by Susan Wright
Titus knew he probably had the same pained expression as Eto Mahs as he tried to get Vestabo to stop and go right instead of left. It was excruciating, knowing that he knew the fight path but he wasn’t able to tell the kid. And Vestabo didn’t exactly trust him at this point.
Still, Vestabo finally lifted his hands in surrender and returned to the instructions with Titus. He read them again, and pointed in the recommended direction. Titus insistently pointed the other way, and when Vestabo wavered, Titus started jogging toward the spot where he knew the break in the barrier would be.
Vestabo had to run after him. They were supposed to stay together, according to the underlined order on each set of instructions, otherwise the course would automatically end. It turned into to a race, and Titus couldn’t bear to look back at Vestabo’s concerned expression, obviously worried about his sanity.
Yet when he found the opening and showed him how they could slip through, Vestabo grinned and pounded Titus on the shoulder in congratulations. The kid was so nice about it that he couldn’t even get irritated, much as it galled him to have a first‑year cadet condescend to him.
By the fourth obstacle–the anti‑grav jump, complete with trick pad that let Vestabo sail over while Titus bobbed up and down like a puppet on a string–Titus was ready to call it quits. He’d had enough of these jokes. He hadn’t signed up for this.
Besides, every set of instructions taunted him with the fact that he could simply say “End program” and the torture would be over. He sneered at the wording: “The course will be deemed satisfactorily completed upon the command to End program.” The first time around with Eto Mahs, he had hardly paid attention to that disclaimer, believing there had to be some sort of black mark that would result from quitting such an easy obstacle course.
Now, the only thing that kept him bobbing up and down, trying vainly to get over the obstacle, was the image of Eto Mahs with his mouth set in a tight line, his dark eyes burning down at Titus as he leaped up and down, trying to get over. And his grim expression of satisfaction when he finally did make it to the other side.
A low whistle made Titus look up. Vestabo winked and held up an apple he had plucked from the tree. He was sitting on the wall overlooking the gate, in exactly the same spot Titus had taken after he had completed the task of turning the handle. Now it was Titus sweating and grunting over his unmovable handle.
Vestabo gestured with the apple, then tossed it to him. Titus caught it without thinking, then realized it was just what he needed. He sat on the ground, leaning against the gate, and sank his teeth into the plump, green apple. Sweet, tart juiciness spread across his tongue. He hadn’t eaten an apple yesterday.
Titus nodded up at Vestabo in thanks. The kid shrugged it off with nothing but sympathy in his expression. Maybe he knew there was some sort of trick going on. Titus hoped so. He hated to think of Vestabo’s disillusionment when he had to go through the course a second time. Titus had figured out that all the volunteers were made to go through twice. Little things he hadn’t noticed now stood out. The way Eto Mahs knew exactly where to go to get to each obstacle, and his anguished expression when they had first entered the course. Titus knew exactly how he felt, except he didn’t have someone subtly tormenting him with derision every step of the way.
With that thought, he got back up to tackle the gate. He didn’t care if it killed him, he couldn’t give up when Eto Mahs didn’t.
It was full dark and they were trudging up the steep slope, when the computer voice announced, “Your time is up. Thank you for participating in Communications Course #105.”
The mountainside glimmered, flattening into the holoprojection before disappearing. Titus blinked wearily up at the orange‑gridded walls. All he could think was–it’s over!
As the door slid open and two lab techs with padds entered, Titus quickly stuck out his hand for Vestabo to shake. He even clasped his other hand over the kid’s, looking at him intently, wishing he could warn him. He hoped Vestabo wouldn’t get stuck with someone like him on the tough round.
This time, Titus was shown directly into a room where a white‑coated scientist was waiting. She smiled perfunctorily, getting up with a device in hand and coming around the desk. She pressed the device to his throat. She was a little taller than he was, very slender with short reddish‑blond hair. She was also nearly two decades older than him, but he felt an immediate sense of attraction.
“I’m Professor Joen B’ton,” she told him. “There, you can speak now, Cadet Hammon Titus.”
“That was a psych project, wasn’t it?” he asked, rubbing his throat.
“No, a communications project,” she told him, returning to her seat. “But psychology is an integral part of communications, since it concerns a common system of symbols.”
“I failed, didn’t I?” Titus asked.
Her blue eyes widened slightly. “There is no failure in this project, we simply gather data. The fact that you completed the course two days in a row is excellent. I wanted to thank you–”
“Thankme?” he interrupted, wondering if maybe she had missed Eto Mahs on his way out.
“Yes, you’ve provided us with some valuable data, Cadet Titus.” Professor B’ton held out her hand. “Thank you for volunteering your time.”
What could he do? Titus shut his mouth, shook her hand, and got out of there.
But the sour taste in his mouth stayed with him as he packed and left the Academy. Even during the transport to Paris, where he checked into his assigned quarters at the Federation Assembly dormitories, there was a nagging sense of something left incomplete. He unsuccessfully tried to distract himself with the new sights and sounds of European Earth.
Idly checking over his rooms, he actually wished he had a roommate, someone to help fill up the silence. He decided he didn’t like absolute quiet anymore, not after forty‑eight hours of it. He said, “Computer!” intending to request music.
Instead, he asked, “Do you have an Academy field assignment for Cadet Eto Mahs?”
“Ensign Eto Mahs has graduated and is currently on leave in Rumoi, Hokkaido.”
“What will his assignment be when he returns?”
“That information is not available,” the computer said sweetly.
“Thanks a lot,” Titus muttered.
“Incoming message,” the computer responded.
Titus practically leapt for the desk. “On screen!”
The image of Professor Joen B’ton appeared on the screen, her cheeks rounded in a smile. “Cadet Titus, it’s good to see you again.”
“Uh, you, too, Professor.” Titus felt himself go cold inside, despite her pleasant expression. The waiting was over. He had somehow known there was an ax hanging over his head all this time, ready to fall.
“We’ve had three complete runs, projects 104, 105, and 106,” she told him. “That’s your two, and Cadet Vestabo completed his final round. Since you are the linking factor for this remarkable series, I wanted to inform you that I have placed a letter of recommendation in your record.”
“You did?” he asked, shaking his head. “What about Eto Mahs?”
“Cadet Mahs and Cadet Vestabo will also be acknowledged. But Eto Mahs did not complete his first round because his partner ended the program.”
“Oh.”
“It’s rare we have two completed courses in a row. There’s only been a couple of times that we’ve had three consecutive rounds, which gives us a consistent baseline for the data.” Professor B’ton beamed at him, as if she had personally cheered for him the entire way.
“Professor B’ton,” Titus told her, unable to smile in return. “I don’t deserve your praise. Give letters of recommendation to cadets Eto Mahs and Vestabo, not to me.”
Her smile became more sympathetic. “Your participation was an integral part of this success, Cadet. Anything else is a matter for your own conscience.”
“I don’t deserve it,” he repeated, glancing down. He hated to disappoint the pr
ofessor, but he couldn’t lie anymore about what he had done. “Didn’t Eto Mahs tell you how awful I was to him?”
“We have the data,” Professor B’ton reminded him. “This course was designed to provoke strong feelings, so we could study the common ways humanoids communicate through nonverbal movements and gestures. You’d be surprised how clearly people speak without saying a word.”
Titus swallowed, imagining the professor, along with a bunch of young lab techs–including the one with the black hair and merry eyes–reading his movements like he was writing on a wall. He felt himself go red.
“Relax, Cadet,” Professor B’ton told him, chuckling slightly at his embarrassment. “You deserve the recommendation. Do a good job at the Assembly, and I’m sure you’ll get whatever field assignment you want.”
His eyes went wide. Could she read his mind?
“Never underestimate a communications expert.” She winked at him, exactly like the young lab tech the day before. “Good‑bye, Cadet Titus. I believe you have an interestinglife ahead of you.”
Chapter Seven
Third Year, 2370‑71
“MOVE A LITTLE TO YOUR LEFT,” Starsa called out.
Louis Zimmerman, Director of Holographic Imaging and Programming at the Jupiter Research Station, inched slightly to his left.
“Now to the right–” Starsa started to say.
“That’s good enough,” Jayme interrupted, realizing from Starsa’s smirk that she was having a good time at the director’s expense. She had to put a stop to it before Dr. Zimmerman’s dissatisfied expression turned on them.
“Hold . . . three, two, one,” Jayme said. “That’s it. You can move again.”
“I appreciate that,” Dr. Zimmerman said dryly, returning to his computer.
Starsa ran the hololoop to make sure they had gotten a good feed. “If you hadn’t made yourself the template of the Emergency Medical Hologram, then we wouldn’t have to keep bothering you.”
“And who would you prefer the EMH to look like?” Zimmerman inquired, concentrating on his screen. “One of you?”
Starsa giggled and raised her hand. “Pick me, pick me!”
Zimmerman looked at them closely. “You aren’t my regular holotechnicians. Where are they? Well, speak up! Are the cadets the only warm bodies we can muster around here?”
“The others got sick,” Starsa said artlessly.
“They have a couple of emergencies down in the power station,” Jayme corrected, giving Starsa a hard look.
“I see,” he said, as if he doubted their sanity more than anything else.
Jayme kept smiling, trying to push Starsa out of the director’s lab. They couldn’t tell Dr. Zimmerman that the technicians had eagerly shoved the dozens of routine imaging checks that had to be run every few weeks onto the unsuspecting shoulders of the cadets on field assignment from the Academy. It only took a few days to figure out why–Dr. Zimmerman wasn’t the most pleasant man when he was interrupted, and that’s what they had to do in order to run imaging checks.
But Starsa was perversely drawn to the imaging devices sitting on the counters of the room, supporting half‑completed holographic models.
“What’s this?” she asked, sticking her finger through an engineering schematic.
“That’s the interior of a matter‑fusion assembly.” He glanced over and snapped, “Don’t touch it!”
“We’ll stay out of your way,” Jayme assured him, grabbing Starsa to make her come along.
“See that you do,” the director drawled, raising his eyes to the ceiling at the incompetence he had to put up with.
“Please state the nature of the medical emergency,” the EMH announced as it materialized.
“Okay, say I’ve got a double hernia and a severed spine,” Jayme suggested. “What would you do?”
The EMH turned, sweeping an arrogant look around the tiny holo‑imaging workshop. There was a plasteel wall protecting the neural gel‑packs, with only the emitters set up in the shop itself. “Where is the patient?” the EMH asked.
“This is a hypothetical situation,” Jayme told him.
The EMH drew himself up, remarkably resembling Director Zimmerman. “I do not deal in hypothetical situations.”
“Doctor, you area hypothetical situation,” she informed him. At his wounded expression, she added, “Come on, I’m dying of boredom here, running these imaging loops. You might as well test out some of your knowledge.”
“Hypothetically speaking?” he asked, edging closer.
“Have a seat,” she told him. “I’ll finish inputting these feeds, while you tell me what to do with a double hernia and a severed spine.”
The EMH hesitated, then glanced around. “I suppose there’s no harm in answering a few questions.” He settled back with his hands clasped, his tone taking on a lecturing quality. Jayme noted with approval the realistic way the overhead light seemed to shine on his slight balding spot.
“The situation you describe is an interesting one,” the EMH began. “The herniated discs must be isolated to ensure they are not causing the spinal distress . . .”
Jayme let it flow over her, smiling at the doctor’s dry enthusiasm. She had to admit that Zimmerman was right. He made the perfect template for a medical doctor.
“What’s going on?” Starsa asked, interrupting an engrossing discussion of neural surgery.
“I’m running the imaging checks,” Jayme said defensively, glancing at the EMH.
“It’s after 0100,” Starsa pointed out. “I thought you were supposed to do the graviton adjustments–”
“It’s that late?” Jayme jumped up. “End EMH program.” The EMH had a reproachful expression as he disappeared. “I’ve got to run.”
“You must have been daydreaming about Moll again,” Starsa teased.
“That’s not true. I just lost track of time.” Jayme started out the door. “I better hurry or Ensign Dshed will report me.”
Jayme walked along the narrow graviton conduits, tricorder in hand. Each section of the gravity emitter array had to be calibrated every day to compensate for the expanding and contracting ice mantle of Jupiter’s moon. Calibrating the system basically consisted of flushing the blocked gravitons caused by the rapid temperature shifts. It was menial labor of the most routine kind. But then again, Jayme was finding that almost all her engineering tasks were mind‑numbingly routine.
Except their imaging sessions with Zimmerman. The man always had some curve to throw them, some way to make her feel like he had seen right through her. Well into her third year now, she was becoming used to her professors’ disappointment at her lack of engineering skill, but she got the feeling that even geniuses felt stupid around Zimmerman.
She bent down to attach the pressure gauge to the graviton valve. The sensors were two microns off, so she brought the gauge back into line. Jupiter Research Station was one of the oldest functioning stations in the solar system–even the original Mars station had been abandoned centuries ago. All the equipment on Jupiter’s moon was like a creaky great‑great‑grandmother, not ready to retire but moving so slowly and stiffly that she might as well find a nice desk job somewhere warm.
Jayme wished Moll could see the station–she always liked anything that was old. Moll would also love the way Jupiter dominated the sky, as if you could almost fall off the station and down into the swirling clouds of the gas giant. Jayme had taped a message to Moll last week, with Jupiter visible through the window, but she was sure the impact wouldn’t be the same. She had suggested that Moll take a hop to Jupiter Station, but she hadn’t heard back. Not that she should be surprised. It was fairly typical of the ups and downs of their friendship.
Nobody understood their relationship, and she had almost gotten used to people dismissing her love for Moll as a schoolgirl crush. Nobody saw what happened between them when they were alone, up late at night talking about everything they wouldn’t tell another soul. But every time they took another step closer, Moll pulled
back again. Jayme wasn’t sure why Moll wouldn’t commit to a real relationship with her, but that was just one of the mysteries about the Trill. She was different, special. She had always been different, Jayme knew that from the way Moll described her childhood on Trill, all those tests and displays she was forced to go through, showing off her rare eidetic memory for academics and officials.
Jayme would put up with much more than jokes from Starsa and Titus to win Moll’s love. Meanwhile, Moll was back at the Academy, beginning her last year, while Jayme was stuck on a two‑month field assignment to Jupiter Station, nearly frustrated to death. Starsa could be great fun, but she was no Moll Enor. And a steady diet of mundane engineering jobs was beginning to make her want to scream.
Jayme glanced around. She was in a secured area beneath the station. Why not?
“Aaahhhgghhhhh!”she screamed out loud, hearing her voice echo through the long conduit chamber.
“Hello?” a startled voice called out. “Somebody hurt down there?”
Jayme winced. She had forgotten about the access tubes. Her scream must have echoed up them like wells.
“Somebody screamed down here!” another voice echoed down.
“It’s all right!” Jayme called out, turning first one way then the other as people began to yell down the tubes. “I’m okay!I just . . . pinched my finger.”
The calling stopped, but Jayme caught one comment–“Some cadet!”–before the conduit chamber fell quiet again. Jayme sighed, moving on with her duties. There were valves to be gauged and adjustments to be made.
* * *
“. . . and the metatarsal, not to be confused with the metasuma,” the EMH was saying as Starsa came into the room, “should be anchored before beginning the procedure. . . .”
Starsa noticed that Jayme was startled when she came into the workshop. The EMH droned on about contusions and subhematoma somethings.
Starsa pointed her thumb at the EMH, “Why is he out? Don’t you get enough of Zimmerman making the loops?”
Jayme didn’t look at him. “He’s okay. He’s better than Zimmerman.”
