by Kalina, Mark
---
When she had first arrived at the Academy, Zandy had feared the disdain and derision that she might catch for coming from a residence zone, but it turned out that there wasn't much of that. What comments she did hear, mostly to the effect that the Fleet was wasting its time with her and others like her, came from only a few of the other cadets. Still, there had been one incident that had shocked Zandy, more for what she learned from it than from the insults themselves. It had started with another cadet, weighing in on the residence zones and the cadets who came from them.
"The zones are a dumping grounds, a trash-lot for humans... And the humans that come from there are trash," said the dark-haired cadet. His family name was "Stane." Zandy could not, just now, remember his first name.
Stane smiled at her sudden stillness and went on. "Every planet gets a surplus of non-productive proles, parasites. Not good for anything. Can't make any use out of 'em, so they shove 'em into residence zones. But I think it's pretty stupid to let the trash out of the zones and into the Fleet Academy like this. Bad policy... won't end well for the Hegemony."
Zandy could feel her face go stiff with rage. Her legs tensed to throw her at the other cadet; he was a demoi like her, but not from the residence zones, and dismissive of a residence-zoner like her. There were four other cadets in the compartment, taking the rare chance of an entire extra hour off from scheduled instruction to wait in line for access to the hydroponic garden on the Academy Station. That was a favorite place for cadets to pass free time, amid lush and colorful free-fall adapted plants. But the garden had a maximum occupancy rule, as well as a twenty minute time limit for those in the garden whenever the occupancy was maxed out.
The cadet who had insulted her was speaking mostly for the benefit of the others, showing off, maybe trying to gain a little status as a sharp wit. Zandy had heard negative comments about the residence zones before, but never directly aimed at her.
Some calculating part of Zandy's mind, still working despite her growing rage, thought she'd probably get the better of a fight. She was one of the better free-fall basketball players among the cadets in this tenkay's class. Her tormentor had free-fall training, all the cadets did, but she didn't think he'd be able to match her free-fall movement skills. Of course, that same calculating part of her was telling her that assaulting another cadet was just the sort of stupid move a residence zoner would be expected to pull, on her way to being kicked out of the Fleet Academy.
"What's the matter, zoner?" he asked, pitching his voice to be heard. "Didn't they teach you how to talk at those animal obedience schools you attended?"
"How does it feel, then?," Zandy managed to grind out, "to be behind a zoner like me in class ranking?"
A couple of the other cadets laughed.
"She's got you there, man," one said.
Stane's face went white. "You fucking bitch!" he shouted, and launched himself at her. His move was fast, but not as fast as what she had coped with before in the free-fall court. Zandy pivoted in place and kicked, spinning herself head over heels with practiced timing, floating just out of the way of the other cadet's ballistic rush and then, as she completed her spin and he bounced with painful force from the wall he had just run into, slamming both her feet into the his back. The force of the second impact sent her flying back into the compartment. The same force slammed him back into the wall a second time. Blood began to seep out from his nose, forming little crimson beads in free-fall.
"Cadet Neel, Cadet Stane." The instructor's voice was calm, forceful, formal. Instruction Officer Calwin Ishida was the very image of a Fleet officer, immaculate in his Formal Fleet Blacks, with a quarter of his tunic covered in gold rank, merit and qualifications glyphs. His face was dark-skinned and rugged, with narrow, slanting green eyes and a buzz-cut of pale blond hair.
"Sir," Stane said, "I was just--"
"No talking, Cadet Stane," the instructor said. "Fighting between cadets is strictly forbidden. Outside of unarmed combat practice, that is. Cadet Neel, next time you want to bloody another cadet's nose, that is the place to do it."
Ishida shifted his gaze away from Zandy, focused on Stane. "Cadet Stane," he said, "spare me your stupid excuses. This is going to be your only warning; first, last and only. Your direct provocation of Cadet Neel is unacceptable. Your losing your temper and trying to attack her is even more unacceptable. Your abject stupidity in thinking that the annex compartment was not being monitored... I mean, I assume you thought that-- or else you're lying about the incident, which is even stupider than I think..." Ishida paused.
"And," the instructor went on, "you started a fight you couldn't win, which is not really impressive either. The only reason you are still at the Academy is that your technical class rankings are quite good. On the other hand, Cadet Neel is correct about your standing in the navigation and tactics courses; you're substantially behind her there.
"You get one more chance, Stane, to show that this was some sort of temporary stupid-virus that your immune system failed to fight off. The next infraction, even if it's just being late by one second, or your uniform out of order, and you are done. Dismissed, Cadet Stane."
Stane held himself at attention, pivoted in place and pulled himself out of the compartment, grabbing the free-fall stanchion and throwing himself into the passway with barely controlled force.
"Now," Ishida said, "Cadet Neel. A pretty good move when he rushed you, but you'd have done better to stick to your free-fall combat training and not get fancy. Tell me, Cadet Neel, does what Cadet Stane said about you bother you?"
"Sir?"
"Does it bother you? Does it bother you that the residence zones are, in actual fact, a parking lot for surplus population that the Hegemony has no real use for?"
"Sir, I..."
"Because that is a fact, Cadet," Ishida said.
"Yes, sir," Zandy said, flat voiced.
"You don't agree, Cadet?"
"N... I'm not sure, sir."
"Let me make a few things clear. We are not going to coddle you just because you came from the residence zones, not even to the degree of a few nice words. If you are the sort who can't take the pressure of being insulted, if you think you need an official apology to sooth your wounded, disadvantaged, residence zone psyche, then you have no place at the Academy." Ishida looked at her as if expecting a reply.
Zandy was silent, floating at attention, trying to show nothing on her face.
"The residence zones," the instructor said, at length, "are a functional mechanism to contain excess population. That's the best that can be said for them, but that's enough. They are not, contrary to some well-meaning idiots, any sort of kindness to the people who live in them. They are not fair to the people who live in them, not to their benefit, and not any sort of indication of the generosity of the planetary or Central Throne governments towards the 'less advantaged.'
"However, they are better than the alternative, Cadet Neel, which would be a massive underclass of unskilled, easily manipulated people, left lying around like an explosive device for any number of 'liberation movements' or would-be demagogue 'people-power' strong-men. The residence zones suck in people who cannot cope with modern Hegemonic society. They make sure these people are fed, housed and carefully monitored to prevent gang rule and self-consuming violence. But that's just the decorative trim. The purpose of the structure is to remove those people from the reach of forces that could compromise the stability of a Hegemonic world. But it is surely unfair to the people who wind up being born in the zones, like you."
"Sir," Zandy said, not sure where this was going, feeling unsteady in free-fall for the first time in several thousand hours.
"However, you, Cadet Neel, are an example of why the zones work. Do you understand that?"
"Sir? No, Sir."
"That's OK, Neel. I'll explain. The purpose of the zones is to secure the population that would otherwise be a source of instability. We, that is to say the Hegemony, do that by parking them
in somewhat restricted locations and making sure that their lives are decent enough not to breed actual despair."
Ishida's eyes focused on Zandy's as he went on. "Nothing actually holds a zone resident in the zones, except that staying in the residence zone is the path of least resistance. There are no travel restrictions except simple economic ones, and minimal but adequate education is available in all of the zones.
"And what happens, Cadet Neel, is that the zones act as a filter. Individuals who are ill-suited to the static life in the zones move themselves out of that life.
"People with minimal ambition, especially ambition for power, are co-opted to manage the zones from within. They get minimal status, which is what they want, and the government gets to keep an eye on them, and restrain any abusive impulses they might have by threatening the loss of the status they so badly want.
"Others, people who are innately capable of something better... the individuals with high degrees of personal intelligence and initiative... they remove themselves from the residence zones entirely. They push past the limited, deliberate barriers that the zones are designed to put up. They get real educations, get real jobs, move into the normal Hegemonic economy and society.
"And, in rare, extreme cases, these people push so hard that they get a chance to make it into the elite, the aristokratai, by getting into a Service Academy." Ishida said, with a small smile. "Like you did."
---
Coming up on ten thousand hours, the great question for those that were left was Operational Specialty Training. The Fleet had dozens of basic jobs, hundreds of sub-specializations. For those that made it past Basic Selection, which was almost done now, the next phase of training would dedicate the cadets to doing one of those jobs.
Officially, any operational specialty was open to any cadet who qualified. Unofficially, the qualification courses that served as the final exam of Basic Selection tended to put most cadets into just a few specialties.
"Everyone knows you only get two real choices," said Lydia. The four cadets were in their room, relaxing in the hour before their scheduled sleep. Lydia was sitting in Gan's lap, with his hands idly caressing her shoulders. Phil was stretched out in his bunk already, though not asleep. There was little time to socialize apart from this. Zandy yawned and started to pull off her uniform.
"That's just rumors," she said.
"Reliable rumors," said Lydia. "Us demoi get two choices: interceptors or hoplites."
"Ah," said Gan with a wry grin. "It's a good thing I'm not a demos."
Zandy finished getting out of her clothes. The casual nudity barely registered for her anymore and the compartment was comfortably warm. She'd put on sleeping briefs if neither of the boys wanted sex... though it looked like Gan and Lydia had already paired off.
"I've heard the rumors," Zandy said. "Everyone has. Demoi have to go to interceptors or hoplites; the two specialties that need the most people."
"The two most dangerous ones," said Phil, with no disapproval in his voice. "The two that are most likely to get you killed."
"It's not actually true," said Gan. "There are demoi cadets who get into navigation, or engineering, or what have you. But it is rare."
"'Cause all you aristos have already filled up those slots," said Lydia, leaning back into Gan's embrace.
"More or less," said Gan. "Not me, mind. The smarter sort who pass their Examinations; the ones who elect Fleet service go straight to their Operational Specialty Training; no Basic Selection."
"So we get what they don't want?" said Zandy.
"That's the word," said Lydia.
"It's not official policy..." said Gan, sounding a bit apologetic.
"...It's just the way it works," finished Lydia for him.
"Makes sense," said Phil. "Aristos have influence."
"What about the ones who want hoplites or interceptors?" said Zandy.
"You mean the suicidal ones?" said Phil.
"It's not suicidal."
"It is dangerous."
"The whole Fleet is dangerous, Phil," said Zandy. "We're getting to the end of Basic Selection; if we don't wash out, they're going to run a million needles into our brains. Functionally, you're going to die when they do that."
"Functionally, I'm going to become a daemon. Biologically, this body is going to die, unless I can afford to get it fitted to be a biological avatar. But I'm not going to die."
"Right, but you can't say it's not dangerous."
"It's not really dangerous," said Gan. "Actually, I think it's a lot less dangerous than existing as a biological human."
"There are accidents," said Zandy. Her tone was light, but she suspected that her friends could hear the tension in her voice. She could not shake the fear of what was going to happen, and it was going to happen soon.
"There are accidents crossing a street, Zandy," said Gan. Zandy supposed that for him, becoming a daemon was something that couldn't happen soon enough.
"So which one are you going for, Zandy?" asked Lydia. "Interceptors or hoplites?"
"Assuming I score equally well for both in the qualification courses?"
"Assuming," said Lydia.
"Interceptors," said Zandy. "I want space duty."
"Hoplites get space duty," said Phil.
"Hoplites get dropped from orbit into places where people shoot at them," Zandy said.
"Right! And interceptors get fired at enemy warships. You know what they call interceptors in the Fleet: 'suicide-fighters.'"
"And they call hoplites 'cannon fodder.'"
"Fact is, most places hoplites get deployed, they're up against humans with hand weapons. I'd rather be in a three meter tall armored combat avatar, loaded with firepower, than inside a missile that's being fired at an enemy warship."
"Hell, Phil, if I'd wanted to be a ground pounder, I could have stayed planet-side," said Zandy. "So I suppose you're headed for hoplites?"
"I think I'd prefer it."
"If you get the choice."
"Actually, Phil," said Gan, "unless there's a war, interceptors are safer than hoplites."
"I know. But when is there not a war? I don't mean a big one, like against the Coalition. But fights with smaller powers? Single system nations? We're fighting someone just about all the time... annexations or rebellions or backing up some client state in a trade dispute." Phil shook his head. "All the time. Besides, I'm good at telestraal, and hoplites get the best training. And from hoplites I can shoot for Special Operations... who knows, maybe even the Silver Shields commandos, one day."
"The Silver Shields, huh?" said Gan. "The ultimate elite, 'best of the best...' I suppose it is something worthy to aim for."
"What are you aiming for, Gan?" asked Phil. "You have a better shot at a choice than we do."
"Navigation, of course, and then Command."
"Why don't you have your hands navigate a little lower, Gan," said Lydia, sounding bored with the conversation, or maybe just bored with waiting.
Zandy smiled; as a pair Lydia and Gan were sometimes on, sometimes off; right now they were on, and she was proving a demanding lover.
"Phil?" Zandy asked, with a raised eyebrow.
"Sure, Zandy. My pleasure," said Phil with a slow smile.
"Mine too," Zandy said.
---
The qualification courses reminded Zandy of the Academy Tests back in school; the questions and simulations seemed almost random to her. She had learned to do her best on unexpected problems; it was almost traditional at the Academy to hit the cadets with the unexpected and see how they managed. If she failed now, she thought, it would be like salt in a cut, but she supposed that she would be able to get some sort of space-based job with the training she had already gotten. And she would stay human, a little voice in her head said.
She was not sure what to expect when she was summoned to meet with a senior instructor. Washing out usually happened with no ceremony; cadets who failed were hustled out of the Academy with no warning or delay. Of cour
se, she might be on her way to a departing shuttle right after the instructor informed her of her failure... or...
"Cadet Neel, sit, please."
"Yes, Senior Instructor, sir."
"No need for formality Neel."
"Yes, sir," said Zandy, looking a bit apprehensive.
"No need for suspense either. You've passed the Quals. You're in."
"Thank you, sir!"
"You did it, not me. You asked for interceptors or ship navigation..."
"Yes, sir, better than hoplites."
"Better for some. You're in interceptors, and you scored well for that."
"Not well enough for navigation?"
"You scored well for navigation, Neel, and contrary to popular opinion, a demoi-born cadet can get a navigation slot. But you scored at the top of the curve for interceptors, and we like to send people where they score best."
The senior instructor smiled. "Do you know how you got into the Fleet, Cadet Neel?" he asked.
"Ah, I passed the Academy Test for Fleet."
"Right. I have your score here. Would you like to see it?"
"Uhm, yes, sir. I would."
"Here," he said and extended a secure data cable.
Zandy plugged the lead into the interface port behind her ear and focused on the data feed. She had never seen her test results, but looking at them now was... strange. The answers were hers, of course, but she was almost embarrassed by what she saw, and by the amazingly naive mindset the answers spoke of.