“Their heart rates never rose significantly, Tom’s rose just not much,” Hawking says, tapping on their names on the screen, “Look, these are films of their brain activity at the presentation of the traumatic incident. See that lighter spot at the bottom of Tom’s brainstem? That’s the amygdala saying ‘you should be afraid of this somebody died’---and here’s King’s, it’s all glowing saying ‘oh my god oh my god somebody is dead that could be you oh my god’ and then there’s Card’s. Look, no amygdala involvement, no cortisol released, no adrenaline. That’s actually a very bad thing in a foot soldier, and in fact it’s a bit dangerous for him in combat rolls, because what that means is, his brain has no concept that if he’s seeing people die, people like him, he might die. Tom has some involvement, enough to know ‘somebody died, I might as well’ she may have some empathy as well, but it’s very low. Card has none, he’s not even experiencing stress or adrenaline simply put, his brain is not functioning correctly. But for our purposes, it’s brilliant, because he doesn’t miss a beat he keeps those fine motor skills to keep him and his Spacemen out of danger.”
“Huh, I didn’t know all that, thanks,” I say.
“How long have you been doing these reviews not knowing all this?” Thorn asks.
“I don’t remember,” I say, tapping on Liesel’s to see her brain. A comforting amount of electrical activity in the amygdala. Good. “How does somebody like that function, then? If he doesn’t have that part of his brain working?”
“Learned behaviors, he knows other people are human therefore they must be hungry and cold because he gets hungry and cold, he can create a system of understand it. but he doesn’t have that instant sense of seeing somebody crying and walking up and hugging them.
“Not specifically because he doesn’t care---love is a totally different portion of the brain, we don’t understand how it functions without amygdala involvement, but it has been proven to--- so, he sees his boyfriend or girlfriend crying and his automatic response is ‘what’s wrong?’ or ‘stop’ because he wants to know what is wrong or for them not to be upset, not to walk up and hug and comfort them like you or I would. Now it can be and probably has been learned, he knows his mum is crying, she tells him ‘mummy is crying, she needs a hug’ well next time he’ll probably say ‘do you need a hug?’ but the difference is it’s a learning base, not an emotion triggered reaction.”
“What’s wrong with you?” I ask, staring at Logan, who is crying.
“Those images, Titus, they were awful,” Leavitt says, hugging Logan kindly.
“We knew that was part of it beforehand it’s not like they’re real,” I say to Logan.
“It was s-s—s-till t—t—terrible,” Logan sobs into Leavitt.
“Poor Logan, they were rotten weren’t they? But it’s not true,” Tom says, coming up and patting him.
“It was rather over done,” I say, climbing back into the simulator. I want to go flying again. It’s not really flying I know but it’s as close as I’m going to get for a while and I want to enjoy every minute of it that I can.
“Aww, you okay?” Liesel ask, hugging Logan and giving Leavitt the break, “I know I didn’t like it either.”
“The wh---h---h—ole thing was horrible. I’m no good at flying and I didn’t want to do it I was just hoping that I would crash----and then it would time out b-b—but th---this other sh---ship kept s-s—s-aving me at the l—last minute and it went on and on and then those awful pictures of my whole family and all of you dead,” Logan sobs.
“Oh---you were trying to crash? I thought---never mind, sorry,” I say, trying to deconstruct the override to turn back on the simulator.
“You kept saving me?” Logan asks, looking betrayed.
“I didn’t know! You’re usually incompetent, so it looked normal,” I say, holding up my hands.
“Titus that was nice of you, and good job apologizing to him when you realized it upset him,” Tom says.
“I am not usually incomp—incomp—” Logan still can’t speak clearly.
“Yes, you----you kind of are,” Liesel says.
“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to break it to you but you do actually suck at everything,” Leavitt says.
“Oh---well I was intentionally-- ---this time,” Logan says.
“Right, sorry, then---let’s coordinate, next time, so I know,” I say, leaning out of the simulator, I’m not able to get it working and they’ll be coming for us soon.
“There won’t be a next time, I don’t want to be here, I just hate it, I want to go home,” Logan sobs, as Liesel hugs him.
“Oh me too,” Leavitt says, patting his back.
“You know what I do whenever I feel like that? I try to think of the next good thing I’m going to do,” Liesel says, “Like tonight, we get to go to our dorm rooms, and set those up. It’s only two to a room so that’s way better, and look on the bright side, they sort by job so there’s no way you’ll be anywhere near Titus.”
“Oh, that is true,” Logan says, sniffling a little less, “I’ll get more sleep.”
“I don’t keep you up, and I make your bed,” I say, indignantly.
“No, but you lying there rubbing your head and not sleeping is creepy,” Logan says.
“Yeah, it actually is,” Liesel says.
“You’re nowhere near me,” I say.
“Nor am I but it still is,” Leavitt says.
“Okay, I’m going to disagree on that one I like it because I figure if something happens like a fire he’ll be awake and wake the rest of us up,” Tom says.
I don’t tell her if there were a fire I’d probably just leave and not wake anybody up.
Chapter 12
S o, I actually thought that after waking up next to the severed head of one of my friends, nothing would really affect me so far as roommates, for this next stage of the training. I mean, come on, what could be worse than what I went through? Of course, I found out.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, slowly backing out the door and double checking the room number.
“This is my room, we’re roommates, you see. In the letter it said ‘go to your assigned room which you will be sharing with your roommate for the remainder of training; I should’ve thought that it was a bit obvious,” Titus says, slowly, as he puts his duffel bag at the end of the bunk bed. there is a bunkbed against one wall, desks against the other, a tiny closet, a tinier bathroom, and a little ironing board. The most space I’ve ever had to myself in my life, and I am sharing it with Satan.
“Yes, I did read that---but you’re going to be a pilot. I’m not, I’m rot at flying,” I say, shaking my head, “They sort our rooms by what jobs we’re assigned to and I’m rot at flying.”
“Well, we’ve not actually got our letters yet, we get those after dinner, so we don’t know what job I was assigned to,” he says, “But, since I failed everything but that---it would seem you are a pilot.”
“No, I’m not that good, I hate stressful situations, I’m much better with machines,” I say, still not coming in the room.
“Well, it would seem you are, or they’ve decided to alter my test scores or something odd, but as flying was the only test I passed and therefore qualified for, it would seem you did as well. Even though you fly like a damp marsupial---”
“If I knew what that meant I’d deck you again---”
“You said you knew you were rot----anyway, even though you do have the elegance of a diseased gallinule, qualifying pilots are relatively rare, so if you did qualify based on physiological factors---”
“Wait, wait, speak English for a minute---”
“I was my command of it is just superior to yours---”
“Your command of it is superior to Shakespeare---”
“Agreed I have access to far more words than he did---”
“Going on, Titus, what are you talking about? Either you qualify or you don’t, how could I qualify when I don’t fly half as well as you or Tom?” I ask.
�
��Physiological factors,” he says.
“What’s that mean?” I ask.
“You’re fit and clever, and you have a high dissociation rate,” he says.
“What’s that mean?” I ask.
“In pilots, they look for people who can, in situations of stress and trauma, immediately calm themselves again, regaining gross motor skills quicker and getting yourself out of danger---you see adrenaline does us a lot of good when we’re running about the woods with sticks and stones, but when we’re operating a million rubles ship sailing through space, not so much, you need clear thinking---so they only draft people who either do not respond to situations of trauma or stress with adrenaline---”
“That would be you---”
“---and people who have a quick rate of disassociation. Disassociation is the brain’s response to a traumatic situations, it’s the brain tricking itself into believing, ‘this isn’t really happening to Leavitt’, so you can calm down in the situation and get yourself out of it,” Titus explains, going to the bottom bunk which I suppose he’s claimed. “So, I’m guessing you’re the latter, as you said I’m probably the former. But you---you’ve been exposed to trauma so your brain is very comfortable shutting off.”
“Yes,” I groan, leaning in the doorway. Damn it Ian. You had to ruin this for me too.
“Flying is fantastic, we get to sail through the stars, the best of the best, the Spacemen that make the space forces what they are. Not a grease monkey or cave dweller, but an actual Spaceman, with a mission and goals and Isylgyns to destroy,” he says, eagerly, “Why are you so upset?”
“I have to spend the next nine weeks rooming with you?” I say, in my obvious voice.
“What that’s it?” he scoffs.
“Most of it,” I say, nodding.
“My brothers survived sixteen years in the same room as me I think you’ll be all right for a couple of months,” he says, going over to his bed to start making it.
“And during that time how many times were they sent to the hospital?” I ask, still not going in the room.
“Ah---just sent or had to stay over night?”
“Let’s keep it manageable and go with had to stay overnight.”
“One hundred and seventy eight.”
“Individually?”
“That was an average of individually.”
“Oh dear God.”
“He doesn’t care about you.”
“I hate so much about who you are.”
“Hello?” I say, coming into my room. Darla is sitting on her bed, it’s already made. I was late coming up because I had to walk Logan to his room and avoid Titus who probably wanted to sneak off and make out somewhere and I really just wanted to get my room set up. We could be starting school tomorrow, I wanted to be ready for inspections.
She doesn’t look up, staring at her tablet. Her eyes are red as though from crying. I wonder if she’s still thinking about Tyrell. Probably. She did seem to love him.
I sigh. She’s already taken the top bunk as well, I rather wanted it. I don’t really want to room with her. She’s generally not the nicest person, and now that her boyfriend tried to kill mine it’s even more awkward.
“I’m glad it didn’t work,” she says.
“What?” I ask, setting my bag down.
“My boyfriend killing yours,” she says.
“Why?” I ask, because she’s not saying it in a good I’m glad he’s alive way. Granted that’s not the sort of thing one would say about Titus anyway.
“Just am,” she says, softly.
“Okay,” I say, beginning to unfold my sheets. It’s going to be a long nine weeks.
“They hate each other,” Wilde observes.
“I don’t see why you didn’t agree to my suggestion,” I say, sitting slumped at the computer monitors. I want a drink, but unfortunately Hawking is in favor of her fiancée’s James-sobriety-thing, so I don’t get one.
“Because we can’t put males with females, it’s against regulation,” she says.
“No, it’s against precedent, which is stupid because they are all sterilized anyway, so why not let them knock themselves out? It’s antiquated, same sex can do the very same thing, gasp shock horror, sex, could be going on, but nobody cares because no baby can come out of it, well all the little hooligans are fixed so why not let them be happy?” I ask, “Card and Tom have been dying to get it on since they laid eyes on each other and that little harlot---”
“Seriously, James, I don’t even know what you’re talking about and I know you shouldn’t be,” Hawking says, walking in.
“---has been wanting to undress Leavitt for weeks, so why make everybody miserable?” I ask.
“For one thing---sterilization procedures are not 100% effective,” Wilde begins.
“No, seriously, what are you guys talking about?” Hawking asks.
“Cadets rooms---with the males it isn’t, but that’s fairly rare and how can it not work on the girls?” I ask, frowning. I knew vasectomies occasionally weren’t effective, but those were pretty low odds.
“Tying the girl’s tubes doesn’t always work either, they can grow a new one, or the knot isn’t tight enough,” Wilde says.
“Really? That’s very interesting---but anyway what are the odds of that?” I ask.
“Really low, especially so soon after the procedure, but we still cannot put them in the same room,” Hawking says, almost laughing.
“When since the beginning of time has separate sleeping arrangements EVER prevented teenagers from conducting advanced studies in human anatomy?” I ask.
“Probably never, however, it is the sub-mission of the Space Forces to try,” Hawking says, amused though she tries not to show it.
“You two don’t actually have to help me with this Space Force mission, neither of you are technically assigned here, I’m fine, though of course your company is appreciated,” Wilde says.
“Actually they did assign me here, since Ebbel’s dead and I was just using my leave to hang about,” I say.
“Until the powers that be discover who and what decided to wash Ebbel I’m not leaving you alone, far too strange a things are going on here,” Hawking says.
“See? You agree,” I say, pointing at her.
“I agree odd things are happening, that does not necessarily mean the end of the universe as we know it,” she says.
“Or it might,” I mutter.
“But you’re going to just let everyone die, right?”
“Right,” I sulk.
I actually find arranging the dorm room is sort of soothing. As I said, I have never had so much space just to myself before. Me and my mom and Ian and Ginny and I always shared just the one little bathroom and one little closet and one bedroom so my mum and her boyfriend and later my mum and Ginny slept in the one room, with me and Ian always in the living room, then of course just me.
But this room is actually bigger than the flat, and that is really saying something because I realize that this room is not so big. But we each have not one but two dressers, and a desk. I have never had a desk before and it makes me feel a bit grown up, which I rather like, as though I’ll be doing important things on it to help me and my mum. Just me and my mum, now.
Odd that, how easily our family slips apart and my mind sheds the pieces of what my life used to be so readily, so prepared for the disasters that would befall us. I didn’t understand why, really. We weren’t bad. We didn’t do bad stuff, my mum worked hard to take care of us and she even had less to eat sometimes so we could, and before I started drinking I used to do well in school and work hard. Even after I started drinking I worked side jobs to make us money so Ginny could have clean dresses and sweet little notebooks and things to use at school so she’d fit in with the other girls. Again, odd how that doesn’t matter anymore.
I sigh, pushing my dismal thoughts away. it’s surprisingly therapeutic to roll and fold shirts and put them in MY dresser. Which yes, I realize a million and one hands h
ave touched before but you know, now it’s mine. Titus must feel the same way because the little thing is strutting around happily in those SBUs they had to alter just to fit his smallness. He’s putting all his things away and checking the diagrams they left in the dressers for us. I’ll bet he’s never had so much space in his life either, he’s city trash like me I know he never had anywhere so neat and clean not with four brothers who shared a room with him.
But forget about him, even if he is in the lower bunk. This is my new home for a while, and I might as well enjoy it. I am actually beginning to feel like myself again, a little. Sitting in my PT clothes, all comfortable, with my fresh smelling shirts laid out around me. this is what my life will be like, I realize, a bit happily. Clean clothes and always someplace to wash them, for free. An actual bed to myself and dresser, money in the bank for extras like books or a new tablet. And my mum wouldn’t have to work two jobs ‘cause I’d send her money as well.
“What are you humming?” Titus asks, looking up at me almost sharply.
“I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head.
“You must know,” he says, annoyed.
“It’s just some song my mum used to sing to me and my sister when we were little,” I say, “I don’t know what it’s called.”
“Tell me the words,” Titus says, sitting down on the floor amidst the things he’s folding, looking at me like an expectant child awaiting a bedtime story.
“With a hey ho---the wind and the rain---for the rain it raineth every day,” I sing hesitantly.
“Go on,” he says, flatly.
“When I was and a little tiny boy, with hey ho, the wind and the rain,
a foolish thing was but a toy, for the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came to a man’s estate,
with a hey ho, the wind and the rain,
‘gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate, but the rain it raineth every day----there›s more but I can›t think of it. I don›t what it›s about, but I always thought it sounded nice,» I admit.
“It does, sound nice,” he says, nodding, “Do you want me to tell you?”
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