by Glen Zipper
I took a bite of my pizza. Well, a PRM version of pizza. It tasted like an experiment concocted by someone who’d had the concept of pizza explained to them but never actually tasted pizza for themselves. Its stale cardboard flavor aside, it did provide me with my exact nutritional requirements. Each of our PRMs was special. Designed and tailored for each of our unique physiological profiles, every meal contained the specific protein, carbohydrate, calorie, and vitamin content we needed for peak physical and mental performance.
As the others talked among themselves, I scanned their faces. I took another half-hearted bite, amused by how accurately the PRM in front of each cadet reinforced my understanding of them.
Anatoly poked at his pierogi and goulash with surgical precision. He was eighteen. Ukrainian. The smooth, complementary movements of his fork and knife delicately separated his double portions of food into neat little quadrants. Double portions because anything less would have left his stomach grumbling. Anatoly was a big guy—six feet tall and at least two hundred pounds. Despite his gentle manner, if a brawl ever broke loose, he was the first person I wanted by my side.
Nick was our odd eighteen-year-old comrade from Maine. Fair-haired, soft-featured, and conspicuously quiet, he seemed like the bookish offspring of New England intellectuals. A nice guy and friendly enough, nothing about him would’ve indicated he was actually on work release from an Alliance diversionary program for criminal offenders.
A cadet appointment for someone like him was unprecedented, but for reasons unknown to us, Alliance Command had deemed Nick worthy of a remarkable second chance at service. We all had our opinions, but I could only wonder what Julian thought of some hooligan being the beneficiary of one of the slots.
I watched as Nick nursed a purplish PRM smoothie from a stainless steel cup. He once offered me a sip of his strange concoction, and I still wished I hadn’t taken him up on the offer. It tasted like a combination of beets and black licorice. It would have been gag-inducing had the taste not been so bad as to nearly paralyze my gag reflex. There were actually a number of strange things about Nick, his weird taste in PRMs only being the tip of the iceberg.
For example, despite the Alliance’s generous forgiveness of Nick’s past criminal transgressions, they still insisted that he be confined to quarters in off-hours. If he was trusted to serve alongside us, why did they not trust him to live alongside us?
Perhaps even more confounding was the fact he had been given no definitive role as a cadet. Instead, he had what was referred to as a “floating” detail—no training specialization or permanent assignment. As my father put it, Nick was plug and play—you just stuck him where you needed him. On this mission, it was Coms.
Sure, plug and play had a nice ring to it, but practically speaking, it was just one more thing that didn’t make sense. Of course, I raised all of this with my father, but he was steadfast in his dismissiveness. Maybe you should be more concerned with your own problems right now was his most common refrain of late.
There were probably perfectly rational explanations for all my questions about Nick, except one: the strange, somewhat ominous feeling I had anytime I was near him. I didn’t want to be preoccupied by it, but it kept coming up for me as something more than just a gut reaction to all his many oddities and their all-too-convenient explanations.
I mentioned it to Viv and she half-jokingly replied, “Did it ever occur to you that maybe you just don’t like him?”
I laughed it off, but there was no denying how much he unsettled me.
Next I turned my attention to Ohno. Her PRM was every bit as colorful as her hair and her bio-reactive tattoos. Traditional Brazilian favorites like coxinha, feijoada, and pao de queijo were piled high against an equally formidable mound of her favorite dessert: bolo de rolo. Restraint was not a particular strength of hers, and that’s what made her so unique. When properly channeled, the passions that drove her beyond boundaries were an asset, particularly in her specialties of mechanics and engineering.
When others gave up, she was just getting started, formulating workarounds we’d never find in a repair manual. Pretty impressive for a seventeen-year-old. That said, many of her solutions bordered on unacceptably dangerous, which is also what made working with her both terrifying and exhilarating. Appropriately, that’s why Viv took to calling her “Ohno”—as in Oh no, she’s going to kill us all.
Then there was my friend Bix, with his no-crust peanut butter sandwich and “apple.” He might as well have pulled his lunch from a brown paper bag along with a note from his mother. A born savant, Bix had been raised in the lonely isolation of Earth’s Moon colonies, nourishing his gifts without almost all of the normal childhood distractions. His social development definitely suffered some for it, but by the time his family had migrated back to Earth, he had few, if any, intellectual peers.
Alliance Command had tried to recruit him into their Applied Sciences Laboratory three years ago, when he was thirteen. Thirteen. Despite the honor of the invitation, Bix had passed. Like the rest of us he wanted to be a pioneer, venturing deep into the heart of the universe to see its many wonders with his own two eyes. So instead, that same year he applied to the Explorers Program. The age requirement for cadet training was fourteen, but my father had made an exception. Bix was that special.
Standing five feet, six inches short on his tippy-toes, he wore glasses even though his nearsightedness could easily be corrected. “They just feel right on my face,” he would always say. Biology, astrophysics, quantum mechanics, and statistics were his favorite topics of conversation, which, needless to say, made conversations with him difficult. I didn’t mind, though. I couldn’t have hoped to have a better cadet on Analytics detail, and in the eighteen months since we’d all been brought together for the final phase of our training, he had become like a little brother to Viv and me.
I marveled at Safi’s perfect posture as she ate. She never even came close to resting her elbows on the table as she worked her tray in a clockwise rotation. Bite of chicken, bite of carrots, bite of potatoes, sip of water, and then back around again. Even the way she lined her tray up flush with the table’s edge. All patterns and precision. Kharagn was the Wolof word she used to describe herself. In her Senegalese language, it meant something like “meticulous.” She once told me that her habits gave her a sense of control in a world that had for so long been filled with chaos. I often wondered if my father had chosen her as a counterweight to the rest of us. He seemed to have a preference for candidates who were outside-the-box choices, and Safi was anything but. Rules were her religion, so I was glad she was on Nav detail. It meant we would never get lost.
My eyes finally came to rest on Viv. I caught her staring, but she quickly looked away while taking a small, disinterested bite of her cheeseburger. She was worried about me. Not just because of my performance at that morning’s Blink Drill, but everything leading up to it.
For as long as I could remember, she and I had been nipping at each other’s heels, and our friendly competition had always been a good thing. It pushed us to set higher goals. To work harder. To be better. But lately, whatever competitive fire I had left manifested as it did in our Iso-Rec race through the canyons. Not as healthy competition, but as petty, mean-spirited behavior that only put a strange, unfamiliar distance between us.
I wanted to confess. Tell her what was really going on inside me. But how could I? Finally applying our talents on the big stage of the Explorers Program, we were so close to the dream we had shared since childhood. My truth was a betrayal of all of it.
Viv was the best pilot I’d ever seen, and watching her at the controls of the mighty California, even just in drills, gave me a glimpse of the future I knew was hers. There was no doubt in my mind she was going to get everything she ever wanted. I was just terrified of how she’d react once she knew it would all have to happen without me.
She looked back in my direction, a distant, troubled look in her eyes. We both knew something needed to
be said, but the uncomfortable moment was interrupted by a tapping on my shoulder. Lorde.
“May I join you?” he asked, holding out his lunch tray.
There was no official rule that only cadets could sit together, but Lorde was smart enough to abide by an unwritten one. Each time he’d do the same thing—ask for permission as a bogus formality, knowing none of us would ever object in Viv’s presence.
I slid over to open a spot at the very end of the bench, implicitly granting my consent. Lorde ignored the space and muscled his way between Viv and me.
He swallowed a spoonful of his split pea PRM and said, “So I hear there was some excitement up on the bridge this morning.”
Viv put her hand on top of Lorde’s. “Please don’t start.”
At first it seemed strangely random that he’d so blatantly instigate something with me twice in one day, but then maybe he was beginning to see an opportunity for himself.
I glared at him. “How about you stop dancing and just tell us what’s really on your mind, Julian?”
Furrowing his brow, Lorde spooned another mouthful of soup. “Perhaps this is a conversation better had in private.”
“If you have something to say, you can say it in front of my friends.”
“Are you sure about that?”
Viv shot me a look before I could respond. There was really no need for me to indulge Lorde. I was quite sure I knew where he was going. After leaving Gallipoli, the California still had six long months left on its journey. He was probably fantasizing that if I actually did fall off the tightrope, they might need someone to replace me. No student had ever been granted a cadet field commission. It wasn’t even in the realm of possibility, as far as I knew. “You know what? Maybe you’re right. You can tell me what’s on your mind later.”
Ohno was the first to jump in and change the subject. “So why’d you get summoned to Gallipoli?” she asked Viv.
Viv swallowed like her food was made of broken glass. “I’m not supposed to say.”
“C’mon. It’s just us,” Ohno replied.
Safi bristled. “If she doesn’t feel comfortable, she doesn’t have to—”
“No, it’s okay,” Viv interrupted. “Just, guys, please. It stays here for now.”
Everyone nodded.
“Of course,” Lorde added unnecessarily.
“They found it. The Interceptor from the New Jersey.”
“Really?” I blurted.
“Yes. Complete with a pilot.”
“They got the guy?” Anatoly exclaimed.
“No,” answered Viv. “They think he came into possession of the ship later. After the attack. His story is he traded for it somewhere in the Outer Perimeter. Whether that’s true or not remains to be seen, but he’s definitely not the guy. He’s too young.”
“That’s odd,” said Lorde.
“That’s odd?” Viv scowled at him. “Sometimes you’ve really got a talent for heightening the art of the understatement.”
“Apologies, love. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Is there anything else? Does he have a name?” Ohno persisted, rolling right over Lorde’s faux pas.
“I don’t know his name. Only thing I know is we’re taking him and his ship with us to Wolf 1061c.”
“Wow,” said Bix, finally speaking up. “If we’re taking him with us all the way to Wolf 1061c, it’s probably safe to assume he’s not just a random Outer Perimeter pirate. I’d bet you ten Iso-Rec credits that Alliance Command knows exactly who he is.”
Viv pushed her lunch tray away in disgust. She had clearly deduced the same thing for herself and it was eating her up inside.
“Hey, this is a good thing,” I said. “One way or another, maybe we’ll finally get some answers.”
“He’s right,” Lorde added. “Just give it a little time for the clouds to part.”
Lorde had an infuriating way of using me as cover with Viv. If anything sensitive came up, he’d let me take the risk of speaking first, and, presuming I emerged unscathed, basically repeat the same sentiment in slightly different form.
Ohno and Anatoly smirked at me. Lorde’s repeated use of this cowardly tactic had become something of an inside joke between us.
Viv stood up, offering him a forced smile. “I’m gonna take a walk.”
“Shall I join you?” Lorde asked.
“No, I need some time to myself. Finish your lunch. I’ll see you in fourth.”
We waited for her to leave before we started to bat around our theories. We had plenty, but none of them were particularly insightful or likely to be accurate. There were still too many missing pieces. All we could do was fill the gaps with the same guesses that people had offered up a thousand times before. A mystery that had lingered as long as the one surrounding the UAS New Jersey wasn’t going to have any easy answers.
CHAPTER 8
VIV
MY LONG WALK AROUND THE LOWER DECKS managed to take some of the edge off my anxiousness, and I was counting on fourth block to help me knock out the rest. I scanned the gymnasium as I exited the locker room in my Alliance-issued T-shirt and shorts. Zeta Deck’s massive athletic facility always felt half-empty to me—probably because it was intended to accommodate hundreds of soldiers at a time. A handful of students jogged around the track encircling the periphery of a full-length basketball court, while several others made use of the adjacent batting cages and gymnastics floor. A few more lazily lounged on the spectators’ bleachers that overlooked it all.
Three times a week, we signed up for whatever sport or activity we wanted. A two-on-two basketball game was already in progress. I saw Bix and Anatoly hitting some balls in the batting cage. JD was usually with them, but I didn’t see him anywhere. Julian was among the handful running the track. Although I had barely snapped at him in the mess, his pouty expression told me he still felt wounded.
My day didn’t need more drama, so I smiled and gave him a quick wave to let him know he was off the hook.
I jogged over to an empty mat and stretched, ready to blow off some steam. I called out, “Activate Holosynth Kung Fu protocol, Level 6, please.”
At my prompt, a holo-synthesized avatar appeared in the middle of the mat. The ship utilized many kinds of Synths. Maintenance and Utility Synths helped support the ship’s basic functions. Preceptor Synths instructed our courses. And some served more critical functions, like Command and Emergency Support Synths, which could be automatically activated in the event of a crisis.
Synths simulated mass by channeling electromagnetic energy through motion-adaptive containment fields. Their sophisticated inner workings aside, they were ideal partners to beat the living daylights out of.
Some looked remarkably human, while others were humanoid in form but devoid of human features. My sparring partner was the latter, a generic, faceless avatar of light and energy.
My legs apart, knees bent, and arms extended, I readied myself opposite the Synth as it engaged me in combat. Crouching into my signature snake position—bending my body back and raising my head up to strike—I easily dodged the Synth’s first downward slicing blow and sprang forward with my own attack. I speedily circumvented its blocking attempts, stabbing its torso with exploding jabs from my tightly clenched fingers. Every shot landed with an outwardly bursting red circle with a numbered score displayed within it. Ten points. Ten points. Twenty points. Fifty points. In a matter of seconds, I had tallied one hundred points, and the Synth automatically returned to its resting position.
My father had started training me in various arts of hand-to-hand combat when I was barely old enough to walk. Karate, judo, capoeira, Krav Maga, and jogo do pau were just some of the disciplines in which he’d taught me the basics. After his death I continued training on my own. I loved doing it for myself and also as a way to honor his memory.
Word of my skills had gotten around the California quickly, which is why I only had Synths for opponents. No one else really wanted to risk the embarrassment of tak
ing me on. Except, of course, Julian.
“Impressive display,” I heard his voice call out from behind me, accompanied by some sarcastic applause. “For a simulation.”
“Oh, is that a challenge? Does someone want another shot at the title?”
He stepped forward to the center of the mat and assumed ready position. “Don’t mind if I do.”
I began circling him in anticipation of his first strike.
“What are you waiting for?”
“For the right moment, love.”
I leapt forward with a rear leg front kick, which he easily blocked. “I’ll start easy,” I said. “Let me know when you’re ready for me to start trying.”
“Ah, and so the psychological warfare begins,” he answered while glancing my shoulder with a poorly executed Wing Chun punch.
Both of us stepped back and resumed our dance. As we circled each other, I drifted toward distraction, my thoughts returning to the Interceptor and its pilot.
“I have a proposition for you, Jules,” I said, forcing myself to turn the page to something less consequential.
“You have my attention, as always,” he replied while still stalking me.
“Tell me what you know about tonight, and I’ll end this quickly.”
“You must be referring to that unspoken something that John and Mr. Bixby may or may not have been planning for your birthday,” said Julian as he assumed a dragon pose, his legs spread wide and fingers curled into claws at the ends of his outstretched arms. “If I had been invited to partake in this . . . experience . . . I’d probably feel compelled to honor their request for my confidence.”
I halted and invited him to attack with a dismissive wave of my hand.
Julian sprang forward. Casually sidestepping his offensive, I grabbed his left wrist and pulled him over my back. As soon as he landed on the mat, I dropped my two knees down on either side of his waist, pinning him. “Whattaya know?” I teased. “Looks like I’m on top again.”