Teacher of the Century

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  Teacher of the Century

  by

  Robert T. Jeschonek

  *****

  Also by Robert T. Jeschonek

  Science Fiction

  6 Scifi Stories

  My Cannibal Lover

  Playing Doctor

  Serial Killer vs. E-Merica

  The Greatest Serial Killer in the Universe

  The Love Quest of Smidgen the Snack Cake

  Superheroes

  A Matter of Size (mature readers)

  Forced Retirement

  Heroes of Global Warming

  The Masked Family – a novel

  The Trek Trilogy

  Trek Fail!

  Trek Off!

  Trek This!

  *****

  Teacher of the Century

  As the ring of students tightened around her, America’s Teacher of the Century nominee Cilla Franklin offered to reduce the homework assignment. Thirty seconds later, she offered to eliminate it altogether. It didn’t make any difference.

  Muscles tense beneath naked flesh, the boys and girls continued to edge toward her. She didn’t know why they were so upset, since they never did homework anyway and were never punished for it. The assignment should not have been taxing for anyone in the class, whatever their aptitude level; further, nothing about it impinged on anyone’s personal rights or definition of political correctness.

  Periods One through Four hadn’t had any problem with the homework. Then again, Period Five was just a bad group. They were all bad, but Five was the worst.

  One minute after Cilla had transmitted the details of the assignment to their brainware wireless implants, the kids had risen as one from their hammocks and formed a circle around her. One of the boys had come up behind her and urinated on her legs; as she spun around, he had directed the stream upward, spraying her hips and abdomen and even splashing her face.

  Though Cilla did not understand most of what the godlings (that was what they called themselves) did or said, she knew what this much meant: she was marked for death.

  It had happened six times before in her fifty-year career. Each time, she had managed to save herself by begging for mercy from the class Chief or moving to a new school...but it was always possible that death could claim her like this. She knew of colleagues who had died this way; only three out of thirty thousand teachers nationwide died per year in executions by godlings, so the odds weren’t bad...but her own mentor, Ruby Churchill, had been one of the unlucky few.

  Dying at the hands of a tribe of hive-minded, techno-savage students wasn’t anything she had envisioned while playing school as a child with her friends decades ago.

  Times had changed. For Cilla Franklin and the other teachers at All Einstein High School, every day was another chapter in Lord of the Flies.

  Slowly, the ring of twelfth-graders pressed toward her. Their heads were bowed, and every last one of them glared up at her with a wicked, hungry smile. None of them carried a weapon, but Cilla knew they didn’t need weapons; to some extent, they were all genetically and cybernetically enhanced. She had already seen a small group of them tear apart a floater car (her own) with their bare hands, and she had seen individual godlings punch holes through the cement block walls of the school.

  At seventy-five years old, fit and healthy as she was, Cilla wouldn’t even slow the godlings down. She knew she was dead meat.

  The godlings would all be adding to their tattoos tonight, commemorating her murder with colorful new markings on their chests or bellies or buttocks, as was their custom. She wondered if there was any truth to the rumors she had heard that the godlings also devoured their victims’ remains nowadays.

  It wouldn’t surprise her.

  “Chief Ludwig!” she said, turning to the tallest boy in the circle. “What is the nature of my offense?”

  Ludwig was shaved hairless like all the other males his age. His pale, naked skin was decorated with tattoos of eagles, tongues of flame, quantum equations, and DNA molecules. “Coowa chi patea,” he said slowly, overenunciating each syllable. “Logwa fachi sifata poto.”

  Half the time, the godlings communicated with each other via brainware implants, silently passing radio signals from head to head. The rest of the time, they communicated by speaking aloud, but almost always using their own indecipherable language--Twister--when talking to one another. As often as she had heard it used, Cilla could never make out more than a few stray words of it.

  “Chaka luweena,” said Ludwig, angrily poking a finger in Cilla’s direction. “Mantabuda cristacuchina elar!”

  Though she didn’t understand a word he said, Cilla caught the drift of it. The angry tone and the simple fact that he refused to speak English meant that she had no hope. There would be no negotiations. She had reached the end of the line.

  Another boy padded up from behind and urinated on her, but she didn’t break eye contact with Ludwig. “Please,” Cilla said to him. “I taught your father and mother. I taught your father’s father. Don’t do this.”

  “Cromo!” Ludwig said sharply, and then he spat on the ground. “Shavaka cromo!”

  That word, Cilla knew. “Cromo” was Twister for “parents,” expressed with as much contempt as was humanly possible. It was the most profane word in the godlings’ vocabulary.

  Cilla wondered what the godlings’ parents would think if they could see them now, if they could watch what they were about to do to her. They saw everything that took place in the classroom, usually, thanks to the personal A.I. drones that hovered over each student’s shoulder during class. Now, though, the airborne eight-balls floated around the perimeter of the room, lenses staring at the walls; obviously, the godlings had figured out how to render the drones dormant when they didn’t want their parents to see what they were doing.

  Not that the parents would have cared, thought Cilla, even if they could have seen what was about to happen.

  The circle tightened around her. She could see that some of the boys were aroused as they moved toward their prey. Why, she wondered, with all the advantages they had, did they slide back so completely into the primitive?

  If it would have done her any good, Cilla would have pleaded further with the godlings. She would have told them that it wasn’t necessary to kill her, since they had already driven her to request early retirement. She’d be gone in two weeks anyway, she would have told them.

  But she knew it would not have done any good to tell them that...just as she knew it would not do her any good to scream for help. The other teachers and administrators knew better than to interfere in godling affairs; the penalties for intervention could be quite severe. Just ask the vice principal who had tried to break up a godling orgy in the library two years ago, or the teacher who’d been dumb enough to give a godling an “A minus” just last month.

  And now, it was her turn to be the object lesson. Resigning herself to death, she closed her eyes and said a silent prayer that the end would come quickly and without too much pain.

  She felt the heat of the students pressing in on her from all sides. She smelled the animal musk and funk of their naked bodies.

  Then, all of a sudden, she heard a new voice in the room. It was a young, male voice...and most surprisingly, it was speaking English.

  “Sorry I’m late,” said the boy. “Is there a seating chart?”

  Cilla’s eyes shot open and fixed on the new arrival. The godlings turned as one in his direction, halting their predatory approach.

  For once, the teacher and students had a common reaction to something. None of them could believe what they were seeing.

  The newcomer had sandy brown hair and bright green eyes. He looked about seventeen years old and five foot seven,
with a slim build. What was unbelievable about him, though, had nothing to do with his physical characteristics.

  It was his clothes...namely, that he was wearing any at all. They were nothing fancy, just a red polo shirt, bluejeans and sneakers, but they might as well have been a hand-tailored Italian suit, for all the attention they got.

  Cilla couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen a student wearing clothes. The very sight of him made her heart skip a beat.

  Calmly, the boy nodded and smiled at the stunned godlings. “My name is Byron Spenser,” he said. “I’m a transfer student.”

  For once, the naked savages were at a loss. Their aura of smug control and superiority seemed to have evaporated. The males were no longer aroused.

  Cilla Franklin regained her composure before anyone else. It was an impressive feat, considering that she had been on death’s doorstep mere moments before.

  “Welcome, Byron,” she said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “I have a hall pass,” said the boy, and then he did something that threw everyone for a loop all over again.

  He held out a slip of paper.

  Cilla stared at the slip as if he’d just held up a gold nugget the size of a fist. Then, she shook her head and smiled.

  It had been a long time since she had seen one of those. It took her back hard and fast, years spinning away like clay pigeons in a summer sky.

  “I see,” she said. “You’re not wired, are you?”

  “No, ma’am,” said Byron.

  Cilla’s heart skipped another beat. Not only was he free of brainware--and therefore not plugged into the godlings’ hive mind--but he had used the word “ma’am.” She hadn’t seen the likes of him since Jimmy Melville back in 2092...and Jimmy hadn’t even been the real deal, just a poser camping it up for laughs at her expense.

  Despite the resemblance in dress and manners, this boy wasn’t another Jimmy Melville. She could tell. She had a feeling.

  Fearlessly squeezing between the godlings, Cilla crossed the room to Byron. Normally, she would have been embarrassed by her urine-soaked dress, but it was the furthest thing from her mind.

  “Well now, Byron,” she said, gesturing toward the open door and following him through it. “Let’s see about getting you properly acclimated.”

  “Thank you, Miss Franklin,” he said.

  Her heart leaped again. She was so agitated, she forgot to go back in the room and dismiss Period Five, but that was no big deal. Period Five, everyone knew, could take care of themselves.

  *****

  “I want to move up my retirement,” Cilla said to the naked principal. “I want to leave today.”

  Principal Caesar smiled. “What a coincidence,” he said. “Here I was hoping to talk you into postponing your retirement!”

  Cilla swallowed nervously and shook her head. “I’ve been marked for death,” she said. “They almost killed me this afternoon.”

  Caesar rolled his eyes and sighed as if they were discussing a harmless teenage prank. “And why is that, Cilla?” he said. “What did you do?”

  Cilla knew better than to look for sympathy or the slightest trace of support from the oily administrator. His only goal was to appease the godlings and their parents at all costs. He was very popular with the student body and even went naked and occasionally jacked into the hive-mind to curry their favor. Naturally, in his world, the blame for any mishaps could be laid squarely in the laps of the teachers.

  “I don’t even know,” said Cilla, “and it shouldn’t matter. They were going to kill me. They will kill me, if I don’t get out of here.”

  “Let me have a talk with Chief Ludwig,” said Caesar, reaching behind his ear for the hive-mind jack. “I’m sure we can smooth this over.”

  Cilla shot out of her chair and lunged over the principal’s desk, grabbing his wrist before he could switch on the link. “No!” she said sharply. When Caesar raised an eyebrow, she released her grip and receded across the desk. “Please, don’t. Just approve my retirement request.”

  As the principal’s hand hovered near the link jack, Cilla prayed that he wouldn’t contact Ludwig. The last time Caesar had interceded on a teacher’s behalf, the teacher and his wife and children had been smeared over every other teacher’s classroom as a warning. Though Caesar played a role in the godlings’ scheme of things, there was never any question about who was in charge.

  “Okay,” said Caesar, dropping his hand from the jack. “I won’t bring Ludwig into this yet. But Cilla, you know I won’t approve an earlier retirement. I haven’t even approved your first retirement request.”

  “It’s a matter of life and death,” said Cilla. “I’ve given my life for my profession, but I won’t die for it. I won’t die for them.” She jerked her head back over one shoulder, indicating the students in the school building around her.

  Caesar sighed and folded his hands on the desk. “Cilla, we don’t want you to leave, period. As you know, you’re the crown jewel of our teaching staff. You’ve been selected America’s Teacher of the Year every year for the past decade, and you’ve just been nominated for America’s Teacher of the Century. I guess you know you’re the chief attraction here at All Einstein High School.”

  Cilla knew...and knew how little that truly meant. Her name and reputation drew parents to enroll their children, but once the little godlings put their butts in their hammocks, they weren’t actually interested in learning at all, and their ever-present A.I. monitor drones made sure that no real education could take place.

  As infrequently as actual learning occurred at the school, Cilla’s presence brought prestige to All Einstein...and prestige equaled money. Unfortunately, the school administrators were so beholden to and intimidated by the godlings, Cilla knew they could not protect even her from those tattooed techno-savages.

  “Thank you, but I want to leave,” said Cilla. “I’ve had enough. I’m burned out.”

  “But you’re still making a difference,” said Principal Caesar, and it took all she had not to laugh in his face. “We want you. We need you.”

  “I want to leave today,” said Cilla. “It’s time.”

  Caesar blew out his breath and slumped back in his chair. “At least stay until the end of the semester. Stay until the Teacher of the Century winner is announced.”

  I’ll be dead by then, Cilla started to say, but she held back for fear that Caesar would resume efforts to prevent her death by contacting Ludwig. “I can’t,” was all she said.

  “You have to be a working teacher to be eligible for the award,” said Caesar. “If you retire now, you’ll be disqualified. After all these years, do you really want to miss out on the greatest honor that any teacher can receive?”

  Cilla could see that she wasn’t getting anywhere. “I won’t be here tomorrow,” she said, pushing up out of her chair. “You’ll need to call a substitute.”

  “Cilla,” said Caesar, and all the false cordiality was suddenly gone from his voice. “If you’re not here tomorrow, you’ll be in breach of contract. You’ll forfeit your pension.”

  Cilla stared at him. Though she wasn’t surprised at his playing that card, she got a sinking feeling in her stomach at hearing him make the threat. Without her pension, she would be hard-pressed to survive; then again, it wouldn’t make any difference if the godlings killed her before she could use it.

  Caesar nodded as if the matter were settled. “Let’s pow-wow again at the end of the week,” he said, resuming his earlier affability. “Maybe you’ll have a change of heart by then.”

  “I won’t,” Cilla said softly, turning to leave.

  “Hope springs eternal,” said the principal with a chuckle, hurrying around to get the door for her.

  As he ushered her out, Cilla noticed that he had a new tattoo. It showed up best now that he was aroused from victoriously exercising his authority: the name “Ludwig” was printed in gothic-style letters along the length of his male organ.

  *****


  The next day, though the death sentence hanging over her head clouded her thoughts, Cilla experienced a welcome change in Period Five.

  At first, Five went the way it always did. Half the godlings slept through her lecture, and none of the others paid attention to a word she said. A male and female had actually squeezed into the same hammock together and engaged in heavy petting while she talked. A godling boy loudly passed gas at least a dozen times. Cilla knew better than to correct any of them; their pet principal would veto any disciplinary action and turn it around into negative consequences for her. If she ever did manage to administer any form of punishment, the parental A.I.s would squeal in protest, followed by the parents themselves.

  In spite of the usual Period Five headaches, however, there was one consolation in the wasteland that day. Byron Spencer, the new boy, had miraculously survived his first day of school--even though he had dared to interrupt Cilla’s execution--and sat at the head of the class, listening and taking notes. He even sat at a desk, believe it or not; he had asked for one, and the maintenance crew had found one buried in storage and brought it to the room.

  As class wore on, Byron did something even more surprising than asking for a desk or taking notes.

  It happened as Cilla was being chewed out by one of the A.I. drones for looking at a student while posing a question. The gleaming eight-ball hovered at eye level, less than a foot from her face, and protested in the voice of Daughter Raper XL’s mother, presumably reacting in the same way that the mother would have reacted if she herself had been there.

  “Is my son the only student in this classroom?” the A.I. said shrilly. “Is he?”

  “No,” said Cilla, glaring at the floating orb. It was at least the twentieth A.I. interruption in the past half-hour, which was par for the course but still disruptive. As always, she spent her time talking to the orbs while the so-called students snored or masturbated or surfed the hivenet.