The Spiral Arm (episode 1, season 1)

by Peter Boland

  *

  I sit in the school library, reading up about forcefields on my com chip. Earlier this morning I got lucky. It was a guess that paid off and could’ve so easily ended differently. So I’m making sure I know how they work and how to manipulate them properly without losing an arm or a leg or even my life.

  It’s called a library because of tradition, there are hardly any books here. It’s more of a quiet place to study. Com chips have made real books redundant. We have a few old-fashioned paper ones with pages and hard covers stacked on shelves, but they’re more for decoration than education.

  The rest of my school’s pretty average, just like any other – overcrowded. There are 75 students in my class and 17 classes in my year. Because of this, they stopped building schools in the traditional way, and now they build them vertically. As each school grows they just add more classes and facilities on top of the existing building. Ours currently has 178 floors, and every 15 floors there’s a sports floor with no sides that’s open to the elements, well, apart from a thick metal cage to stop people falling off the edge. Each sports floor is five stories high and contains sports fields for football, soccer and baseball. We’ve had to adapt to the fact that sometimes five floors simply isn’t high enough and the ball frequently ricochets off the ceiling if it’s hit too hard.

  It’s a telling sign that there are 11 of these sports fields and only one library in our school. But that suits me fine.

  The library’s my favorite place, firstly because it’s pretty much a jock-free zone. None of them would be seen dead in here. Only the nerds frequent it and even they leave me alone, so I’m usually not bothered by anyone, apart from the odd janitor.

  Secondly, the library’s above the entrance to the school, so I can sit in virtual safety watching everyone come in. Today is different, because most students will be arriving with their parents for the Call-Up Ceremony. The flags are out and the banners have been dusted off from last year; they’re covered in the Call-Up slogan: Fight For Our Future.

  The mood is jubilant. Smiling faces and everyone dressed in their best outfits. Even those who aren’t eligible for Call-Up have made an effort. The only person who hasn’t is me.

  From the sky comes a high-pitched whine. A military drop ship descends, landing with a thump in front of the school. There’s barely enough room for it to fit between the school and the accommodation buildings that surround us. Ships usually land on the roof but today’s a special day and the Marine Corps wants to show off. It’s good PR for the cause, especially for the younger students; grooming them to strive to be next year’s crop of cadets. Work hard and you could take a ride to Kepler and glory. They say it’s an honor to be chosen as a cadet. I say it’s certain death. Nobody worries about all the lives we lose each year to the ferocious fighting. It’s not as though we’re short of people.

  Cheers rise up through the air as three officers emerge from the back of the drop ship in full dress uniform – fitted navy blue jackets and ice-white pants. They remind me of toy soldiers as they join the parents and students going in.

  The book that’s open on my com chip suddenly distorts and the face of Principal Marsh appears. He smiles and announces that all students are to make their way to the assembly hall for the Call-Up ceremony. I wonder if it’s worth ducking out and staying here. Then I change my mind, thinking how delicious it will be to watch Sagan and his monkey friends, not to mention all the other over-achieving hard cases, leave this school for good. With them gone, school will be a breeze.

  Up in the hall, my year is herded to the front, beside the stage. It’s called a hall but it’s so vast it takes about half an hour to shuffle everyone in. To the left they’ve erected some temporary bleachers to seat everyone’s parents. The rest of the school sit behind us chattering away, trying to guess whose name will be called first. They tell us the list is called in no particular order but everyone knows that’s a lie. The top students are called first and the rest in descending order.

  Seated on stage is the entire staff of the school, plus three empty chairs. Principal Marsh stands anxiously in front of a lectern, rubbing his hands. He’s waiting for the list that will tell him who’s been picked to go. He’s not worried about names just numbers. Last year our school sent a record 32 cadets to Kepler. If he’s to keep up the school’s reputation, this needs to be equaled or bettered. Finally he’s put out of his misery as the three officers take to the stage, marching toward the Principal. The creases in their pants are so sharp they look like folded paper. Coming to attention, they salute and the one in the middle hands the Principal a brown scroll tied with a thick red ribbon. This is all for tradition’s sake. They could’ve done all this via com chip, but then there’d be no pomp and ceremony for us to watch.

  The Principal accepts the scroll with a twitchy smile and watches while the the three officers take their seats on stage. Untying the ribbon, he unfurls it with clumsy hands and scans its contents. His expression swiftly relaxes – it must be a good result. Principal Marsh holds up his hand and the hall descends into silence.

  “Good morning everyone and welcome to Sequoia Point High School’s 54th Call-Up day. I’d like to extend a very warm welcome to all the proud parents who have made it here today, and to our honored guests - the officers of the United Earth Marine Corps.”

  Everyone claps, even me.

  “Now before I read out the names of the hard-working, talented and brave students – I know you’re all dying to know who they are - let’s just remind ourselves of why we’re fighting.

  “Throughout history, humans have overcome obstacles; it’s what we’re good at. Right now we face one of our biggest obstacles: overcrowding. We’ve become so successful as a species that there’s simply not enough room for all of us on this planet. But this obstacle has a solution.”

  A giant holo-image of our galaxy appears above our heads, spinning like a slow bicycle wheel. It then focuses on the end of a spiral arm. Closing in, we see it is made up of hundreds of different stars and planets. They whiz out of sight until one planet comes into view. It looks just like Earth; swirling white clouds and bright blue oceans, but on closer inspection the continents are a different shape.

  “On the distant edge of the Milky Way’s spiral arm lies our hope: the planet Kepler. Beautiful isn’t she. Discovered in the early 21st century, she’s Earth’s twin, except two and half times larger than the planet we’re standing on. Plenty of room for everyone. And, most importantly, Kepler is in the fabled Goldilocks Zone around her sun - not too hot, not too cold, but just right for supporting life.

  “Now, in the 23rd century, thanks to ZPE, we’ve travelled the vast distance across space and staked our claim. The first colonists went there over 60 years ago. It went better than expected. They thrived, they built small communities and they grew. More people joined them from Earth, desperate to escape the overcrowding. They settled happily in peace and built new lives.

  “That peace ended with the arrival of the Dormangi, a savage and brutal alien race from another galaxy who wanted Kepler for itself. They slaughtered our brothers and sisters and started a war that has been raging ever since. They will not win.”

  The whole room explodes in a cheer, the sound nearly deafens me. The Principal holds his hands up for silence, he’s not done yet.

  “Not while brave youngsters like the ones I see before me are willing to board a combat starship and fight for the planet we call our second home. The journey to Kepler takes four years and during that time, these brave young men and women will not rest. They will not sleep in stasis capsules like the first troops we sent. Oh, no. Each combat ship is an elite military school. They will use every second of that four-year journey to learn how to become the best combat troops this planet has ever seen. The Dormangi won’t know what’s hit them.”

  More cheers and screams of planetary pride.

  “They will – fight for our future!” shouts the Principal, punching the air.


  “Fight for our future!” everyone shouts back, mirroring him. The same words appear around the holo image of Kepler.

  It’s like this every year. Same speech, same holo effect, same mindless, gung-ho enthusiasm. The only thing that changes are the names he calls out. Nobody mentions the fact that you never hear from those students again.

  “Okay, without further ado ...” The room goes quiet as hundreds of ears strain to listen, “… let us find out who will have the glory of joining the fight on Kepler.”

  He holds up the scroll with both hands and clears his voice.

  “I can tell you that this year we’ve surpassed our record and will be sending thirty-five cadets.” He’s interrupted by more cheers. “And the first cadet to be called is … Sagan Philips.”

  So Sagan is top dog; no surprise there. He swaggers up to the front, jaw jutting out with arrogance, sucking up all the applause and feeding an ego which is already overflowing. He climbs up onto the stage, shakes the hand of the Principal and the three officers and then stands on the far right.

  His buddies Yan Marks and Eli Howie follow him next. I look over at where Max Tims is standing. He’s grinning like an idiot, getting ready to take his place. The hall goes quiet again but the next name called isn’t his. He looks disappointed. He’s not made the top four – I hope they marked him down for being such a psycho.

  More names are called and more people take to the stage but Max hasn’t been mentioned. I know it’s schadenfreude but I can’t help looking across and watching him squirm – payback for the hell he’s put me through over the years. He’s getting nervous ticks as the number of new cadets swells to thirty. His foot taps to an imaginary beat and he’s biting on a thumbnail.

  I wonder. No, it’s ridiculous, but what if he doesn’t get called? It would make my day to watch that mindless bully get left here like a loser. There might be justice in the world after all. I’m not superstitious but I still cross both fingers and close my eyes and pray to the god in charge of karma that it’s time to settle up.

  Each time the Principal calls out a name and it’s not Max’s, I get another fizz of excitement in my stomach. I sneak another peak at Max – He’s turning bright red. I don’t know whether it’s anger or embarrassment.

  The Principal has called thirty-four students to join him on stage.

  We’re down to the last name.

  “… And finally,” says the Principal, “our last cadet is – Barlow Millfield.”

  The cheering and clapping fires up once again, and this time I join in, shouting louder than anyone else. The cadets on stage are hugging and high-fiving each other as Barlow joins them. He’s getting hugs and slaps on the back, but Sagan, Eli and Yan aren’t joining in. They look at each other confused. Their evil quintet is a man down and they can’t work out why. Is it a mistake, an oversight or all that bad stuff finally coming back to haunt them? I hope it’s the latter. Sagan shrugs, then they all look toward Max and shrug; it’s the only thing they can do. None of them has a clue why he’s down here with the rest of us mere mortals and they’re up there.

  Max shakes his head, staring at the floor, slowly at first and then quicker and quicker, like someone’s winding him up. Suddenly he stops, looks up and marches forward, pushing people out of the way. A second later he’s up the steps and onto the stage, standing in front of the Principal, arguing with him. It’s too noisy to hear what they’re saying.

  Now Sagan and the others are standing with Max, interrogating the Principal who looks intimidated. Although only fifteen-years-old, they’re equal in size to any of the teachers on stage. The Principal beckons the three officers over. They’re not so easy to frighten and square up to Max and the others, shouting them down. This is only a guess, but it looks like they’re telling him to get a grip and calm down. There’s some swearing in there too, I think. Damn, I wish I could lip read.

  Max doesn’t want to be calm and resorts to what he knows best and hits one of the officers in the jaw. A collective gasp comes from all around the hall, me included. I put my hands to my mouth in shock. Sagan, Eli and Yan hold Max back, but only just. He’s straining to get at the officer, to have another pop at him. The veins stand up on his neck and his face is blood red. I can’t believe what I’m seeing.

  The officer’s mouth is bleeding and he takes himself off to a corner of the stage where he dabs at it with a handkerchief. He appears completely unfazed by the whole thing – I guess he’s experienced a lot worse.

  A couple of parents rush onto the stage. Judging by their strong features they’re Max’s. His father is talking to him intensely and their heads are almost touching. Sagan, Eli and Yan are still holding him back. I watch in wonder as the toughest guy in the school goes from pure rage to floods of tears. A moment later his mother has her arm around him and is leading him away, followed by his friends.

  It’s strange, but I actually feel sorry for him. I guess he’s not used to being a loser like the rest of us.

  The Principal straightens his tie and takes a deep breath before speaking into the microphone.

  “All students, make your way to your scheduled lessons. Parents and cadets may proceed to the canteen where you can say your final goodbyes before boarding the drop ship. That will be all.” He’s still flustered by Max’s outburst, “Oh, Fight for our Future,” he says weakly, turning away from the mike before he’s finished his sentence.

  The cadets and teachers on stage still look bewildered. The rest of us move slowly out of the hall. It has been the craziest Call-Up ceremony ever. If anyone’s filmed it I’m sure it will be the most-watched com video by this evening.

  The rest of the day passes without incident. Classes are their usual dull affair and at break the corridors which usually buzz with over-excited teenagers, are quiet and subdued.

  My shoulders relax for the first time since I can remember. I’m usually always looking over them to make sure no jerk is about to do something embarrassing to me, but all the jerks in my year are gone, well, apart from Max. Actually, he’s not here either, the Principal sent him home for the day. If it had been anyone else who’d punched an officer on Call-Up day they would have been suspended or expelled. It’s probably his parents’ generous donations to the school which have stopped that from happening.

  When school’s over I decide to take the shuttle home for a change. I’m squashed next to two guys from the year below me who haven’t discovered the benefits of deodorant yet. The only thing preventing me from passing out from their teen stink is listening to them talk non-stop about the Max incident. In fact, everyone on the shuttle is talking about it. I catch snippets of conversations loaded with conspiracy theories ranging from the optimistic - he’s being saved for a special elite force; to the ridiculous – he’s a Dormangi sympathizer and has been campaigning for a ceasefire, which is crazy. If Max ever got hold of a gun, he’d be the last person to cease firing.

  I stick to my own theory that he was just too unbalanced to join the Marine Corps. They need new recruits and there are plenty of people they can call up without resorting to nutjobs.

  The shuttle drops me a block away from home and I battle through the crowds of people who clog up the sidewalk like cholesterol in an artery. It’s like liquid humanity as far as the eye can see. As I near my block I see a car parked outside. It’s a marine limo - my Uncle Mike must be visiting. I wonder if he can shed any light on what happened to Max.

  I smile as I push open the door to our apartment and step inside. My expression drops when I see Mom sitting on the bed with a tear-streaked face. My uncle has his arm around her and with his other hand he’s dabbing her cheeks with a tissue. Another man in uniform stands in the corner. He’s older, I’d guess nearly twice my uncle’s age, and judging by all the shiny metal on his uniform, a much higher rank.

  Automatically I rush to Mom’s side. My uncle shifts out of the way to let me sit beside her.

  “Mom, what’s wrong?”

  She thro
ws both arms around me, nearly squeezing the life out of me.

  “Mom, it’s okay, I’m here, what’s the matter?”

  “Oh, Wren.” She looks at me through bloodshot eyes and strokes my hair, then bursts into tears again.

  “Uncle Mike, what’s going on?”

  He stands up and looks to the man in the corner who gives an almost imperceptible nod. My uncle clears his throat before he speaks, “Wren, there’s something I need to tell you …”

  He isn’t given a chance to finish. My mother cuts him off.

  “Please, Mike. Don’t take her. I’ll do anything,” she sobs.

  “Take me? Take me where?” I ask.

  “Wren,” he continues, “you know I love you like my own daughter, but as an officer in the marines I have certain duties to perform, not all of them pleasant. Unfortunately this is one of them. I thought it would be better coming from me than you hearing it at school.”

  “Hearing what?” I ask. I’ve already worked out what he’s going to say, even though it’s completely insane.

  “Wren, you’ve been selected for Call-Up, and must come with us immediately.”

  Chapter 3