by Britt Ringel
“But what if I’m wrong?”
“Then sailors will die.”
Chapter 8
Aoife Covington stared at the window-mode wall screen inside her classroom. It was early fall in Port Crown and the northern continent of Seshafi Major would not see higher temperatures than the pleasant thirty degrees Celsius outside. The on-shore wind, bringing a laden cloud cover with it, caused the trees to sway in hypnotic fashion. When combined with lessons on “Etiquette of the Ball Room,” the view threatened to push her into a trance. The clouds drifting by, the leaves fluttering from the trees, she could almost feel the breeze on her face.
“Aoife, define the dance flow on a standard ballroom floor.”
Covington tore herself away from her imagined nap under the large tree just meters from her classroom. She turned to look at the expectant teacher with confused, green eyes. “Um, what, Miss Marshall?”
“I thought so,” the teacher answered dryly while walking to her desk. “I bet you could tell me how many birds were in that old alder tree though.” She tapped the keyboard on her desk’s surface and the wall screen immediately blanked out to match the classroom’s white interior. Groans from other students punctuated its transition. “You’re going to be expected to know this for the exam, young lady.”
“Nice going, O-fie,” Melissa Barrington muttered just loud enough for the entire class to hear. Several students giggled.
“That’s enough, Miss Barrington,” the teacher warned. “Now, if Aoife had been paying attention, she would have answered ‘Counter-clockwise.’ Gentlemen, since you’ll be leading, it’s imperative that you understand this. The last thing you want to do is knock into another couple on the floor during a corporate event.”
Covington sighed and leaned back into her chair. Fortunately, Marshall appeared content to let her inattentiveness slide with little more than a verbal rebuke. It was not that Covington hated school, she just hated this school.
She looked around the room at her classmates. Each was the offspring of a high-level executive from either Seshafi’s own AmyraCorp or Sade’s IaCom. There were even exchange students sent by influential parents from the Lagrin and Ardea corporate systems. It was elitism at its rankest. She continued studying the classroom, stopping at Melissa Barrington. Just like Melissa, each member of the class acted as if they deserved their preferential treatment despite doing nothing to have earned it.
It had not always been this way. Aoife Covington and her older brother, Clayton, had attended the AmyraCorp public education trust in New Port, Seshafi’s former capital. However, as relations chilled between Seshafi and its closest neighbor, Sade, the seat of AmyraCorp’s government moved to the more strategic and symbolic city of Port Crown. Seven years older than Aoife, Clayton Covington had long graduated from secondary school and entered the military academy before the move. Since the relocation, IaCom’s foreboding overtures had subsided somewhat but Aoife was without her long-time friends and the only home she had ever known. She had been attending her new school for only two months but it was more than enough time to know she hated it.
Covington’s eyes focused past Barrington to a girl seated in front of the arrogant, young noble. Jessica Warthall was writing on a piece of paper. A student would only use pen and paper to pass a note to a friend in the middle of class. If Warthall were taking notes about the lesson she would undoubtedly be recording them on her datapad. However, every student’s datapad was transmission-blocked while on school property, a policy meant to reinforce academic focus. Students thus resorted to the time-honored tradition of passing paper notes to communicate clandestinely during a lecture.
A devious smile threatened to break over Covington. She raised her hand, waiting to be called upon. Once acknowledged, Covington quickly rose from her seat and said, “Excuse me, Miss Marshall, but I must use the facilities.” Marshall merely nodded and resumed her lengthy explanation of the finer points of ballroom etiquette.
Covington slowly shuffled her way toward the classroom door, measuring her pace. As she ambled past Barrington, she delicately flicked the young woman’s stylus onto the floor. Two steps later, Covington slowed even more and reached out to successfully snatch the tiny square of paper from Warthall’s desk. Ignoring the quiet protestations from the note’s owner, Covington stuffed the paper into her pocket and quickened her pace to the exit.
Out in the hall, Covington began to laugh. Even if Warthall wanted to pursue her, Miss Marshall would not allow more than one student to leave the classroom at a time. With a satisfied grin, Covington stepped down the hall on light feet. The hallway had been decorated for next week’s slamball match against the school’s rival.
She entered the foyer adjoining the bathroom and looked into the mirror. As usual, her frizzy, red hair was barely managed by her loose braid. The meager amount of makeup she wore, used only to even her pale complexion, was holding up. She washed her hands to waste more time before heading back to the hallway. As she passed the waste can, she fished the stolen note from her pocket and held it toward the receptacle before hesitating. Despite the violation of privacy, she smoothed out the crumpled paper and began to read:
Mel, tell your brother that he needs to make more Squash for next weekend’s party. Colby getting sick was just an accident and nobody cares about him anyway. Everyone I’ve talked to wants it so we’re counting on him to keep his warehouse open. Credits aren’t a problem so expect a big—
Covington realized she had snatched the note before it could be finished. Instead of tossing the note into the trash can, she doubled back to the bathroom and flushed it down the toilet.
* * *
Twenty-five minutes later, Covington felt her locker against her back. “Of course I read the note, you idiot. What’s Squash?”
Melissa Barrington and Jessica Warthall exchanged nervous looks. Barrington took another step closer. “You better not say a word, outcast.” Her face sobered fractionally and real sincerity crept into her voice. “Seriously, Aoife, if you tell anyone about the note, something really bad will happen to you.”
Barrington began to move away but solemnly added, “I mean it. We don’t care who your parents are. If you screw with us, we’ll kill you.”
The blunt words widened Covington’s eyes. In two months of animosity, the squabbles between her and Barrington never amounted to more than insults and hair pulling. The naked death threat seemed completely out of proportion to the simple note she had intercepted.
“O-okay,” Covington attempted to placate meekly as she held her hands up. “I’ll pretend I didn’t read it.” Barrington gave Covington a final, pointed look before sauntering away with her sidekick.
What have I gotten myself into? Covington asked herself. I should just drop it. Just accept the fact that nobody likes me here, get through the next year and a half and start over at university.
Down the hall, Barrington was in conversation with her brother and both were looking Covington’s direction. Covington quickly turned away, trying not to look intimidated. She swiped her datapad over her locker controls and the door to the narrow alcove opened. After docking her datapad, she synched it with the school’s main computer to ensure there were no addenda from her teachers. She then downloaded the practice exam for mathematics and lifted her coat from its hanger.
A sharp shove to her back knocked her off balance, pushing her partially into her locker. After righting herself, she watched Paul Barrington walk away from her toward a school exit. An angry ember flickered into fire.
Just close your locker and go home, Aoife.
* * *
A half hour later, Covington was deeper into the manufacturing district of Port Crown than she had ever been. The overcast, grey sky matched the unwelcoming city quarter, run down by years of abuse and neglect. The smell of approaching rain and sound of thunder did little to mask the aroma of rancid chemicals mixed with the noise of industry. A crash from inside a working factory made her jump.
&nbs
p; She clenched her teeth against the growing strain. Oh, sure. I complain about my sheltered life but as soon as I see the real world, I act like a scared, little girl.
A second crash sent another jolt through her, this one from the sky as fat raindrops began to fall. Steeling her reserves, she forced herself to focus on her target. Two blocks ahead, Paul Barrington and three of his friends were striding down the block like they owned it. Covington recognized one of Barrington’s friends from her own grade but the other two were unknown upperclassmen. One of the boys shoved another as they turned a corner.
Covington immediately broke from the cover of a weathered awning and raced in pursuit of her quarry. She sprinted down the block, hurdling a rusting pile of trash that appeared to have been deliberately gathered for reasons unknown. As she approached the corner, she slowed her pace, nearly slipping on the wet pavement, and crept along the side of a deserted building to peek cautiously into the cross-street.
Half a block ahead of her, the last of the boys entered a vacant building through a broken window. Whatever purpose the building once served, it now stood as a pathetic testament to the district’s waning industrial economy. The company’s sign had been removed long ago, leaving only an outline where it had once hung over a chained and locked double door.
Covington waited a full minute before crossing the street and stalking up to the abandoned building. Mechanical crashes echoed from the corner she had left behind. Her footsteps crackled over the debris near the shattered window but Covington remained confident that the district’s cacophony and the sound of the falling rain would mask any noise she might make. She peered into the building, seeing only the decayed remains of what may have been an office. Mindful of the jagged glass along the sill, she nimbly hoisted herself up and through the window.
The office was empty except for desiccated bits of ceiling on the floor. Covington’s heart raced as she realized that she would have to go deeper into the building if she wanted the answer to her mystery. She thought of her brother. He had been nervous, even scared, the day he shipped out to Sekhmet Naval Academy. Yet he had faced those fears and excelled.
She stepped warily toward the doorway. The door was already retracted, standard procedure for a building without power. She poked her head around the opening.
A dark, deserted hallway lay past the office. Muffled voices could be heard in one direction. Fortifying herself, Covington entered the gloom and prowled toward the noise. She passed two more offices but curiously, the doors were closed. As she approached the end of the hallway, the voices grew more distinct.
“You need to get more toluene or we won’t be able to make enough for next weekend. This stuff takes forever to process.”
“That’s easy. The problem is getting the medicine. Sure, anyone can buy it but it’s a little suspicious when I’m buying ten boxes.”
“Just go to a bunch of different stores.”
Covington eased up to the end of the hall.
“It’s not exactly cheap, Paul, and my father cut off my allowance for a month because I missed curfew last weekend.”
“Take this. We’ll make it up this weekend.”
“Paul!” Melissa Barrington’s shrill voice called from behind Covington.
Covington spun around to find her nemesis and an upperclassman standing near the office she had used to enter the building.
“Paul!” Melissa cried out again as she sneered. “I told you she wouldn’t listen.”
Covington’s eyes darted from her blocked escape route to her remaining options. Only two doors offered any hope of freedom. She quickly moved to the first door and tapped at its controls. The unpowered door failed to open.
“Stupid girl,” Paul Barrington hissed from the end of the hall. He stepped threateningly toward her. Two of his friends barred escape behind him.
Hands shaking, Covington desperately took her last chance at salvation but found the second door, likewise, refused to move.
“Kick her ass, Paul,” Melissa encouraged from farther down the hall. A rolling cavalcade of thunder augmented her malice. The rain was coming down in sheets now.
Without hope of escape, Covington turned to face Paul Barrington. The seventeen-year-old was a mountain compared to her. She feebly raised uncertain hands and curled them into tight, trembling fists.
Moments later, different fists rained down upon her.
* * *
The words from the public address system carried across the parade grounds and bounced off the OTS dormitory, several hundred meters away. “Only the trainees who demonstrate the highest qualities of leadership and academic excellence graduate from Officer Training School.” Captain Altman paused, waiting for his echo to subside. His eyes swept over three squadrons of students in their final moments as trainees.
“And from that elite crop of individuals, a few men and women rise even higher to distinguish themselves in a school that is, by design, engineered to eliminate anyone not worthy of becoming an officer in the Brevic Navy. Not every class of officer trainees has distinguished graduates. Distinguished graduates must stand out by their own efforts, not because of a quota.” Altman smiled while waiting for the echoes to pass.
“I am proud to announce that Class Ninety-five, Oh-five has four such outstanding individuals present.” He cast his head to the side, toward the stands. “Please join me in a round of applause for Officer Trainees: Nessa Acevedo, Troy Pagnosky, Dean Rider and Caden Twist.” Applause erupted as the audience rose in a standing ovation.
Deep within the ranks of Squadron-3, Caden Twist felt his cheeks flush red. He had always hated being singled out, for good or bad. He turned his thoughts inward, shielding himself from the attention while reflecting on the announcement. I worked very hard to graduate but I didn’t exactly try to stand out. Do I deserve DG or is this just the influence of my mother? He bit down hard in an effort to tamp down his suspicion. Stop it, Caden! You excelled in the academic and fitness portions of the program. Maybe the practical stuff was harder for you but you did pass and didn’t Lieutenant Boslet say that you got your squad further than anyone else in the leaders reaction course?
“Congratulations, Caden.” The whisper carried just loudly enough for Twist to hear. The voice was unmistakably Kirkpatrick’s.
Altman’s voice drowned out any further acclamations. “Trainees, please raise your right hand and repeat after me.”
As one, the remaining individuals of Class 95-05 lifted their hands. Nearly forty percent of the original aspirants was missing. A third of the absentees had been either eliminated from the program or recycled into the lower class for a final attempt. The rest were the concurrents, who had shipped out less than a week ago by necessity. Both their officer and flight training would be completed during their travel to the home of the Republic, the Bree star system. After a brief layover for munitions ships, they would continue their journey toward the Metis star system where newly commissioned carriers impatiently awaited their pilots.
Twist felt his heart begin to race. The moment had finally come. Ever since the news of Logan’s death, he had known that he would be required to enter the military to fulfill the Twist legacy of service to the Republic. Part of him had believed he was incapable of meeting the rigorous demands of Officer Training School but he had done it. He had placed the self-doubt aside and accomplished the many tasks one hurdle at a time, crossing out each day of the program until none remained. He heard his voice repeating the Republic oath for commissioned officers, ending with his solemn promise to defend the Republic from all enemies and bear true faith and allegiance to the same. He had memorized the words long ago, as had the entire student body, but repeating them aloud evoked a gravity far greater than either of New London’s shining stars.
“Class Ninety-five, Oh-five,” Altman continued after the oath, “you have graduated and entered into the Brevic Navy as ensigns. I congratulate each of you. You are dismissed!”
The neat columns and rows of newly minted
ensigns dissolved into a mass of jubilation. Twist felt Kirkpatrick grapple him from behind in a fierce hug. All around him, he saw the people he had grown to trust bearing the same looks of joy and disbelief. It was finally over. As he moved from flight mate to flight mate for a hug or handshake, he realized that he would never see most of these people again.
After wishing Ensign Bell the very best, Twist searched once more for Kirkpatrick. He walked up to the young officer and pulled fresh ensign’s epaulettes from his own pants pocket. Kirkpatrick mirrored the action with a broad smile. They had promised to help each other replace their OT rank epaulettes with their new, real ranks. The pledge was kept and Twist removed his cover. He carefully pinned a shiny, gold bar onto his hat. He donned it and saw others in his flight performing the same action. After seeing his friends wearing officer trainee rank for so long, it was strange to see them wearing actual officer’s rank.
Practice is over, Caden. You’re a real officer now. The realization made his stomach flip.
Friends and family moved onto the parade grounds, bringing a new round of hugs and handshakes. Occasionally, a father or mother wearing a navy uniform could be seen greeting their son or daughter with a love-filled salute. Hugs followed the formality more often than not. Although improper by regulation, no one would rebuke the displays of affection given the circumstances. Twist grinned as he saw the fresh ensigns hand silver coins to the recipient of their first salute. He continued to scan the crowd, searching. Finally, he saw his mother and father speaking with Captain Altman. Two members of Sabrina Twist’s staff were recording the assistant secretary’s visit to the Officer Training School facility. Not wanting to approach the commandant, Twist turned to Kirkpatrick. “Were your folks able to make it, Vix?”
Kirkpatrick nodded while conducting his own scan of the crowd. “Mom and my two brothers had to stay in Narvi because of a construction project but Dad and Lilly made the trip.” Lilly Kirkpatrick was Vix’s only sister, sandwiched between two older brothers and the youngest, Vix himself. “I want you to meet them, Caden, and, uh, would it be possible for my family to meet your mom?” Kirkpatrick smiled bashfully. He nearly kicked at the ground but stopped himself, preserving the shine on his shoes. “I know you don’t like to hear it but she’s kind of a big deal.”
