Flight of the Outcast

by Brad Strickland

  "Yeah, me too. Gold Team would never have been in the running if it hadn't been for your victories earlier. And congratulations to you, too, on escaping from Vodros' clutches," Dai said. He leaned back and stared up at Coriam, as if gazing in scorn on all Aristos everywhere. "I know one thing for certain. If I ever get to be commander in chief, the first general order I'm going to issue is that in the Royal Space Fleet, there will be no further discrimination against Commoners."

  "They won't let a Commoner become commander in chief," Asteria reminded him.

  "See what I mean?" wailed Dai, spreading his arms to the sky, as though imploring the stars. "Discrimination!"

  * * *

  The next twelve days passed rapidly, a welcome break in the routine of the Academy. The whole school hung on the War Games, tension building with each round. The second-year teams faced more intricate tactical situations than the first-year teams had confronted; the third-years were able to use more advanced simulated weapons and larger training craft, and the fourth-years actually got to fight in space. The senior class cadets did not fly in single-pilot craft like the first-years, or small strike vessels with crews of six like second-years, or even destroyers like the third-years—but in full battleships, each with a crew of twenty-five to thirty.

  It was true that the battleships were only simulators—a real cruiser would have a crew of a hundred or more, not just twentyfive cadets and a gaggle of Cybots, each Cybot taking the place of twenty humans. Still, the ships were almost full-sized, and on the holos, their maneuvers and firepower were almost as impressive. Watching them, Asteria yearned to be at the controls of one of those big warbirds—or better, handling a real one. Going against real enemies. Against Tetras.

  Against Raiders. Against those who had destroyed her family.

  The fourth-year victors were Team Galaxy. They successfully defended an asteroid (standing in for an outpost planet) against a deadly wave of simulated Tetra needle-ships—larger than lifesized, because a human could not fit in one of the tiny Tetra craft. The Academy gave the cadets one whole day of celebration— and the very next day, it was back to the grind.

  In the meantime, Asteria became keenly aware that Kain Kayser was a smoldering volcano waiting to erupt. When his claim of having been fouled was summarily rejected by the judges—even after his uncle had demanded a reconsideration of the judgment— Kayser clearly had developed a brand-new grudge against Dai. And just as clearly, he still nurtured the old one against Asteria, ignoring the uneasy truce he had agreed to. In the common room one evening, he loudly argued with his cronies that Commoners should not even be permitted to enroll at the Academy.

  "Their brains aren't developed," he had said. "They don't have the capacity to absorb and retain information that an Aristocrat does. Oh, I'll grant you they have a kind of animal cunning. They can do things like trick their way into the Academy when they don't have any right to be here."

  "They can also beat you at piloting," Helene called across the room.

  Kayser gave her a sour look. "You're an Aristocrat, though a low-ranking one, and you were the one who shot me down," he said. "The Commoner just got in my way, that's all. Anyway, I hear that the results of the War Games might not count. An admiral is looking into an irregular substitution. The whole last game probably will be voided."

  "What admiral is it? Your uncle?" Asteria asked him.

  Kayser ignored her and turned back to his friends, dropping his voice and muttering. But they looked at her and laughed nastily.

  Don't let yourself get mad, Asteria told herself. Another few weeks, final examinations, and then you're in space for the whole summer. Don't risk it. Don't get mad.

  Because she had a secret to protect. If she could manage it, her summer in space wouldn't just be a round of observing. She would somehow get into a real fighting ship. And then—

  She imagined a Raider ship in her sights: not just any ship, but the one she had seen leaving the shattered agridome. The one that had carried the ones who had killed her cousin and her father. She itched to open fire—

  No. Best not to think about it yet. Later, there would be time. But she had to make sure that she did nothing that might disqualify her from summer space duty.

  Still, it was getting harder and harder to control her temper. She kept a lid on it with difficulty, but the pressure built up. It drove her to push herself even harder. Physically, she was in the best shape of her life, bench-pressing fifty-six Standard kilos, able to run eight kilometers without pausing, knocking down top marks in every PT test. With Dai's help, she struggled through chemistry. She slowly managed to improve, notching her first 3.0 grades in the last part of spring term. Her overall average crept up too; sheer stubbornness prevented her from scoring anything lower than a three. She and Kayser were tied at 3.6. It wasn't the highest average in the class—at least half a dozen others had better ones—but she didn't care about being first, just about being better than Kayser.

  Her best class was flight training. She had a 3.9 there, while Kayser was stuck at 3.7. He complained constantly about not being treated fairly—though Dai maintained that the flight instructors always bent the rules for him—and insisted on three tries before finally conceding that he could not match Asteria's time in a speed trial. Still, he claimed that the fault was mechanical; his trainer, he said, had a defective drive.

  That should have been a triumph for Asteria, but all the effort she was putting into classes was wearing her down. She always felt starved for sleep, and the bad temper that she kept from showing around Kayser seemed to bubble up in other ways.

  One evening as five of the Bronze 1 Commoners were reviewing for a chem exam, Dai patiently explained—for the third time—covalent bonding.

  "I still don't understand the concept," Asteria said.

  Bren leaned forward. "It's a negative-to-positive stable attraction—"

  "I didn't ask you!" snapped Asteria. "Dai's the one with the

  4.0 chem average!" Bren flinched. "Sorry." Dai quickly tried to smooth things over: "I guess I'm better at understanding it than explaining it. Okay, Bren's right about the stability."

  Asteria felt a dull ache. The pain in Bren's eyes hurt her too. Asteria was too ashamed of herself even to apologize. And then at the next midbreak, while she and Dai were playing an informal game of netball, she scored two points in quick succession and lashed out at Dai for laughing about it.

  "You're losing!" she reminded him, throwing her racquet down.

  "Hey, it's only a game!" he protested.

  She stamped her foot. "If you don't take it seriously, what's the point of even playing?"

  He shot back, "If you take it all that seriously, it stops being a game. Come on, Aster, I'm not Mastral."

  "Sorry," she said grudgingly. She bent over to pick up her racquet. "Go ahead, serve."

  Added to her stress was a worry that she shared with no one: The belt around her waist was…different. It had been made of flat links; somehow the metal had flowed together, and now it was a smooth but flexible band around her stomach, four inches wide. And it felt different too: still tough and resistant, but somehow pliant, as if it were alive. She dreamed about it some nights, dreamed that it spoke to her. Or questioned her: "What do you need?"

  What in the universe had Carlson Locke stored away? Alien tech, someone had suggested. Was the belt something made by the Tetras? Was it dangerous?

  Was it changing?

  Was it changing her?

  At times, she would have sworn that it was. Especially when she was encased in the trainer, executing a tricky maneuver or straining for speed. She could feel energy surging in the belt, shooting into her when she needed an extra edge, faster reflexes, and a burst of strength. Nobody could touch her in the physical defense classes now—she held the champion slot and had a perfect score, 4.0, in hand-to-hand. When an attacker came toward her, she had the oddest sensation of entering some physical zone that was far removed from everyday life. She perceived
the opponent as moving in slow motion, at half speed. She had all the time she needed to ward off a blow, catch the opponent off-balance, and get through his or her defenses.

  And she thought all those…advantages…were streaming from the belt. As if it plugged into her nervous and muscular systems, the way she plugged into the trainer, and boosted her abilities.

  Afterward, she was always ravenously hungry. The meals in the mess hall had not improved, but she wolfed down the bland, tasteless food nevertheless. When her weight began to fall, the Cybots in charge of the mess hall started giving her a little extra at each meal—Dai claimed they were punishing her—and she had to report to sick bay for a metabolism analysis. Still, the medical Cybot could find nothing wrong with her except that she was revved a little higher than most girls her age. Vitamins and a slightly increased food ration were the only treatments it prescribed.

  Somehow, she held it all together for several weeks. But she had the feeling that if Kayser didn't let up in his constant hectoring and harassment, one day she would lose it.

  thirteen

  Locke," the PT instructor said, "partner with Lord Mastral."

  "Are you kidding?" Kayser spat, scowling.

  The self-defense class was being held outside; the day was unseasonably warm. They were playing a game of capture the beacon. Not only did the two opposing sides have to fight each other individually in hand-to-hand combat, but they had to work as teams—each team trying to defend its own flashing beacon and prevent the other team from switching it off.

  "My lord," the instructor said calmly, "you haven't faced her all term. You must have a designated opponent—"

  "I've hurt my ankle," Kayser claimed in an annoyed voice. "Disaster has a grudge against me. Everyone knows that. I can't fight her with my weak ankle. She'd deliberately try to injure me."

  The instructor looked at him with no expression. "I received no notification of your injury from the med staff, my lord. But I will take your word for it. Very well. You can sit out—"

  "No, I want to play. Because I can't run, I'll be the goal defender instead," Kayser said. "You'll have to let me use a borral stick, though. Because of my ankle."

  "No fair!" Santos Markand, the beacon guard on Asteria's side, objected. "If he gets to use a borral, I do too!" Borral sticks were long, double-headed clubs, the heads padded. They were never used in unarmed combat practice.

  "There will be no weapons," the instructor said firmly. "The rules of this game allow open-hand combat only. Very well, my lord, you may defend your side's beacon. Vanyon, switch places with Count Mastral and partner with Locke. Everyone set? Good. Onto your own side of the field and take your starting positions. At my signal. Ready?" He whistled shrilly, and the two sides clashed in the middle of the field.

  Asteria had fought Vanyon before, a slim guy who did not flaunt his Aristo background—and who had a healthy respect for Asteria's speed and strength. Vanyon didn't press an attack, and he didn't defend with much enthusiasm, though he blocked and delayed her when she tried to break away to reach the other side's goal. Vanyon clearly wasn't interested in a real fight, just in a stalemate of dodging and weaving.

  Very well, Asteria decided. She would accommodate him. She led him halfway around the field, picking up the pace. Vanyon tired before she did. Choosing her moment, Asteria faked him out of position, broke for the enemy beacon, and weaved her way through fighting pairs. Vanyon ran after her, too slow to catch up. Moving in front of the goal to block her, Kayser screamed, "You idiot! Stop her! Don't let her get through!"

  Vanyon desperately threw himself forward and grabbed her ankle, tripping her. As she toppled forward, Asteria tucked her shoulder in and rolled, feeling the now-familiar jolt of power from the belt, sensing the weird slowing of time. She saw and heard with a new clarity: colors and sounds were intense, distinct. It was as if her senses had been sharpened tenfold. She turned her fall into a controlled maneuver, tumbled forward, bounded up again onto her feet, and caught Vanyon with a sidelong blow, sending him sprawling. She spun to confront a white-faced Kayser. He crouched—he had learned long ago that bladehand was not a good approach against her, and he settled into a wary defensive posture.

  She circled him, planning her move. The beacon, a flashing red light atop a thin mast, was within reach. Vanyon was scrambling up, now behind Kayser from her vantage point.

  "Get her, stop her, help me!" Kayser growled over his shoulder.

  Asteria feinted left, moved right, and almost got past Kayser—and then felt a sudden painful shock that thrummed through her whole body and made her muscles seize up momentarily. Kayser had palmed a small stunner, and he had shot her. The charge should have knocked her off her feet; but something—an adrenaline rush, the belt she wore, something— sent a wave of fierce energy through her body, and she recovered almost instantly.

  In that instant, she forgot about the beacon. Lumbering, panting, Vanyon charged in, and she used a hasty pivot throw to put him down. This time, he landed on his back so hard that the breath chuffed out of him. He did not look as though he were in a hurry to rise again.

  Everything was moving so slowly. Stop it, stop it, Asteria told herself. It's just a game. He's not a real threat!

  But she felt as if she were about to lose control. Under her singlet, a strange sensation crept all along her torso. Then Kayser lunged forward and shot her again in the solar plexus—but the belt had grown beneath her singlet and now covered her skin right up to the neck. Somehow it absorbed the energy beam, and she barely felt it, just a mild tingling. Don't hurt him. Don't! she warned herself as she darted toward Kayser.

  "My ankle!" Kayser yelped, leaping back as she moved toward him. He raised the stunner, but it had not recharged.

  Asteria waded in past his defenses, seized his wrist, spun him, and twisted until he dropped the weapon. He writhed in her grasp, screaming, "Foul! Foul! She's hurting my ankle!"

  Another opponent tried to intervene. With her free hand, Asteria blocked the attacker's two blows, and then she delivered a sudden thrust that took the wind out of him. She let go of Kayser's wrist, and when he tried to stumble away from her, she seized him and used his momentum to throw him facedown in the grass. He skidded on his stomach, yelping in surprise and outrage. She reached up, switched off the beacon—

  The world returned to normal. She heard for the first time the angry shrieking blasts of the instructor's whistle.

  Her side was cheering.

  Kayser rolled over and lay on his side, holding his ankle and groaning piteously. Asteria looked for the stunner he had smuggled into the game and didn't see it, but Gull was standing in the general area where it had been dropped.

  "Get up, my lord," the instructor said, coming toward them, his expression serious. "Walk it off."

  "She tried to break my weak ankle!" shouted Kayser, pointing at Asteria with a shaking finger. "She's a Commoner! They're not supposed to lay hands on us!"

  "There's an exception for physical training," the instructor said, crouching beside him. He said dryly, "With your permission, my lord." Then he gingerly felt Kayser's ankle. The fallen cadet whimpered as he did so. "No broken bones that I can feel, but if it hurts that badly, let's make sure. Gull, help Lord Mastral to sick bay to have his ankle checked. Locke, you could have moved past him without that last throw. Take a demerit."

  "No," she said. "He cheated. He had a weapon."

  "She's lying!" Kayser shouted. "The lying little—"

  "Silence!" roared the instructor. "Can anyone verify that? Who was closest?"

  "I, uh, I didn't see a weapon," Vanyon said hastily.

  "It was a mini stunner," Asteria said. "He shot me twice."

  "If I'd done that, she wouldn't be standing," Kayser insisted. "She broke the rules, not me!"

  "He has a point, Locke," the instructor said. "No one could take two close-range stunner hits and stay on her feet. Don't argue with me. Congratulations on your win, but the demerit stays. You're finished for
the day. Go shower. The rest of you, form up."

  Alone in the echoing shower room, Asteria stripped off her PT uniform and saw that the belt had returned to normal: just a broad silver circlet, not some weird kind of beam-absorbing body armor. She stepped under the shower and lathered herself with soap. Then, fiercely, she tried to shove the belt down, over her hips, so she would be free of it. It refused to budge. She wriggled and pushed harder and didn't give up until she was panting with effort.

  "All right," she muttered. "Stay there." She rinsed, dried, and got dressed, not really knowing if she were more pleased or upset that the belt was on for good.

  * * *

  Asteria wasn't too surprised to be summoned back to Vice Admiral Chen's office that afternoon. The Admiral said, "I have another formal complaint against you, Cadet."

  "From Rear Admiral Vodros?" asked Asteria, fighting to remain composed.

  "No, not this time. From Count Mastral's father, Earl Kayser. He alleges that you deliberately attacked his son, though Lord Mastral was suffering from an injury at the time. He reminds me that it is a major offense for a Commoner to strike an Aristocrat. I want to hear your side of the story. Tell me the circumstances."