by J. N. Chaney
Fear of exploding in atmosphere or crashing via bad telemetry was almost laughable. The last mishap of that sort was a half-century past and attributed to impact with a falling object. A fluke so rare they didn’t even institute additional scanning protocols to counter it.
“Final stage firing, leaving orbit en route to dock with designated transport vessel.”
Another beep and the controls for the screen in front of me unlocked. I saw Provinka City drift away in the onboard replay. Direct broadcasting of the on-site cameras was blocked during launch. They were prone to sudden cut-outs at velocity shifts, which could cause panic to a young viewer live. So the footage was recorded and edited to give an impression of a smooth takeoff. The final blanket for the poor psyche of space travelers from long ago. Regulations and safety measures didn’t evolve with sensibilities.
The imagery of Provinka City reminded me of my sole experience with space flight. I was ten and recently removed from home by my father. It was “recommended” that I would be better off in boarding school off-planet. I had been sent systems away, literally lightyears away so they could feel safe.
Even then, years ago and one of my first experiences outside of my parents’ watchful care, the safety features for minors had been annoying. The video playback was more interesting to me, though. I recalled the way my home had drifted below me, growing smaller and becoming obscured by clouds, then seeing the curve of the atmosphere and finally the darkness of space. I knew, subjectively, in what direction my original system lay, but I hadn’t bothered to identify the specific star. It was just a place that I had been.
My guardian ad litem at the time served from the moment I was brought aboard the shuttle and discharged when I left the port in Provinka City and became a ward of the academy. I was old enough this time that no such guardian was appointed, or perhaps Mr. Black was named such. He was not on the shuttle, which I didn’t find surprising. Whatever organization was behind him clearly had other transport options.
“Free cabin movement is permitted until docking with the Heavy Hand in approximately one hour.”
I removed the helmet so I could look around. I was distracted from my thoughts of Mr. Black and his clearly made-up cover as a representative of Quintell Academy. The hum of conversation from the other passengers took precedent.
An old man shambled to the front of the craft and was first in line to start requesting favors of the crew. An implant blinked on his left shoulder, visible through the loose shirt he was wearing. The implants were meant to compensate for strain from frequent travel and as recorders for medical data. Long-term understanding of the effects of space flight required a constant influx of data.
I considered the ramifications of the device for a moment, as well as the research that went into it. I recalled reading some notes from my mother’s terminal months before my expulsion from her life. She was developing some kind of selection algorithm for test subjects. I recalled the notation, but nothing of the code. I found it difficult to maintain information with no relevant reference point.
That brought me back to Mr. Black and this morning. The series of questions was a puzzle in itself. The memory assessment of the image made sense in one fashion but left me wondering what else could have been behind it. Why had a man like that come to see a student like me? His observation skills had been intriguing, the way he gleaned specifics about my relationship with the headmaster and our history. It was impressive, and I wanted to speak with him again, though part of me suspected I would never have the chance.
What had me baffled was the final question. The question had its own set of possible implications. An emphasis on curriculum was obvious. Perhaps it was posed to ascertain if continuing education was worthwhile for a discipline case. It was my inability to answer the question that was a problem.
I had thought about it before. At least, I supposed I had. By my age, I had been encouraged to write a dozen essays on the topic. To make art or give speeches about a future career or place I would prefer to live.
I hadn’t answered the question dishonestly in the past, I just hadn’t put any real truth in it. Where I would go was where I would end up. What I would do was whatever I would do. These responses changed based on the person asking because I doubted they cared about the answer. It was an assignment. Work to keep the school day moving.
Many people find a talent they possess and expand. Others stumble into an opportunity and stay because they don’t apply decision-making. Still others follow in the path of their parents or well-off relatives, repeating patterns they have seen work.
The answer I gave to Mr. Black followed that pattern. It sounded like the kind of answer he wanted, but it clearly wasn’t. I knew as I spoke that it was wrong. What I didn’t really understand was why.
What did I want out of life? What was the future? By many accounts, I had at least ten years of schooling or more to go through. But knowing the answer to this question shaped many of those years. If I acknowledged that the question had weight to it, why didn’t I have an answer?
Worse, why didn’t I care enough to have one?
A crew member approached me. “Can we get you anything?” His voice was remarkably free of the condescension I heard while boarding and being strapped in.
“How long until we dock?” I decided to probe for more personal information from the man behind the Paul nametag.
“It will be fifty more minutes and then twenty of seated time while the docking takes place. Do you mean until we hit the slip tunnel or the whole journey?” He was leaning against the seat now, giving me his full attention.
I calculated the trip would be roughly another two hours of undocking, taxiing, and eventual landing. All told, it would be evening before I was on Meridian in the Androsia system. “Any dense fruits you have, and a water, would be fine. Thank you.”
He slapped the headrest on the seat. “You’re a smart traveler. Lot of these people will be squirming during the other strap-down phases. Nervous drinkers always have nervous bladders. You sure you don’t want something a little extra?” He gave a broad, exaggerated wink.
It was unlikely he was baiting me into requesting alcohol. I took the gesture as best I could, mirroring his friendly energy. “Maybe next time. I’m still tipsy from breakfast.”
He laughed. “I’ll be right back with your snack and water.”
Meanwhile, the frequenter from before had taken his seat three rows back from mine. It was difficult to observe while sitting as they had placed me near the front of the shuttle. I waited for Paul to return so I would have an excuse to look around without appearing obvious. People were always quick to adjust behavior when they thought they were being watched.
Paul returned with a water and two packets of a freeze-dried fruit medley. He handed me one of the waters and a packet, then opened the other himself. “Mind if I chat with you while we wait?”
I smiled and opened my own packet. “Thanks. I’ve not done a lot of traveling. Got any interesting things to share?” I stood up and leaned against the seat, forcing him to position in front of me so I could see the frequenter over his right shoulder.
He started explaining some mishaps and interesting details about journeys he had taken. I let the sound fade to the periphery. From the moment I saw the frequenter quick to get drink orders in, I had become curious about him.
It is one thing to have a preflight drink or to like to mingle. To do both expressed a level of nerves that needed explanation. I could have written it off as jitters if he wasn’t a frequenter. It was possible he had experienced recent trauma or a personal loss that had him off.
The lack of any secondary characteristics made that unlikely. He had done everything he could to avoid making specific eye contact now that he was back at his seat.
He looked around quickly.
I made a point to react to the tale Paul was relating but not draw too much attention. The frequenter looked my way and then swept past. He had finished one drink and we
nt right into the next. The crew serving him didn’t hesitate to supply him two-deep just to stop being called over.
I noticed he was sweating and kept checking the time. He dropped a drink with a clatter.
Paul was quick to react. “Sorry. Sir? I’ll get that for you.”
The man was slapping liquid off his sleeve and swearing. Paul tried to pick up the container and wipe up the excess liquid as it pooled. For a brief moment, the implant under the man’s shirt went dark and he jiggled it until it lit up.
The frequenter’s implants were powered through bio converters. Either the man had died briefly, or it was fake. It all became clear then; he was a stowaway, probably on false credentials.
Paul finished cleaning up the mess and returned to me. “Looks like we’re about to dock. You can check it out on your screen.”
I flicked on the screen and strapped myself back in. The Heavy Hand, a powerful cylinder with large mounting brackets, came into view. Patches of the ship held enormous cargo containers and there was even a smaller asteroid secured in one spot. The shuttle docked and mounted to a smaller ring of clamps near the center.
Most of the docking procedure was invisible to the monitor, but I took a moment to flip through the feeds and see more of the attached cargo. The Union supply network was impressive. My father would complain that its bureaucracy was slow, and many rules were outdated and staid. “But they keep the transports synchronized,” he would often conclude.
Docking completed and there was a sudden shift in the gravity. Being attached to the far larger mass of the Heavy Hand stabilized the gravity inside the cabin and everything felt heavier and more real.
I watched intently as a green light pierced the darkness at the nose of the transport. It grew in intensity until it was hard to make out any details of the transport amidst the brilliant emerald glow.
I switched cameras to the rear and saw the ship gradually enveloped in the glow as the tear continued to form. There was a great buildup of momentum from inside the transport cylinder.
All around, a magnificent light shone as we entered the phenomenon known as slipspace.
I had to admit, it was quite beautiful.
5
It was mid-evening when I finally arrived at the campus of Quintell Academy. The time duration on Meridian swung close to a thirty-hour day. There would be some hours of light left. Fortunately, it was still spring in the hemisphere of the new school.
Moving from one continent to the other had nothing on interplanetary travel. The stars were different, each sun a different size, and the temperatures were on a different range. The body tried to adjust and get into the necessary circadian cycle. Sometimes, the transition was easy. Other times, it took weeks to adjust.
A woman waited for me as I left the bus and my luggage was retrieved. She was stout and in her late forties, with a short-cropped haircut that gave hints of a military background. Her shoes were scuffed and less than formal. The incongruity with her presentation almost made me laugh. It would be unthinkable to see a student in such disarray at my former school, let alone a staff member, but if this academy had any merit to its name, I likely wouldn’t be here.
She greeted me with an awkward wave that was part handshake and part salute. “Welcome to Quintell Academy, Mr. Malloy. I’m Dr. Maevik, a psychometrician. I’ll be taking you to your room.”
“Psychometrician? So, you’re in charge of assessments?” I asked.
“That’s right,” she said.
I gathered my two bags and stood ready to be directed. “Well, then, lead the way, Doctor.”
Maevik swept into position in front of me and started talking loudly to direct her voice behind, even though it was quiet and I had no problem hearing her. “You can call me Cams. We’re pretty informal around here. No Doctor necessary.”
I said nothing, but she seemed to take the silence as a form of agreement. The walk to the room wasn’t very long. The dormitories were on the edge of the campus to minimize noise and separate the school environment from the living area.
She snapped her heels and turned at the door to the dormitory. “You’ll be given a room key and assignment by the floor manager. His room is the first you will see on the right. Your floor manager will also be in charge of directing any facilities problems you have.”
I shouldered my bookbag and opened the door. “Do I report to an office or a person for classes tomorrow?”
She rocked back on her heel and then laughed. “Oh, right. There is an office in the main building that you will hit first thing. They’ll sort that for you.”
“Thank you,” I said and entered. The hallway was sparse and an off-white that left me to wonder if the paint had faded from age or darkened from neglect. I turned the corner to the right and knocked. A minute later, the door opened with a sharp jolt.
An older boy stood there. His hair was shaggy and his lean frame filled out his clothes poorly, leaving everything about him looking rushed and transitional. “Yeah? What?” he managed.
“Alphonse Malloy, new student. I need a room assignment.” I kept it direct and ignored his lack of tact.
“Oh, that.” He shut the door and I waited for a few minutes before it opened again. In the interim, he had retrieved some clothes and a key. “Follow me, we’ve got you over in 109 at the end of the hall. You gotta come back out this way, though, to leave. The doors at the ends get jammed.”
He walked the distance with me, going past a series of doors with odd spots and discolorations along the frames. We stopped at the end and he tried to hand me the key.
I set down a bag and took the key from him.
“Well?” He gestured at the door and then slumped against the wall.
I slid the key card through the slot and watched as the system slowly confirmed the entry. It took almost twelve seconds to cycle green. I shoved the latch and entered. Behind me, the floor manager produced a tablet that he must have had stashed in a large pocket. “Bed, desk, lamp, dresser, all in great condition. One key issued. Sign it.”
He thrust the pad at me with a waiver for the room hastily filled out. I glanced at the furnishings, threadbare and worn but all well enough, then signed the document.
He glanced at the signature, shut off the pad, and began to walk away. He turned back after a few steps. “Hey, if you need anything, don’t bother. I’m not going to try and they’re not gonna get it anyway. Just leave me alone. We clear?”
I nodded. He strode down the hall and back to his own room. I entered mine and set down my bags. Overall, the room was only slightly smaller than my previous one. The quality of the furnishings was a larger issue. Everything was worn and chipped. It didn’t look as if anything had been replaced or touched up in a decade. Maybe since before I was born.
I unpacked my bookbag and sorted the contents into the desk, then I hung up my garments and placed the remainder in the dresser. My clothing consisted of five uniforms, two pairs of shoes, and some sundries. The desk held my three personal books and my pad.
I turned on the pad and set it to local time and declination, then synced it with my watch. With everything put away, I had nothing to do until the following day and my new class assignments. My pad was on the dormitory’s network, but I had no access to the academy intranet. It took a few minutes of looking, but I found the campus curfew listed in a promotional page. I had several hours before the night lockdown. Assuming the floor manager cared for such a thing.
With nothing to study or anything specific to do, I decided to familiarize myself with the academy grounds. The hallway was clear of any other students, and despite the unkempt nature of the facility, the dorm rooms appeared soundproof.
The campus wasn’t too different from my previous one. There was a dormitory split into several floors and an auxiliary building. Previously, the floors had been arranged by seniority ranking with the auxiliary for special students—children of dignitaries, large donors, and the like. It was hard to say how the arrangement here would
work, but I suspected it wasn’t likely to be graced by the sons of dignitaries. This was a school for transfer students, I suspected, each of us deemed unworthy by our former academies. Strange, since we had already been sent away by families that didn’t want us.
After the dorms, there was a central administration building, which also housed core curriculum rooms and teacher offices. Two other classroom buildings stood flanking the center building. They seemed to be, from exterior indications, STEM, humanities, and history buildings. There was also a track and a gymnasium split into multiple sections for different games and activities.
I wandered into the gymnasium and watched other students practicing different sports. The facilities all showed a lack of attention I found concerning. Nothing was broken, outright, but many things were in advanced states of disrepair. There was a pervasive laissez-faire sense here, with the expectant result.
From observing the other students, I noticed that only a few had anything close to a uniform. Even then, it was one or two pieces with the others a mismatch of plain clothes and severely altered uniform fragments. I sat in the bleachers of one of the athletics rooms, observing, when I was approached by two students.
The taller one wore the remains of a uniform blazer over a t-shirt and sagging pants. He had one sleeve rolled beyond the elbow and the other was frayed from some kind of compulsive behavior. “Hey,” he shouted up at me. “Looking good there, newbie. Nobody told you we keep it real ‘round here?”
The shorter one with the muscular legs and thick neck chuckled. He wore an a-shirt over his t-shirt in a clashing set of orange with green that was an affront to the senses. His shorts were once a longer pair of pants that had been cut and folded and pinned in the front and were loose in the back. “You think he knows anything about how it goes down in Quintell, Manson? He looks like he’s never been away from home a minute of his life.”
They split up at the bottom of the bleachers and approached row by row, drifting further apart to flank me. The one identified as Manson took a seat uncomfortably close to me and leaned into my face. The shorter one hedged me in with one leg and hovered forward.