by Joseph O'Day
Adriel straightened up and put her hands on her hips in mock haughtiness. “Well, maybe I’ll find the man of my dreams on Earth.”
The three girls burst out laughing again. Gasping for breath Mary continued the goading. “I just hope you don’t find something else of your dreams wherever you end up—like creepy-crawlies!”
Adriel loathed crawling insects, and both her friends knew it well. Camping trips and other isolated experiences had etched that fact indelibly into their memories. Rebekah and Mary leaned on each other as they laughed even harder.
“That’s not funny!” Adriel responded, half-seriously and half in jest. Her irrational aversion to insects bothered her. In almost everything else she felt capable and in control of herself and her environment. Very little deterred her from her objective—except bugs. It was a sore spot with her, but she always tried to shrug it off.
“Nevertheless, I agree. If I end up on a planet inhospitable to insects, I would not mind it a bit.” She joined in the girls’ renewed laughter.
After a while, drained by their outbursts, they found a place to sit down. Adriel pushed back her auburn hair with one hand and took a deep, contented breath.
“Well, whatever the future holds for the three of us,” she reflected, gazing in turn at her two friends and grinning widely, “it’s going to be quite an adventure, isn’t it?”
*
Hands jammed into his pockets, Timothy paced the floor, anxiously awaiting the results of his test. When he had first arrived, he was startled to find the recruiting officer dressed in the blue and gold of the Royal Fusiliers. He had expected a Navy recruiter and was crushed by the announcement that candidates from disloyal worlds would no longer be considered for Navy commissions. Cirrus was one of those worlds. But the rebellion had happened twenty years ago, and Timothy was bewildered by this sudden change in policy.
The news was a keen disappointment, but it did not quench Timothy’s desire to get off his backward world. He would find plenty of excitement and adventure in the Fusiliers, he told himself unrealistically, and perhaps one day, somehow, still become a pilot. The recruiting captain, with his rows of decorations and ribbons, certainly made a dashing enough appearance. He supposed he could settle for that.
The reason for his anxiety now was the time factor. Soon the bus would leave for home, and he could not afford to miss it. If he did, his father was sure to discover his plans.
Just then the captain entered the room. “Sorry about the delay, Brogan,” he said curtly. “I wanted to recheck the test results myself.” He paused dramatically. “Young man,”—he squinted his flinty eyes at Timothy as if trying to assess the mettle of this farm boy—“yours is the highest score I’ve ever seen on a frontier world. No question about it, if you pass the physical, you’re in.”
Timothy was exuberant. “Thank you, sir! I—I don’t know what to say!”
“Well, we have all your records on file here, and the physical will be administered at the Academy. Be at the spaceport three days from now with no more than ten kilos of personal gear.”
Timothy’s heart sank, and his face blanched. “I, uh, I didn’t expect to have to go quite so soon.”
Captain Darkhow, displaying obvious impatience, replied crisply, “You do want to go, don’t you? Or do you still have your heart set on a Naval appointment?”
“Oh, I want to go! I do want to go!”
“Then report at the east gate of the spaceport at 0600 hours local time on the eleventh!” Darkhow turned to leave.
“Please, sir, please understand,” Timothy began desperately, following hesitantly for two or three steps. His mind was reeling. I knew it! I knew it was too much to hope for. I’ve passed with flying colors and still won’t be able to get off this miserable planet! His spirit sank as he realized that his blasted sense of honor and irritating family loyalty was probably going to ruin his only chance. He resigned himself to the inevitable.
The officer looked back, and Timothy jumped to explain. “If I leave now and don’t help with the harvest, it could mean another year of bondage for my father . . . at best. At worst, it may cost him the homestead. I can give only what is mine; I cannot give another’s.” He heaved his shoulders with a sigh. “I guess we’ll just have to forget the whole thing.”
“The Trading Company, is it?” Darkhow spit the words out like nails. “I hold little love for the likes of them. Five years to go, and they stole my father’s farm on France One.” His face darkened at the memory, then he paused a moment in thought.
“Wait here!” The captain turned on his heel and entered another room.
Through the door Timothy could see a sergeant sitting at the desk. He couldn’t be sure, but it looked like he had even more decorations than the captain. His gray hair and the long row of hash marks on his sleeve indicated long years of service in the Fusiliers.
Time dragged on, and now Timothy knew with a sinking feeling that he had little chance of catching the bus home. God seems determined to keep me on Cirrus, he thought bitterly, chained to the boring routine of farm life. Even if the captain returns with some good news, I’ll never be able to keep Father from finding out. Blasted sense of loyalty! I should just go ahead and leave three days from now when I have the chance! But he knew he could never do that. It was too selfish and despicable. Tears and despair began to well up within him. With an effort he fought them back and managed to compose himself before the captain returned.
“Brogan, will the harvest be completed in fifty-five days?”
Timothy calculated hastily. “Uh . . . yes, sir.”
“Very well. Be at the east gate no later than 0630 hours on the fifteenth day of the eighth month as specified in these written orders.” He handed a sheet to Timothy. “You must be there on time! There are no other options.”
“Thank you, sir! Thank you!” Timothy began shifting from one foot to the other, edging toward the door.
“Well, go ahead. Be on your way.” Captain Darkhow turned to go but then looked back. “By the way, I admire your sense of duty. An army officer needs that. I look forward to seeing you again one day.”
With that he disappeared into the other room, and Timothy leaped out the door.
*
The old sergeant walked over to Darkhow and said, “You’re gettin’ soft in your old age, Andy.”
Glaring kindly at the sergeant, Darkhow blurted, “I’d walk barefoot on broken glass if I thought it would hurt the Imperial Trading Company!”
“You hate them that much, do you?”
“More! You ever been in a pauper’s alley?”
“No way. One of those pest holes would turn the stomach of a Venetian rock worm! Why do you ask?”
“I was in one for seven years . . . seven long years. Back on France One.” Darkhow gripped the back of a chair with both hands. His knuckles began turning white. “Before I was able to escape by joining the Fusiliers,” he gritted out, “I watched my family slowly dying of starvation before my eyes.” He looked up and shifted position. “Ever since, the army has been my life and the Trading Company my enemy.”
Slowly Darkhow relaxed his grip. Walking over to the window, he gazed out over the golden sea of ripening grain extending all the way to the distant mountains, battering itself against their feet. But Captain Andrew Darkhow did not notice the scenery. His thoughts were far away on France One, twenty some years ago. The sergeant major quietly slipped out.
*
Timothy rounded the corner flying, but the bus was not there. Skidding to a halt, he collapsed in a cloud of dust, thudding to the dirt on the seat of his pants. The orders clutched in his hand seemed a cosmic joke. His father would want to know why he had missed the bus, and although Timothy had told his share of white lies, another would probably not make any difference. His father would find out one way or another, for Timothy knew that his father was no dummy.
His sulking disturbed by a rustle behind him, he whipped around and, shielding his eyes from the sun
, looked up to see his math teacher, Mr. Simpson. “What’s the problem,” Simpson said with a smirk, “miss your bus?” Timothy struggled to his feet and offered an affirmative grunt. “Well, that’ll teach you to take so long getting inducted into the army.”
Timothy gasped. “How did you know?”
“Oh, I have my ways.”
“Are you going to tell Father?” panicked Timothy. Then, remembering his dilemma, he continued, “Not that it would matter much.” He thrust his hands in his pockets and kicked at some stones. “Now that I’ve missed the bus, he’s sure to find out anyway.”
“Not to worry,” the teacher said with a grin. “Your God is smiling on you today. I’m taking you home in my flyer, and I’ll even provide you with an appropriate alibi.”
Timothy could not believe the fortuitous turn of events. His heart soared. He felt like leaping for joy. “I—I don’t know how to thank you, Mr. Simpson.”
“You can start by telling me if you passed.”
“Oh, I did! And I had the highest mark from any frontier world! I leave in two months.”
“Well, well. Congratulations! You’re a student to be proud of. I’m sure we’ll all be proud of you one day. But for now,” said Simpson, patting Timothy on the arm and winking, “it’ll just be our little secret.”
On their way to the teacher’s flyer, they had to pass the building where Timothy took the entrance exam. Simpson took his student by the sleeve. “Hang on a second, Tim.”
Walking over to the entrance, he called in, “Hey, Andy.” A muffled reply came from within. “I have an errand to run, but I’ll be back in an hour and we can do the town like in the old days.”
Simpson’s words startled Timothy. What “old days” is he talking about? What kind of friendship could exist between an offworld high school teacher and a decorated captain? The student pondered this puzzle as they walked to the flyer and started for the farm. But he did not know whether to broach the subject or not.
Soon this minor mystery was swallowed up in the thrill of flying. Almost all transportation in the Empire used a gravity-repelling system instead of wheels. But most of the time, Timothy had to settle for the wheeled school bus. This was a real treat.
Wheeled vehicles still plied the roads of all planets because they were much cheaper than the gravity-repelling ones. Farm equipment still rolled on wheels because no more efficient means of transferring power from engine to ground had been found. In fact, for mining and farming, gravity amplifiers were used to increase the traction of the heavy earth-moving equipment.
Everything the Mennonites owned rolled on wheels, not so much out of disdain for progress but from sheer economics. There was a church faction, however, that was beginning to believe it worldly to own or operate flyers. That was one reason Timothy’s father aspired to the august body of the eldership. As strict as he was in religious matters, Amos knew that not allowing church members to own flyers would be a bad policy for the people. In future years, such a policy could hurt them economically. Then how could they afford to continue bringing believers from Earth and the repressed cultures of the pleasure worlds? The missionary and relief work would also suffer if they did not remain economically strong.
As they neared the Brogan homestead, Timothy stirred. “You seem to be old friends with Captain Darkhow.”
“Yes, I am. I wondered when your curiosity would get the better of you. We served together in the Sryctus Wars. He was just a private then, like the rest of us. We went through basic training together and shipped out when the war started. Andy came out of the pauper’s alley on France One. As you know, people lose their citizenship when they’re declared paupers. You people here are fortunate that, after the rebellion, your negotiators held out for citizenship for everyone on the planet.”
Being a citizen of the Empire was not a universal right, even on Earth. You either had to be born a citizen or adopted by a citizen, or you had to earn your citizenship. Noncitizens had no legal rights, and they were at a social and economic disadvantage.
First-class citizenship was reserved for nobility and a few others. Among other advantages, it gave them the right to vote, to hold government or public office, to enjoy special legal privileges, to own property on more than one planet, and to receive free medical care. Second-class citizens enjoyed many of the privileges of the noble class, but they could not hold government offices and did not rate special legal status. Third-class citizens, by far the largest group, were entitled to legal redress, education, and limited voting privileges. Convicted criminals and paupers—and their progeny—were noncitizens. They lived outside the rules and advantages of civilization.
“Andy and I earned our citizenship in the Sryctus Wars. The point system used in determining citizenship is complex, but Andy had it firmly in hand. His driving determination was to become a citizen. He gained a battlefield commission and his second-class citizenship on Sryctus Three. All of a sudden, he was right next to nobility.
“I came out of that war a third-class citizen, like most of you folks here on Cirrus. It was only later that I got my second-class citizenship.” Scratching his head, he continued, “I never have figured out how Andy got that second-class rating. He never would say. But there’s no arguing he’s one tough cookie. Never get between him and his objective.”
Timothy’s teacher paused. His eyes indicated that his thoughts were far away. “Andy figures I saved his life in that war, but like a lot of things that happen in war, I was just in the right place at the right time. And, of course, I knew what to do when the time came. That’s what they’ll teach you at the Academy: what to do when you find yourself in the right place at the right time. Well, here we are,” he exclaimed as they approached the farmyard. “That’s all the storytelling you’ll get for now.”
“So far,” replied Timothy, “all I’ve been able to do is listen to the adventures of others. I can’t wait to be away from this dull place and have some real adventures of my own. All this place has to offer is work, sleep, church, and prayer . . . over and over again.”
As the flyer settled to the farmyard, Simpson looked Timothy in the eye. “Don’t be so hasty to throw away everything you have here, son. There are some values worth having. The ‘real’ world, as you call it, can be a very nasty place indeed.”
Timothy’s mouth fell open, and he arched his normally straight eyebrows. “Are you defending our religion, Mr. Simpson? I didn’t know you were a churchman.”
“Religion can take many forms.” He paused and pursed his lips in thought. “But perhaps what I mean is that we cannot reject the things that make us what we are without destroying part of ourselves in the process.” Looking up, the teacher said, “Well, so much for philosophy. Here comes your father. You go get ready for work. I’ll cover for you.”
2
Timothy was exhausted. The last few weeks, he and Daniel Swatzer had been shoveling wheat in the huge, sprawling storage depot at the spaceport. They had worked from dawn till dusk every day except Sunday. In fact, some evenings, when the humidity was low, they worked halfway into the night.
The wheat storage bins at the spaceport depot were not permanent fixtures. Each was equipped with null-grav units and rudimentary propulsion. Until antigravity was discovered, it had been economically impractical to transport anything of such bulk across the galaxy. The bins were designed to attach to space freighters like a plug in a wall receptacle. They rested in a designated spot in the depot until full. Then they were maneuvered into space by means of their null-grav units to be connected with their interstellar ferry. Upon arrival to Earth, they would disconnect, discharge their load on planet, and make the return trip to Cirrus or some other planet.
To look at a load of wheat, one would think it nice and clean. But in reality the harvest dust clinging to the golden-brown kernels made those working with it as black as soot. Each day, as the two boys stumbled out into the fresh air, they looked like lumps of coal. Fortunately, they had the use of highly eff
icient filter masks. But whereas these protected their lungs, they made the work inside the hazy bins even hotter.
Now, as he lay on the living room floor, propped by a pillow, he could not identify a single portion of his body that did not ache. All he could think about at the end of each day was that wonderful night he would climb the bin ladder for the last time and emerge from the vast, oppressive interior to wash off the sticky, itchy coating of chaff once and for all. He did not realize at the time that this back-breaking work would soon prove to be a blessing.
He yearned to fall asleep, but he was determined to stay awake a while longer. Uncle Charles had come for dinner, and he was about to tell them the story of the rebellion one more time. Timothy could have recited it almost by heart, but it still thrilled him to hear his uncle tell it.
“One day,” Uncle Charles began, “we received word that that crafty old devil, the Emperor, wanted to rob us of our citizenship. He made a declaration that no native born children of Cirrus would be considered citizens, even if their parents had been. We also learned that the treacherous Trading Company was reneging on their agreement. They wanted six days of work instead of five, and they wanted to increase our bondage to three generations instead of the two agreed upon.
“Well, that was pretty typical of those power hungry tyrants, but we were still taken pretty much by surprise. But the Company, crafty as it was, hadn’t counted on how well organized the church was. Since the church was overseeing all the claims and agreements, it suddenly occurred to the Company that virtually everyone was going to be free at the end of the original bondage agreement. Well, the Company wasn’t used to that. They always counted on being able to extend the bondage to three or four generations ’cause of all the loopholes, penalties, and clauses in the contracts. Why they even had bad weather workin’ for ’em. But now things weren’t goin’ their way, and they were lookin’ for the upper hand.
“Well, let me tell you, we weren’t going to sit still for that. We weren’t professional soldiers, mind you, but there were still a few among us who had served in the Fusiliers. These fellas formed a militia and took charge of strategic operations, and the first thing we did was attack. We surprised ’em and overran their planetary arsenal. We sent the small force they kept there packin’. What was left of ’em made for their shuttles and the orbiting space station.
