part in the Quantum Stream Race—a grueling Test that will determine your Cadet Preliminary Standing in the Fleet. After the Test, comes the sixth month, during which you will again train indoors, back here on the flight simulators—since it will be Jump Month.”
The Atlantean pauses to give emphasis to his words. “That close to the Jump, the Quantum Stream instability will be at its highest, and off limits for beginners. It will be unsafe for anyone but the most experienced Pilots to be flying outside in the Quantum Stream and deviating from standard Fleet formation velocities—unsafe and deadly, considering the rate of acceleration we will be experiencing at that point, and up to the very moment of the Jump itself—but more on that later.”
At the mention of the Test and the Jump, everyone in the room listens very quietly.
Instructor Okoi watches us like a hawk as he continues talking.
“After we Jump and emerge in our home sector of space which you know as the Constellation of Pegasus, the seventh month immediately following the Jump will also be unstable and unsafe, as the Fleet begins the deceleration process. Which means, you will again train indoors. However, after that—months eight through twelve—all the way up to our arrival on Atlantida, you will be allowed to once again train on real shuttles in the Quantum Stream. You will become proficient by that point. Furthermore, there will be a Final Test during month eleven, at which point you will Compete in a second Quantum Stream Race . . . this time for Final Placement in the Fleet. The winners of the second QS Race will receive Pilot Honors, and have their choice of Fleet assignment, in addition to other privileges. The rest of you will be assigned based on your performance, in less desirable positions. Any questions?”
Mithrat Okoi ends and looks around at us.
There is mostly awkward silence. And then from the back, comes a boy’s voice, oddly familiar.
“What does it take for a Pilot to become astra daimon?”
I turn around to look, and other heads turn, all around me.
The speaker is Blayne Dubois.
My mouth opens in a smile of happy excitement. Blayne! Blayne made it, and he’s on our ship!
Blayne is in the very back of the room, and I notice that he is not seated at a flight simulator console, or in a wheelchair. . . . Instead he is upright and on a hoverboard, using his lower body strength to keep the board at a near vertical angle and maintain the special Limited Mobility position he has practiced for so long, with me and Aeson Kassiopei. This way he appears to be almost “standing upright” on his own. Wow, he looks almost effortless as he does it! And, furthermore, no more wheelchair—he’s got his own hoverboard at last!
The teens notice that he’s on a hoverboard, and obviously they have no idea about his normal use of a wheelchair, so they stare in curiosity.
Instructor Okoi meanwhile, gives Blayne an appraising look, noting his very competent LM position on the hoverboard. “You ask a fair question, Cadet. Your name?”
“Blayne Dubois.”
I crane my neck, and yes, there’s definitely a Cadet star on Blayne’s uniform chest.
“Cadet Blayne Dubois,” Instructor Okoi says. “You ask about becoming astra daimon, the best in the Fleet, and your question itself gives you credit. Unfortunately, I must disappoint you upfront—you and everyone else in this room.”
The Atlantean turns from Blayne to span all of us with his steel gaze, and there is faint derision written there. “Not one of you here will ever be astra daimon. Most of you will be competent Pilots, some of you will even be excellent, and some will be lucky just to fly a shuttle without crashing. Astra daimon are the elite—a brotherhood of the best, after years of working together intimately in life-and-death situations, and absolute camaraderie. It is not an honor to which you can aspire, but a recognition of such flawless excellence that can only be earned from the other highest ranking Pilots. From my rather vast experience, none of you here are the material from which such Pilots are made. As for your brave question, Cadet Dubois—ask me again at the end of the year, and we’ll see how I answer you.”
Mithrat Okoi then ignores Blayne, and addresses the rest of us again. “And now, Cadets—turn to the person sitting next to you at the same console. Take note, this is your flight partner for the rest of the year until further notice—your Co-Pilot, who will be flying with you on all your shuttle runs. Don’t like your choice? Too bad, you are stuck with each other. The only way you can be separated now is if you crash and die—”
Immediately there are waves of unhappy whispers in the room.
“And those of you standing in the back who have no flight console seat—turn to the person standing to your right and introduce yourself to your new partner. Next time you will arrive early enough to have a seat and a console.”
In that moment, the dark-haired Latino boy sitting next to me raises his hand. “Excuse me,” he says sullenly. “This girl next to me—she’s not a Cadet. She has no star. Can I get another partner?”
I feel a sudden blast of cold in my gut.
Instructor Okoi turns his grim face to us, and then starts walking toward our flight simulator console. He stops in front of me, and glances at my uniform, and the lonesome Yellow token on my chest.
“You—did you somehow miss hearing my instruction at the beginning of this class?” he says, leaning down over me. “Where is your Cadet Insignia?”
I look up at him. “I am not a Cadet,” I say softly. “But I am supposed to be in this class.”
“Is that so?” The Atlantean’s tone sends another wave of cold fear through me.
“I am an Aide to the CCO . . .” I mutter, so quietly that even I barely hear me speak.
Mithrat Okoi gives me another closer look. “Your name?” he says, and this time his tone is neutral.
“Gwen Lark.”
There is an unpleasant pause.
“Gwen Lark, you may stay in my class.” And then the In
structor looks over to the Latino boy who snitched on me. “And your name, Cadet?”
The boy appears somewhat puzzled, and frowns, glancing from me to the Instructor. “Hugo Moreno,” he says. “So, what about her? Does that mean she—”
“It means, Cadet Hugo Moreno, she is your partner,” Instructor Okoi says, turning away from the two of us, and returning to the front of the room.
“You better not screw me over,” Hugo Moreno whispers to me in the moment the Instructor’s back is turned.
I part my lips in outrage.
Great, I think. This is possibly the most important class, and I’m stuck for a whole year with a jerk for a partner.
About forty minutes later we have learned the names, positions, and functions of various instruments on the flight consoles, and our homework is to memorize them. We’ve also received a very brief rundown of the Four Primary Systems involved in Piloting, the principles being the same whether it’s a great starship or a small shuttle.
“Memorize these concepts and terms,” Instructor Okoi tells us loudly. “Red Quadrant controls Drive and Propulsion. Blue Quadrant controls Network Systems and Central Command. Green Quadrant controls Brake and Shields. Yellow Quadrant controls Navigation and Guidance.”
“In other words,” a boy mutters behind me, “Red is ‘Go’ and Green is ‘Stop’—that’s all kinds of backwards and messed up, the total opposite of traffic lights on Earth. Wonder, how come?”
A few snickers are heard.
“And hey, Blue is the CPU or brains and central nervous system, while Yellow is supposed to be some kind of GPS?” another boy says.
Instructor Okoi glances in the direction of the speakers. “Use whatever comparisons you like, if it helps you remember,” he says in a hard voice. “But the next time you open your mouth and speak in class without permission, you will be disciplined. Now, silence!”
There are no more flippant comments after that.
Mithrat Okoi stands watching us coldly, and then he continues. “In addition to the Four Primary Systems, there are other types of secondary systems involved. What is missing, that we have not discussed? Who can tell me?”
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