"No, I mean, there's a file with your name on it, but I can't get access."
"What about having someone they won't connect with me make the request?"
"I already tried that. I used my sister's friend's friend in Jakarta. She couldn't get in either. Neither could any of the professional hackers I contacted. It's blocked. I can get into the other applications, but not yours."
"Well, keep trying," I said, and hung up. I stuck the phone down the front of my uniform, crawled over to the hatch, and began to slide it open.
And heard voices below me.
The soccer players weren't supposed to be in here till 1900 hours. I slid the hatch silently shut and flattened myself against it, listening. "It's my bunkmate," Libby was saying. "I've tried to be friends with her, but she acts like she doesn't want to be here."
You're right, I thought. In more ways than one.
"Libby's right, her bunkmate's got a terrible attitude," one of her friends said. "I have no idea how she got appointed when there are thousands of candidates who'd love to be here."
"I know the Academy must have had a good reason for picking her," Libby said, "but. . ." and launched into a ten-minute list of my shortcomings which I had no choice but to lie there and listen to. "That's why I asked you to meet me here," she said when she was finally finished. "I need your advice."
"Tell the dean you want a different bunkmate," another friend said.
"I can't," Libby said. "Inability to foster healthy personal relations is the number one reason for failing first-year."
"Cut her EVA tether next time she's outside," the first friend said, which didn't exactly sound like fostering healthy personal relations to me.
"Maybe you should introduce her to Cadet Griggs," another voice said. "It sounds like they'd be perfect for each other."
"Who's Cadet Griggs?" Libby asked.
"He's a third-year in my exochem class. Jeffrey Griggs. He doesn't like anything or anybody."
"I sat next to him in mess last week, and he was completely insufferable," the first one said. "And conceited. He claims he didn't even have to apply to get in. He—what was that?"
I must have kicked one of the nutrient drums in my surprise. I held my breath, praying they didn't investigate.
"He claims he was so brilliant they just appointed him without his taking any entrance exams or anything."
"You should definitely introduce them, Libby, and maybe they'll move in together, and your problem will be solved, and so will hers."
My problem is solved, I thought.
As soon as they left, I called Kimkim. "I need you to get into the cadet application files."
"I told you, I can't get anywhere near your application."
"Not mine," I said. "Cadet Jeffrey Griggs'. He's a third-year."
She said the name back to me. "What am I looking for?"
"The application," I said.
She called back the next day. "There's no application on file for Jeffrey Griggs."
I knew it. Listen, I need you to go through all the cadet files for the last five years and see how many others are missing."
"I already did. I went back eight years and found four more, one last year, two four years ago, one seven."
"I need you to find out where they are now."
"I did, and you're not going to like the answer. All but one of them are still in the Academy or working for IASA."
"What about the one who isn't?"
"Medical discharge. 'Inability to tolerate space environment.' Her name's Palita Duvai. She's in graduate school at Harvard," Kimkim said. "Do you want their names?"
"Yes," I said, even though I knew the registrar would say five missing applications didn't prove anything. He'd claim they'd been accidentally erased, and if it wasn't an accident, then why hadn't they posted phony applications like the one they'd shown me? I asked Kimkim that.
"I don't know," she said, "but it's definitely not an accident. When I looked up their IASA assignments, I found something else. Next to their ranks are the letters 'DA.' It's part of Jeffrey's class rank, too—'Third-year Cadet, DA.'"
DA. District Attorney? Didn't Apply? Dragged Away Kicking and Screaming?
"I looked it up in the IASA lexicon, but it wasn't there," she said. "Do you want me to try to find out what it stands for?"
"I don't think that will be necessary," I said. I signed off, went back to my cabin and got the slip of paper the registrar had given me with the psychiatrist appointment on it, wrote "DA" on the back, and took it up. I handed it, folded, to one of the guards, told him to slide it under the registrar's door, and went back to my cabin to wait.
I didn't even make it halfway. A fourth-year cadet was waiting for me before I even reached the dorm section. "Cadet Baumgarten?" she said. "The registrar wants to see you," and took me back up to his office.
"Come in, Ms. Baumgarten," the registrar said. "Sit down." I noted that the slip of paper was on his desk.
"The cadet said the commander wanted to—" I began, and then absorbed what he'd said. Miss Baumgarten, not Cadet Baumgarten. I sat down.
"I'm sorry to have taken so long getting back to you," he said. "The first few weeks of term are always so hectic. However, I wanted to tell you that we've completed the check on your application, and you were correct. A mistake in our admissions software wrongly identified you as a candidate. The IASA sincerely regrets the error and any inconvenience it may have caused you."
"Inconvenience—!"
"You will be reimbursed for that inconvenience and your lost classtime," he went on smoothly. "I understand you want to go to UCLA. We've already spoken to them and explained the situation, and they've agreed to reschedule your interview at your convenience. If you encounter any other problems, feel free to contact me." He handed me a folder. "Here are your discharge papers."
I opened the folder and read the papers. Next to "Reason for Discharge," it read, "Medical—Inability to Tolerate Space Environment."
"You're free to leave whenever you wish," the registrar said. "We've reserved a space for you on tomorrow's shuttle. It leaves at 0900 hours. Or, if you prefer, we'd be happy to arrange for a civilian shuttle, and if there's anything else we can do, please let us know."
He stood up and came around the desk. "I hope your time with us hasn't been too unpleasant," he said, and extended his hand.
And all I had to do was shake it, go pack my kit, and get on that shuttle, and I'd be back on blessed Earth and on my way to UCLA. It was extremely tempting.
"Sorry," I said, folding my arms across my chest. "Not good enough."
"Not—? If you're worried about questions from your friends and family regarding your leaving the Academy, I'll be happy to issue a statement explaining that inner-ear problems made it impossible for you to adjust to the Coriolis effect. Medical discharges carry no stigma—"
"I don't want a medical discharge. I want to know the truth. Why did you hijack me? And how many people have you done it to besides me? I know of at least ten," I lied. "What do you want with us? And don't tell me you don't have enough candidates."
"Actually, that's exactly why we hijacked you," he said, and called into the inner office. "Commander! I think you'd better take over!"
The Commander came in. At least, she was wearing a commander's uniform and insignia, but she couldn't be the commander. She was the recruiter who'd come to Winfrey High. "Hello, Ms. Baumgarten," she said. "It's nice to see you again."
"You!" I said. "You kidnapped me because of that question I asked in assembly, to punish me."
"Yes and no," she said. "Punishment was the farthest thing from my mind. And I prefer the word 'shanghaied' to 'kidnapped.'"
"Shanghaied?"
"Yes. It comes from the practice in the port of Shanghai in the 1800s of ship captains using unorthodox methods for obtaining crews for long, dangerous voyages. When they couldn't get the sailors they needed any other way, they drugged them, carried them aboard, and held them prisoner t
ill they were out to sea. Not a nice technique, but sometimes necessary."
"I don't believe you," I said. "You have thousands and thousands of people who are dying to go to the Academy every year."
"You're right," she said. "Last year we had nine thousand students who successfully completed all four tiers of the screening policy. From those, we chose three hundred, which meant they were the most determined and dedicated of those nine thousand."
"And everyone of them's thrilled to be here," I said.
"Exactly. They love the Academy, they love IASA, and that sort of intense devotion is absolutely necessary. Space exploration is an impossibly challenging and dangerous, often deadly, undertaking. Without complete belief in what they're doing, it couldn't be done. But that sort of devotion can also be a handicap. Explorers who are too in love with the jungle end up being bitten by snakes or eaten by tigers. To survive, IASA has to have people who are fully aware of the jungle's dangers and disadvantages and not the least enchanted by its beauties.
"Which means, along with astrogation and the ability to live in confined quarters, we also recruit for skepticism, independence, and questioning of authority—in short, for people who don't like the jungle. Unfortunately, those people generally do everything they can to avoid it, which is why we are forced to—"
"Shanghai people," I said. "Let me get this straight, the reason you wanted me to come to the Academy was because I didn't want to?"
"Yes."
"And what was I supposed to do here?"
"Precisely what you did. Refuse to be impressed, challenge authority, break the rules. Your determination to communicate with your friend was particularly educational. We obviously need to do a much better job of preventing hacking. Also, we've learned not to put DA even on interior records. And it's clear we need to reexamine the necessity of providing private space for our cadets. You've performed a valuable service," she said. "IASA thanks you." She extended her hand.
"I'm not done asking questions yet," I said. "Why do you have to shanghai people? Why didn't you just ask me?"
"Would you have come?"
I thought about that day she'd come to Winfrey High to recruit applicants. "No."
"Exactly," she said. "Besides, bringing DAs here involuntarily ensures the critical mindset we're looking for."
"It also ensures that when they find out, they'll be so furious they won't want to have anything to do with the Academy or IASA," I said.
"True," she said ruefully, "but they don't usually find out. You're only the second one."
"Was the first one Palita Duvai?" I asked.
"No," she said. "Unfortunately, Cadet Duvai's medical discharge was real. Inner ear complications."
But if she wasn't the one, I thought, frowning, then that meant uncovering the conspiracy didn't automatically mean a discharge, and that meant—
"The other DAs either concluded there'd been a bureaucratic foul-up or that they'd been so outstanding they hadn't needed to apply."
Jeffrey Griggs, I thought.
"Or they eventually gave up trying to go home and decided that, in spite of the food and the solar flares, they liked the Academy." She shook her head. "I underestimated your dislike of space. And your friend's hacking and communication abilities. Tell me, is Kimkim interested in becoming a cadet?"
"That depends on what you're recruiting for," I said. "If you want a great hacker, yes. If you're looking for another DA, then no, definitely not, she'd probably have to be dragged up here kicking and screaming. And the sooner the better."
The commander grinned. "I really am sorry to lose you. I think you would have made an excellent DA." She leaned back. "Have we answered all your questions?"
"No," I said. "I have two more."
"You want to know what DA stands for?"
"No, I already know that. Devil's advocate."
She looked at the registrar. "I told you she was good." She smiled back at me. "You want to know who the other cadet was who figured out what had happened."
"No, I know that, too. It was you."
She nodded.
"Did you decide you liked the Academy in spite of its shortcomings?" I asked.
"No," she said. "I thought it was a complete mess, and that if they didn't get some people in charge who knew what they were doing, and change things, it was going to fall completely apart."
"I think you're right," I said. "You've got to get some private space on board before somebody kills somebody, and surely something can be done about the food. And you've got to get a lot more cadets with computer skills up here."
"We'll see what we can do," the Commander said, and extended her hand. "Welcome aboard."
I saluted her. "Cadet Baumgarten reporting for duty," I said.
"You said you had two questions," the registrar said. "What was the other one?"
"Which of you won the pool?"
"I did," the Commander said, and grinned at the registrar. "I told you she was good."
Yes, well, they don't know how good. Or how much trouble they're letting themselves in for. If it's independence, questioning authority, and bending the rules they want, Kimkim and I can come up with all kinds of stuff. I went straight to my hiding place and called her.
The display lit up. "Illegal transmission," it read. "Not allowed."
I waited, and in a couple of minutes Kimkim said, "Sorry. It took me awhile to route around their jamming devices. I found out what DA stands for."
"So did I," I said. "I definitely think you should reconsider applying for the Academy. And I think it would be a good idea to pack your kit now so you won't have to do it at the last minute."
"I already did," she said.
"Good," I said. "I've got a list of stuff I need you to bring when you come up. First, I want you to ask my dad for his stink bomb formula. . ."
FEMAVILLE 29
Paul Di Filippo
Paul Di Filippo sold his first story in 1977. Since then he's had nearly 150 stories published, the majority of them collected in his ten short story collections. He has written nine novels, including Fuzzy Dice and Spondulix. New novel Time's Black Lagoon, featuring the Creature from the Black Lagoon, and new collection Shuteye for the Timebroker were published in 2006. Di Filippo has also begun scripting comics of late, with his first major project being a sequel to Alan Moore's TOP 10. He lives in his native state, Rhode Island, amidst eldritch Lovecraftian surroundings, with his mate of thirty years, Deborah Newton, a chocolate cocker spaniel named Brownie, and a three-colored cat named Penny Century.
La Palma is a tiny mote in the Canary Islands, a mote that had certainly never intruded into my awareness before one fateful day. On La Palma, five hundred billion tons of rock in the form of an unstable coastal plateau awaited a nudge, which they received when the Cumbre Vieja volcano erupted. Into the sea a good portion of the plateau plunged, a frightful hammer of the gods.
The peeling off of the face of the island was a smaller magnitude event than had been feared; but it was a larger magnitude event than anyone was prepared for.
The resulting tsunami raced across the Atlantic.
My city had gotten just twelve hours warning. The surreal chaos of the partial evacuation was like living through the most vivid nightmare or disaster film imaginable. Still, the efforts of the authorities and volunteers and good samaritans ensured that hundreds of thousands of people escaped with their lives.
Leaving other hundreds of thousands to face the wave.
Their only recourse was to find the tallest, strongest buildings and huddle.
I was on the seventh floor of an insurance company when the wave arrived. Posters in the reception area informed me that I was in good hands. I had a view of the harbor, half a mile away.
The tsunami looked like a liquid mountain mounted on a rocket sled.
When the wave hit, the building shuddered and bellowed like a steer in an abattoir euthanized with a nail-gun. Every window popped out of its frame, and spray lashed even my l
evel.
But the real fight for survival had not yet begun.
The next several days were a sleepless blur of crawling from the wreckage and helping others do likewise.
But not everyone was on the same side. Looters arose like some old biological paradigm of spontaneous generation from the muck.
Their presence demanded mine on the front lines.
I was a cop.
I had arrested several bad guys without any need for excessive force. But then came a shootout at a jewelry store where the display cases were incongruously draped with drying kelp. I ended up taking the perps down okay. But the firefight left my weary brain and trembling gut hypersensitive to any threat.
Some indeterminate time afterwards—marked by a succession of candy-bar meals, digging under the floodlights powered by chuffing generators, and endless slogging through slimed streets—I was working my way through the upper floors of an apartment complex, looking for survivors. I shut off my flashlight when I saw a glow around a corner. Someone stepped between me and the light source, casting the shadow of a man with a gun. I yelled, "Police! Drop it!" then crouched and dashed toward the gunman. The figure stepped forward, still holding the weapon, and I fired.
The boy was twelve, his weapon a water pistol.
His mother trailed him by a few feet—not far enough to escape getting splattered with her son's blood.
Later I learned neither of them spoke a word of English.
One minute I was cradling the boy, and the next I was lying on a cot in a field hospital. Three days had gotten lost somewhere. Three days in which the whole world had learned of my mistake.
They let me get up the next day, ostensibly healthy and sane enough, even though my pistol hand, my left, still exhibited a bad tremor. I tried to report to the police command, but found that I had earned a temporary medical discharge. Any legal fallout from my actions awaited an end to the crisis.
I tried being a civilian volunteer for another day or two amidst the ruins, but my heart wasn't in it. So I took the offer of evacuation to Femaville 29.
* * *
The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year-I Page 58