Flight of the Outcast

by Brad Strickland

  The second time, Asteria was a little too timid with her tap, and the instructor said, "Locke, do it the same way you did the first time. Tamlin, you're still trying to jump into orbit. Take it down by half. Microgravity of point one. Do it again…"

  At the end of the period, Dai said, "I think I've got it now."

  "I don't like zero G," Asteria muttered. "It makes me feel clumsy. How do you judge mass and trajectory?"

  "You'll learn," Dai assured her. They had to form up and jog off again to their next class—on the double.

  The routine repeated the next day, except this time they reported for normal-gravity physical training in another wing of the gym complex. The instructor, a warrant officer who was about twenty-five and who looked as though he had been designed by powerbots, teamed the twenty-five yellow-clad cadets up to see what they knew of self-defense. Asteria had sort of hoped to be paired with Dai, because it would be fun to shove him around a little, but instead she found herself facing a rangy young man with a challenging, superior smile: the nametape on his yellow jumpsuit identified him as Kayser, K (MASTRAL, CT).

  The instructor called him "my lord." Three Aristos who seemed to be friends of his called him "Mastral." Properly speaking, Asteria should have referred to him as "my lord" or "Your Lordship." Looking at his arrogant expression, however, she decided she didn't like him enough to call him anything, and so she chose to avoid the problem by not speaking to him.

  "My lord," said the warrant officer, "you shall be the attacker. Locke, defend against him."

  The Aristo grinned savagely as the two of them stepped inside the thirty-meter diameter combat ring etched on the gym floor. "How much shall I hurt her?"

  "Don't try for anything disabling, my lord," the warrant officer told him in a toneless, matter-of-fact way. He stepped back and pointed Asteria into the left zone of the combat circle, Kayser into the right. He raised his hand. "Remain within the boundary. Anyone forced out of the circle loses automatically. Ready? At my signal. Very good, take your positions…go!" He slashed his hand down, starting the sparring round.

  Kayser pressed forward, arms raised as he invaded Asteria's half of the circle. Asteria saw that he was using bladehand, a flashy but not efficient style of fighting art. Andre had taught her a little of it, but he had said dismissively, "Aristo boys use it to impress girls who don't know anything about fighting." Asteria wondered how much Kayser knew. He certainly looked confident as he moved toward her, semi-crouching, his hands flashing, his eyes mocking.

  Asteria circled carefully to the left, keeping her gaze on Kayser's midsection—the abdomen, she had learned from her cousin, was the key to judging an opponent's movement. Eyes could deceive, and legs could feint, but the midsection always told the true story. When she saw Kayser's muscles tense, she readied herself. He waded in, thrusting and slashing with his flattened hands, trying to strike a nerve nexus or open her guard and let him deliver a decisive blow that would knock her out of the circle.

  He probably expected her to backpedal, but instead Asteria stepped forward and met him with Mantis hands, her forearms interrupting his blows, warding them off harmlessly to the side. She saw the look of surprise in his eyes—just before she clipped his chin with the heel of her right hand, snapping his head back and making him stagger. His friends shouted and objected: "Foul!"

  Kayser glared at her, shaking his head, opening and closing his mouth.

  The warrant office coughed in a sort of mild warning. "It is not considered good form for a Commoner to touch an Aristocrat's face, Locke. Even in sparring practice."

  "Sorry," she said without looking at the muscular instructor. "I'll hit him lower from now on."

  "Think so, Disaster?" growled Kayser. He stepped forward, more wary now, with his hands flexing before they assumed the bladehand flatness. He was slower and more deliberate this time, feinting in, trying to judge her reactions. And then, with no visible warning, he swung his leg around in a hard abdominal kick.

  She twisted away from it, causing him to miss, caught his foot, and spun him, and when his back was to her, she delivered her own kick to the small of his back. He fell forward flailing and stumbling, but he was too far off-balance to prevent himself from staggering across the perimeter of the ten-meter circle.

  "Out!" shouted the warrant officer.

  "Doesn't count!" snapped Kayser, spinning around to face her again. "She kicked me from behind!"

  "That is permitted, my lord," the officer said coldly.

  "Not this time." Kayser stepped back into the circle, his face glowing with anger. "I have to teach this little Commoner Disaster a lesson."

  "It's all right," Asteria said. "I'll fight him again. Best two out of three rounds."

  "Stay in control, my lord," warned the warrant officer. "I'll count any more unfounded protests against you."

  Kayser waded in again, so worked up, so shot with adrenaline, that Asteria couldn't block every thrust. She caught a hard, stinging one just off-center of her solar plexus, and another one made her ears ring. It was not forbidden, it seemed, for an Aristo to slam a Commoner on the chin.

  But Kayser was clearly not used to a high-gravity world, even one as marginally higher as Dromia (1.02 G) was to Coriam (1.0 G—supposedly the same mass and gravity as the long-lost homeworld of humanity, Earth). His attacks had lost some of their edge, and his movements slowed. Asteria, by contrast, felt remarkably fresh. In fact, she had the momentary illusion that Kayser was moving in slow motion. She watched for her opening.

  Trying to lure him forward, she pretended to be staggered by a blow to her shoulder and backed to the edge of the circle. If she read him right, he would rush her, trying to push her outside the boundary—

  With a wicked grin on his face, Kayser suddenly snarled, "Grab her!"

  With her attention focused on Kayser, Asteria was not guarding her back. Two of Kayser's friends leaped into the circle, grabbed her arms, locking her elbows, holding her still, a stationary target. The warrant officer blasted his whistle to signal a foul, but the Aristos ignored him. "Hah!" Kayser leaped forward, his arm drawn back for a sharp blow—

  From the metal belt beneath her tunic, a wave of strength shot into Asteria. She wrenched her arms down, breaking the boys' hold on her, then swung her hands up, stunning both of the young Aristos—and it had happened so fast that Kayser still had not connected. With a strange detachment, as though she had stepped out of her own body, Asteria pivoted to her left, seized Kayser's thrusting wrist with both of her hands, and pulled as he put all his force into the useless blow. A second later, he lay sprawled on the floor, outside the circle, facedown and momentarily silent.

  "My lord," the warrant officer said, lowering his whistle, "this is the second time your opponent forced you from the ring. You lose."

  Shaking his head, his face scarlet with fury, Kayser pushed himself to his knees and then rose to his feet. He turned on his two friends, turning his anger on them. "Stupid! You were supposed to help me!" He spun around and strode off toward the men's showers.

  "My lord," the instructor called after him, "class is not over."

  "It is for me," Kayser shot back, not bothering to look around. The two boys who had grabbed Asteria—their name tapes identified them as Broyden and Gull—writhed in an agony of indecision, taking a step as though to follow their retreating leader but then losing their nerve and remaining with the class, their heads down, not meeting anyone's gaze.

  His face devoid of expression, the instructor said, "Take a demerit each, Broyden, Gull. Tell Lord Mastral that he is to take one demerit for leaving class early. The rest of you, note that Locke did not raise a protest, as she was permitted to do. I like that kind of initiative. As for you, probationary Cadet Locke, you have good speed, but you must learn to anticipate your enemy's moves. In actual combat, being fully aware of what is happening behind you as well as in front of you might make the difference between life and death. Remember that."

  Asteria nodded,
feeling like herself again. "I'll remember it."

  "Good. Broyden, team with Vanslav. Vanslav, you will be the attacker. In the ring, both of you. At my signal. Ready—"

  A few minutes after that bout—which ended in an inconclusive draw between the two Aristos—the class ended, and the cadets hurried off to the showers. On the way, Valesa Storm, a Commoner girl said very quietly to Asteria, "Good for you. But you made Lord Mastral look foolish."

  Bren Maddon, another Commoner from Asteria's barracks, nudged Valesa. "Shh. Not so loud." But she also whispered to Asteria, "You should watch your back from now on."

  "Thanks." After they had showered, the girls had to split up, heading for different classes.

  Kayser and his two friends were waiting as they left the gym. Kayser said, "Brought a bodyguard, Disaster?"

  "Just like you did," Asteria said. "Want to practice some bladehand?"

  Gull and Broyden took a step back, Gull murmuring, "Mastral, it's a court-martial offense to fight."

  "We're going to be late to class," Broyden whined.

  With his face flaming, Kayser said, "Who said anything about fighting? Why don't you go out for the War Games, Disaster? That's where breeding tells. Meet me in the games if you think you won't be humiliated. Let's go!"

  He and his two friends jogged away. Asteria felt someone touch her shoulder reassuringly, and Bren said, "Good luck, Aster."

  "Right," Valesa said with a smile. "We serfs have to hang together. Especially if we're Commoners. Let us know if you have any trouble with his lordship, and we'll find some way to make his life miserable."

  "I think I can handle that on my own," replied Asteria with a smile.

  seven

  Looking back later, Asteria found it amazing to think of how

  quickly she settled into the daily routine. At 0730, just after PT, the academic classes began: first orientation, then a fifteenminute jog to the next class, Empyrean History I, followed by a fifteen-minute jog to Introductory Mathematics, and finally a free study period, forty-five minutes when the cadets could catch their breath and even talk to one another.

  At 1130 came Language Arts; then at 1230 the midday meal (no talking, and you ate what you were served). Afternoon classes began at 1300 with Introductory Biology and continued with Basic Military Organization, Physics, another free study period, and then the day wound up with Alien Life.

  Free time—during which cadets were expected to pursue "recreation and constructive activities" or more frequently to pay off any demerits by service on demanding work details— began most days at 1700 and ended at 1800, when they had the evening meal. Finally, at 1845, the cadets were released to their own devices to study, attend meetings of student organizations, send messages home, or simply collapse. They were as free as they could expect to be at the Academy until lights out at 2330. Then they could hope to grab seven and one half hours of sleep before it all began again.

  That was the routine for six days out of the week. The fourth and eighth days were given over to athletics, social gatherings, and frantic studying to get ready for the next set of classes. Everyone soon wore a haggard look, including Asteria.

  She made no truly close friends. The Aristo girls wouldn't have anything to do with her, and most of the Commoner girls in her barracks had different interests and class schedules. In fact, she really got to know only three of the girls at all well: Valesa Storm, Gala Takeen, and Bren Maddon. Valesa was the only other Commoner girl who had signed up for pilot training. Bala wanted to qualify as a ship's engineer, and Bren was headed for Medical Services. They seemed to like Asteria well enough, but they talked of people and events that Asteria had never even heard of. In the end, Asteria told herself that loneliness was okay. It kept her focused. She wasn't here to socialize.

  Unfortunately, Kain Kayser, Count Mastral, was in Asteria's PT class and in two of her other classes. Unlike the other Aristos, he didn't ignore her. Instead he reserved a special kind of cold dislike for her. Not that he ever actually did anything overt—at least nothing that she could definitely blame him for, anyway. But when her equipment was improperly stored ("Three centimeters too close to the front edge of the shelf, Cadet Locke. Take a demerit!"), he was the one who gave her a mocking smirk. And she noticed that in PT he took some care never to be partnered with her in defense training—though he sent his two friends up against her several times. She dealt with them easily enough, but every time they sparred, she noticed how closely Kayser studied her moves.

  "He's planning something," Dai warned her when she mentioned this. "His branch of the royal family is made up of schemers and plotters. I know about some of them, because they run the mining operations in the Larenyi asteroid chains—a royal exclusive, you know—so they're rich, but they never think they're rich enough."

  Asteria sniffed. "They may be rich, but they're certainly not any good at hand-to-hand combat." Besides, she didn't care. When she sparred with them, all she imagined was fighting against Raiders.

  Dai shrugged. "A knife in the back is sneakier than bladehand, but it's a lot more painful."

  "He challenged me to fight him in the War Games," Asteria confided.

  "You going to?" Dai asked.

  "I haven't made up my mind."

  "I've signed up," Dai said. "If you're going to do it, deadline is next midbreak."

  "I'll think about it. But if I do, Kayser will just think he goaded me into it."

  "Let him." Then, grudgingly, Dai added, "I wish his lordship would wash out, but I guess there's no chance of that. He's smart."

  Thinking of the special treatment some people seemed to expect—and get—Asteria said scornfully, "He's an Aristo."

  "Doesn't make any difference," Dai insisted. "He's carrying a high three right now. Four's the top score. You don't score a

  3.7 if you're stupid."

  Asteria wasn't fully convinced—virtually all the instructors at the Academy were Commoners, though commissioned officers—and she had seen how deferential they were to Kayser and his peers both inside and outside of class. It wasn't too hard to imagine that now and then the Aristocrats who needed a few extra points got them.

  "You'd think that I'd be able to use the extra day of the week to get an edge on him," Asteria said, half to herself. "The week on Theron is Earth Standard, seven days."

  Dai laughed. "No one even knows where Earth is anymore," he said. "The first colonists lost track of it five thousand years ago! Why should a week be seven days?"

  "It's just what I'm used to," Asteria said. "How long were the weeks on Hovia?"

  "We didn't have weeks," he said. "Just days. They started every year with 1 and went to the last day of the year, 402."

  Valesa Storm joined them. "We had seven-day weeks on my world, Spar," she said. "Just like on Coriam. That's supposed to be the most Earth-like planet in the Empyrion. I suppose that's why they kept the old Standard seven-day week." She smiled. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

  "You're not interrupting," replied Dai with a sigh. "We're all serfs together, right?"

  "Right," Valesa said. "Only I don't know how much longer I can stay here. At least not in pilot training. The math is more than I can get." She glanced down at the pulsebook in her hands, frowning.

  "What's the problem?" he asked. "Here, let me see…oh, these are vectors. Let me show you how to do this one, and you'll catch on." He bent over her screen. Asteria gazed at the top of his red head and wondered how he could make friends so easily. At times she ached for friendship—she had to admit it—but somehow she didn't have the knack. Back home on Theron, there had been no need for friends; she'd had Andre and her father. But thinking of them only made her ache more.

  * * *

  The two off days of the eight-day week were Day 4—midbreak, when the afternoons were free—and Day 8, weekbreak, a whole day without classes or duties. On Day 7, each cadet received grades for performance in class. The highest possible grade was 4.0; anything below 2.0 was failing; and the cruc
ial average was 2.5, which would guarantee that a student would not wash out and would allow—eventually—the cadet to receive a few freedoms.

  Asteria learned very quickly about the God of 2.5, another statue. It stood at the heart of the campus, on a small island in the center of a round reflecting pool. The nearby buildings were the oldest still standing on campus, some of them constructed more than a thousand years ago. Time had softened their outlines, and vines had crept over their walls until they looked like square, green hills. The pool shimmered like a liquid mirror, reflecting the blue sky.

  The statue, made of some dark, eroded stone, was that of the founder of the Academy, His Most Highness Empyrator Sun Volas Kyseros the Fourth, whose ancient ancestors were said to have come from the legendary planet of Earth. He had given the order to organize a special school for educating spacefarers (all students had to be Aristos back then, but that was thousands of years ago). His likeness probably had appeared commanding and regal when new, but after several millennia of weathering, his expression looked grumpy and faintly anxious, like a man suffering from constipation. (Or so Asteria thought with a grin whenever she walked past him.)