Martin braced himself, mentally. There was a long moment of nothingness, then he felt a wash of sensations and emotions so strong he almost lost control of himself. His tongue tingled, then seemed to taste every flavour he could imagine; his nose smelled honey, then something so awful he was nearly sick. A flush of lust struck him, then vanished before he could quite grasp what it had been. Lights flashed through his closed eyelids, then absolute darkness descended on him.
“Testing complete,” SMOKEY informed him. “Your implants have bedded in successfully.”
“I feel sweaty,” Martin said. “Is that normal?”
“Yes,” SMOKEY said. “You will require a shower before you return to your barracks.”
Martin swallowed. “I ... I haven’t wet myself, have I?”
“No,” the AI said. “Now, pay attention. These are the first lessons you must learn.”
The implant user interface seemed to spring up in front of his eyes. Martin stared at it, then listened carefully as SMOKEY instructed him how to merge his thoughts into the interface and take control of his implants. The AI was a far more patient teacher than anyone he’d known on Earth, he decided, after the third set of mistakes. It made him staggeringly angry to realise just how much had been denied to the children of Earth, purely because their teachers were scared of losing their jobs. What would he have become if he’d had a teacher as patient as the AI when he’d been a child?
It grew worse as the AI showed him how to draw information from the datanet. “Everything is catalogued in the official encyclopaedias,” SMOKEY informed him. The torrent of information was mind-blowing. “You will need to be careful, however, with information from the wide-ranging datanet. Not all of it is reliable.”
Martin blinked. “Why not?”
“Everyone with a set of implants can create a website on the datanet,” SMOKEY said. There was a hint of amusement in its tone. “They can say anything they like, as long as it doesn't contravene libel and slander laws. They could even tell you that the correct way to address your Drill Sergeant is Hey, Fatty!”
“I think Sergeant Bass would kill anyone who addressed him like that,” Martin said. “How do you check what you’re being told?”
“Carefully,” SMOKEY said.
There was a hint of a shrug. “You have an unregistered email account for messages, but you will be under standard communications restriction until you pass the first set of tests,” the AI added. “Once you complete those tests, you will be able to send messages anywhere within human space, free of charge. You may even write back to your family, if you wish.”
“Not fucking likely,” Martin muttered.
“You may also look for pen-friends online,” SMOKEY said. “However, please be aware that anyone can present themselves as anyone on the datanet. The only way to confirm someone’s ID is to use a registered account. There’s a ten-dollar fee for establishing such an account and verifying your identity, but it is often worth it in the long run.”
“Because the hot little honey you’ve been talking to online might actually be a fat forty-year-old man,” Martin guessed.
“Correct,” SMOKEY said. “And because it also strengthens your online reputation. You gain additional credit for speaking under your own name.”
“I see, I think,” Martin said.
“Spamming the datanet and/or uploading viral infection files will result in harsh penalties,” SMOKEY warned. “You may also be called upon to prove any potentially libellous statements you make online. Failing to do so may also mean harsh penalties.”
There was a pause. “And now the next set of functions ...”
It felt like hours before SMOKEY finally finished telling him everything his implants could do. Martin felt tired, yet somehow as active as always; the sensation was so strange he was half-convinced he was enduring a very lurid dream. But he also felt angry at just how much had been denied to him on Earth. How many hours had he wasted trying to memorise some useless fact or enduring pointless lectures on social justice? And would he have given up on school so completely if the teachers had made it enjoyable?
“You will hear from me again,” SMOKEY promised. “But I won’t be doing your homework for you.”
“Of course not,” Martin said. “I ... how do I wake up?”
His body jerked. The field had vanished. He opened his eyes and sat upright. His body was drenched in sweat, but otherwise unharmed. And ... he looked over towards the doctor, puzzled. How long had he been lying on the bed?
“You were there for twenty minutes,” the doctor said, before he could ask. “Time seems to speed up during calibration.”
“Oh,” Martin said. “It felt as though it took hours.”
“It always does,” the doctor said.
He met Martin’s eyes, warningly. “I have also injected a standard basic nanotech package into your body,” he said. “They have a long list of functions, all available via your implants, but the most important one right now is they will assist you in surviving extraterrestrial environments. You can now eat just about anything edible without needing to worry about taste, let alone anything else. ET food that is anything, but completely poisonous will be safe to eat.”
“I bet it still has problems with food from the mess,” Martin groused.
“That was funny the first time I heard it,” the doctor informed him, sternly. “If I had a dollar for every recruit who said something like it, I’d be a wealthy man.”
“Sorry, sir,” Martin mumbled.
“You shouldn't have any problems with either the implants or the nanotech,” the doctor said, “but you’re barred from leaving the asteroid for at least a week. I may wish to check the adjustments to your biochemistry before you leave.”
“I can't leave,” Martin reminded him.
“You never know,” the doctor said. “And I have always taken nothing but the most careful precautions in dealing with my patients.”
Martin swung his legs over the side of the bed and tried to stand up. “What now?”
“Now? You go for a shower, then report to your barracks and sleep,” the doctor said. “Your sergeant will want to resume heavy training tomorrow, I suspect.”
He pointed to a hatch at the far side of the compartment. “Shower is through there,” he added, as Martin picked up his clothes. “Once you’re washed, walk through the other hatch – this one will be locked – and return to your barracks. The implants will show you the way.”
“Yes, sir,” Martin said.
“Two words of advice,” the doctor added. “You grew up on Earth, so you won’t have had time to grow into your implants, unlike our children. It's easy to become immersed in your implants, to download VR productions and lose yourself inside them. I strongly advise you to restrict your access to the outside datanet, even after you pass the first set of exams. You do not want to waste away in a fantasy world.”
“I see, I think,” Martin said. “And the other word of advice?”
“It is considered rude – very rude – to use your implants in front of another person,” the doctor warned. “Do not send messages or review data unless you have an urgent need to do so, because it will not look good. You’ll parse out the rest of the etiquette for yourself, given time, but bear that one in mind. And do not try to use your implants in front of the sergeants unless ordered to do so. They will be furious and you will have so many demerits they’ll push you over the line.”
Martin nodded. “I understand.”
“I doubt you do,” the doctor said. “You simply don’t have any real experience with using your implants. But in a few weeks, I think you will understand perfectly.”
“Yes, sir,” Martin said.
The doctor waved him towards the hatch. Martin walked through it, then stepped into the shower and washed himself thoroughly. His body still felt a little wobbly after the implantation, but somehow he managed to remain upright as warm water sluiced him down. It felt good to luxuriate after being held to a st
rict water ration in the barracks. Sergeant Bass had said it was meant to encourage discipline, but Martin had a private suspicion it was actually another way to make them uncomfortable.
The girls bitch about it more than the boys, he thought, as he turned off the water and dried himself. They think they should have longer showers.
Once, he would have laughed. Now, he thought he understood their point. He had never really appreciated being clean until he’d been told he could only shower for a minute each day.
As he dressed, he checked the address book loaded into his implants. There were only a handful of names, all belonging to the members of Recruit Company #42. He smiled suddenly as he spotted Yolanda’s name, then sent her a quick message. Moments later, her reply popped up in front of him. It was easy to see how distracting the technology could be, in the wrong hands. But then, they were being taught discipline too ...
Or maybe we have to learn it for ourselves, he thought. Bass had made no bones about the training program, warning them that they would have to sink or swim. There were no allowances made for anyone, no matter what excuse they offered. And if we fail, better we fail now.
Chapter Seven
Emigration figures published today by the Greek Government stated that nearly 400’000 Greeks had left Greece over the previous year, mostly to the Solar Union. Long-term projections for Greece indicate that the country’s population will no longer be a Greek majority within five years, perhaps less. These figures are in line with similar figures from other European states.
-Solar News Network, Year 51
“These implants are wonderful,” Yolanda said, as she walked with Martin into the Lecture Hall. “I can download anything I want to know.”
“It’s brilliant,” Martin agreed. He didn't share her fondness for pure information, information without any practical value, but he’d definitely mastered using his implants. “And I wish I’d had it on Earth.”
Yolanda couldn't help, but agree. She’d hoped to win one of the scholarships that weren't entirely useless, yet she’d practically worked herself to death to pass the worthless tests that served as the barrier between her and more useful education. And she’d worked herself so hard she’d failed the tests and lost her chance at escaping her life, without leaving Earth behind. After that, the Solar Union had been the only remaining choice.
“Me too,” she said.
She sat down, feeling her body aching, despite the nanotech. Sergeant Bass had been in a foul mood for the last week, handing out demerits for every little mistake made by his recruits. Yolanda had picked up two and found herself forced to exercise for hours, before the demerits were taken off her record. Martin had actually wound up with five, two of which he had yet to work off. She could only hope he’d have time to handle them before the sergeant hammered him with yet more demerits.
“This should be interesting,” Martin said, clearly trying to cheer her up. “Scudder is always an interesting talker, isn't he? I wish I’d had a tutor like him at school.”
“He would have been removed,” Dennis Crawford said, sitting down on the other side of Martin. “He keeps telling us awkward truths.”
Yolanda opened her mouth to agree, then stopped herself as Professor Fritz Scudder stepped into the hall. This time, his skin was pale white, while his hair was brown and his eyes were brilliant green. The first time she’d seen him change his skin colour, she’d been astonished, even though she understood that nanotech could produce all kinds of cosmetic changes. It had taken her several weeks to understand the unspoken lesson, that it was what was inside that counted in the Solar Union. What was the point of anything like the cursed Ethnic Entitlement Cards when a person’s ethnicity could change in an hour?
“Greetings,” Scudder said. Even his voice was different. “Today’s topic is divide and rule, as practiced by the politicians on Earth. As always, if any of you want to leave, the hatch is over there. Please go now to avoid disrupting the lesson.”
He paused, but no one left. The ones who had stayed for the first lesson had decided to make time for the others, even though there was no shortage of work to do elsewhere. Yolanda agreed with them completely; Scudder, whatever his faults, was a brilliant teacher. It helped that no one had to endure his classes unless they wanted to sit through them.
“Racism is one of those words that has become appropriated by the wrong kind of people,” Scudder said, by way of introduction. “On Earth, the word has become a weapon. A person accused of being racist – of believing that one race is inherently superior to another – will automatically scramble to defend himself, all-too-aware that it is impossible to prove a negative. Where normally one must be proven guilty, the society created and maintained by the so-called Social Justice Warriors insists that a person proves himself innocent of racism.”
Yolanda understood. If someone couldn't clear their name – and it was impossible to prove they didn’t harbour racist thoughts – it would follow them for the rest of their lives.
“This is, frankly, absurd,” Scudder continued. “There is no basic difference between the different races that make up humanity. Indeed, even the term race is absurd, particularly now. There are hundreds of intelligent races, all very far from human, known to exist. To draw lines between different kinds of human is not only absurd, but dangerous. However, as racism is a powerful tool of social control, I do not expect it to be abandoned any time soon.”
He paused, then went on. “Humans mentally divide themselves into groups,” he explained. “I believe you have jousted with Recruit Company #43? You will have seen them as a vast hive mind, as the only time you meet them is on the training ground. But you will see yourselves as a mob of individuals. Some of you like spending your free time, such as it is, playing SpaceBall, while others prefer to study their textbooks and read around the subjects discussed in class. A few of you even like reading for this class.”
Yolanda blushed as Martin elbowed her, gently.
“This leads to a second issue,” Scudder continued. “You will not blame all of your fellow recruits for mistakes or crimes committed by one of you. But you will start to suspect everyone in Recruit Company #43 of being thieves, if one of them starts to steal from you. You simply don’t know them well enough to treat them as individuals.”
“I bet he’s telling them we’re thieves,” Martin muttered to Yolanda.
Scudder speared him with his gaze. “Would you care to offer an insight, Recruit Douglas, or are you merely trying to disrupt the class?”
Martin reddened. “I ... it’s skin colour, isn't it?”
“Carry on,” Scudder said.
“On Earth, white folk judged all black folk by the thugs and gangbangers they saw on television,” Martin said. “And black folk judged white folk by the bad apples they met.”
“You are essentially correct,” Scudder said. “I would merely add that people tend to remember a slap longer than a caress. A single black mugger might colour a person’s opinions more than a hundred decent folk. Or, as you say, vice versa.”
Vivian raised a hand. “But surely people know better, sir.”
“You're confusing emotions with intellect,” Scudder said. “A person’s emotional reaction governs them more than their intellectual thoughts. Someone who had been raised to be suspicious of black men might know better, but be unable to prevent themselves from allowing their emotions to lead them astray.”
He took a breath. “I told you that the title of this lecture was divide and rule,” he reminded them. “What does race – and all the other pettifogging ways there are of drawing lines between human groups – have to do with dividing and ruling?”
Yolanda knew the answer to that. “They set one group up against another,” she said. “No; they set all groups up against the others. And, because of it, they keep themselves in power.”
“Precisely,” Scudder said.
“Let me start with a simple example. The Social Justice Warriors noted – perhaps correctly �
�� that blacks were underrepresented in various government agencies. They argued that the police forces of America, for example, needed more black policemen. It would make it easier – and perhaps they were right – to police black communities if the policemen were black. And so, with the best possible intentions, they started to insist that police ranks be ethnically diverse – and not just diverse, but in proportion to the ethnic makeup of the population.
“On the face of it, this seemed like a good idea. Can any of you tell me what went wrong?”
“The policemen were attacked by their own communities,” Martin said.
“That was one result, yes,” Scudder agreed. “Any others?”
“The police resented it,” Yolanda said. It wasn't a guess. She’d studied race intensely after realising there was no ethnic group for her. “And they didn't recruit good officers.”
A Learning Experience 2: Hard Lessons Page 7