It was annoying to have to adjust Georgie’s drugs by trial and error. Once again, Dixon wished he hadn’t allowed Neirra to retire to a rustic planet’s spaceport, but her mind and health had deteriorated beyond repair. A year ago, she’d gotten very sick, and hadn’t been able to heal herself as usual. She’d gone downhill from there. He used to call her crazy just to tease her, and unfortunately, the description had become all too accurate. Because she was his first pet—one he’d inherited from another handler—and because he’d loved her in his way, he’d granted her request to retire. It saddened him that the consensus of all the other healers and minders he’d taken her to said she only had a few more months to live. He thought even Renner might be missing her.
Dixon opened the report and tried to pay attention to it, but Georgie’s jumbled mind had made for a jumbled report, and Dixon’s thoughts of the current special project kept intruding. He excelled at handling problems that required finesse and creativity. True, he’d had to have one of his staff permanently retire the first-generation subject he’d been mentoring, but all the other subjects had needed to be put down, too, and his had lasted twice as long as any other in the program. The CPS project leads had rewarded him with his choice of a third-generation subject. If he did as well this time, he might be able to move up his personal timeline for achieving a top leadership position. The hidebound CPS needed creative people like him to shake things up and find new ways to use minder talents for the good of the Concordance.
Enough daydreaming, he told himself. He dropped his feet from the desk and focused once more on the report, only to be interrupted when Taliferros Radomir walked in. He was a high-level shielder, able to protect himself and anyone near from minders, and forcibly contain most telepathic and telekinetic minders so they couldn’t activate their talent. Since Dixon wasn’t a minder himself, he always tried to keep a shielder on staff.
Radomir was feeling relaxed and confident. It was subtle, because Radomir was a slight, ordinary-looking man who cultivated a mild manner, but shielders often forgot to contain their body language along with their thoughts. Unfortunately, Radomir’s demeanor corroborated the information Dixon had received from Renner.
He hid his disappointment with a smile as he invited the man to take the other chair in the room. When one of his staff strayed from orbit, it was his failure as much as anyone’s. “What can I do for you, Mr. Radomir?”
Radomir glanced at Renner in the corner behind him, then smoothed his coattail before perching on the edge of the seat. Dixon knew without having to look that Renner’s expression had gone from unpleasant to downright menacing. Renner had more than once said he didn’t trust the shielder.
Radomir placed his palms flat on his thighs. “It’s coming up on three years of employment. I’d like the opportunity to become a CPS employee, as you promised. I believe I have provided more than satisfactory service in the contracted tasks you’ve assigned me.”
Dixon casually crossed his legs. “Yes, Mr. Radomir, you do enjoy your work. Unfortunately, you occasionally enjoy it too much. Such as the day before yesterday.”
Radomir frowned. “Attention to detail is important, Mr. Davidro. You were very particular about wanting it to look like a vehicle accident.”
“Yes, that was well done. Pity you weren’t as careful with the young man.” Dixon shook his head. “Really, Mr. Radomir, a meat-processing facility?”
Radomir kept up his mild, puzzled look for a long moment, then relaxed and uncaringly shrugged a shoulder. “I was pressed for time.” He’d grown more susceptible to the control drugs starting about a year ago, to where he now needed injections every other day to stave off the excruciating and fatal effects of withdrawal. Neirra had tailored the drug formulation specifically to Radomir. Only Dixon knew the recipe, and he only kept a tiny supply.
“Besides,” said Radomir, “you didn’t say I couldn’t, and we were leaving.” Radomir had the nerve to smile, like a five-year-old who thought himself clever.
Dixon allowed some of his exasperation to show. “That is not our arrangement for reward outings, Mr. Radomir. You tell me when you’re feeling constricted, and I help you find a suitable outlet. I know your favored type of playmate and your preferences in playrooms. You do not impulsively take a random small, blond man from the street, who happens to have a wealthy, powerful family, then ask forgiveness later.” He stared pointedly at Radomir. “You did come to ask for forgiveness, didn’t you?”
Radomir dropped his head and assumed an apologetic mien, but Dixon saw the flash of unrepentant defiance in his eyes as he did so.
Children. Dixon was dealing with children. He clasped his hands together and rested them on his knee. “I am everything that is reasonable, and I try to accommodate my staff in their needs, but your extracurricular indulgence is becoming an uncontrollable habit.” Dixon sighed and caught Renner’s eye. “Mr. Renner, I’m afraid Mr. Radomir needs remedial education.”
“How long do I have with him?” The gleeful intent on Renner’s face sent a shudder through Dixon, though he hid it.
Radomir’s face paled, but Dixon gave him credit for not wasting everyone’s time with excuses or promises. Radomir’s punishment would be Renner’s reward. Dixon preferred when all his staff got along, but sometimes, their conflicts proved useful. Dixon didn’t know why Renner hated Radomir more than the others, considering Renner already hated the universe and everyone in it.
“No more than thirty minutes, shall we say?” Dixon looked at the time. “When you come back, I’ll loosen your collar.”
Chapter 5
* Planet: Nila Marbela * GDAT 3241.144 *
Andra waved at the holo display, with the six constructs still rotating.
“Any questions?”
Some of the B-level Materials Science students in her class of thirteen were making notes, and a few were looking at her as if she’d suddenly sprouted wings. Even Ms. Pharday, who was usually sleep-drooling by then, looked awake and nonplussed.
Andra had purposefully raced through the required demonstration. The students were supposed to spend half the class period “gaining an understanding” of atomic geometry and crystal structure by constructing base element cubes and hexagons with floating attractor balls. It was an insultingly boring exercise that repeated their homework. Usually, Andra just gritted her teeth and did it, but this time, she’d been inspired by the excitement in the lecture hall two days ago to create a more interesting demonstration. It wasn’t worth the fight with Department Leader Vestering to substitute her exercise, but nothing in the rules said she couldn’t make an addition.
“If you haven’t already, pay attention to the atomic radius and molecule boundary ratios for the three basic structures.” It was as close as she could come to warning them it would be on an upcoming “unannounced progress check” without getting in more trouble with Vestering. Why the man imagined that secret telepathic minders would read test answers from faculty minds but not his was anyone’s guess.
“So, how many of you got foamed on POGS Day?”
They all laughed, and most of the class said they had.
“Who can tell us what made the foam?”
They looked at each other, or the ceiling, as if it was printed on the extinguisher nozzles. One student finally spoke. “The fire suppressor is hydrophilic. The salt in the seawater mist made it dissociate the long-chain polymers.”
“Thank you, Mr. Truòng, close enough.” She added a construct to the holo display showing the formula and complex molecular structure of the suppressor. “Its chief advantages are that it’s cheap and non-toxic to humans. So what were the problems with it? Besides ruining a lot of shoes, and not everything looks good in pink.”
The students mentioned the slippery floor, the fact that it obscured the exit indicators, and that the application took too long.
“Good,” said Andra. “Now let’s come up with ideas for a better solution. If we like it, we can make it the class project for this p
rogression.”
Twenty minutes later, the class voted unanimously for the project. Andra was happy to see her students actively engaged, and at nine in the morning, no less. Vestering could micromanage the rest of the curriculum to his heart’s content, but he had no say over the class project, as long as it related to materials science. Especially if she submitted the abstract quickly and quietly, before he could claim it was too close to another project.
Since they’d done all the scheduled work for the day, she let the class discussion wander into a discussion of possible projects for the next POGS demonstration, which wouldn’t be for another six months. The Mat Sci and Chem programs had a friendly rivalry as to the best project, according to some unquantifiable “splash” factor they set for themselves.
It reminded her that she needed to schedule the launch of the improvised rocket on next Monday afternoon, the lightest day for classes on the floater. Designing and constructing it had been a team effort, but she knew it had been Pico Adams’s idea that sparked them. Most of Andra’s students were so focused on the theoretical that they forgot about the real universe and how the work they did affected it, but Pico was firmly grounded in reality. Andra was glad Pico had accepted her invitation to join the program. She was good for the class, whether or not she knew it, just like her father had been good for their old unit.
As if that thought conjured him, Jerzi Adams slipped in through the open door and took a seat in the back of the room. Pico acknowledged him with a quick nod. Guests weren’t unusual in class, so it wasn’t remarkable. Or wouldn’t have been, if Jerzi weren’t such a well-built, handsome man, and her students weren’t young and overflowing with hormones.
It was amusing to watch as awareness of him spread through the room. If Andra was being honest with herself, she’d noticed, too, especially since his black, sleeveless shirt with a red V-shaped yoke clung to every sculpted centimeter of him. A vast improvement over the business suit he’d worn two days ago.
“We have five minutes left,” she announced. “Open forum, but it must be related to materials science.” She leaned on the corner of the podium and crossed one ankle over the other.
Mr. Vandeerink raised his hand. “I read there’s a new power source for cybernetic implants that’s supposed to last decades. How did they stabilize the rho-hexquadium?”
Andra shook her head. “High-energy physics is out of my star lane.”
“What I want to know,” said Ms. Grien, “is why it’s taking the Citizen Protection Service so frecking long to approve the power source for use in Jumpers.” She crossed her arms peevishly, and her cheeks turned purplish under her blue skin. “Protecting them, hah! My uncle has to go in about every year to get his replaced.”
Ms. Chao sneered. “Everyone knows the CPS has a fatal case of ‘not invented here.’” She was apparently in one of her mad-at-the-world moods. “But realistically, they can’t afford another public relations disaster like the Mabingion Purge. ‘Accidentally’ killing a bunch of minders was bad enough, but if the new tech started killing Jumpers, the newstrends would go supernova.”
Ms. Dortief, of combat robot infamy, snorted. “Every big institution has that problem. My family’s been trying to get new floater tech approved by the city of Tremplin for six years.”
Andra cut her off before she could start in on her family’s list of grievances, of which there were many. “Materials science,” she reminded them.
Unexpectedly, Ms. Pharday piped up. Apparently, today’s class had been interesting enough to keep her awake. “I saw a special on the history of ancient projectile weapons, and this sharpshooter said something about keeping a log of ‘cold-bore shots.’ Why would they need that? Wouldn’t the cooling array keep the barrel at a stable temperature?”
Andra couldn’t help but glance at Pico, suspecting a setup, but Pico looked as surprised as Andra was. She shot Jerzi a questioning look, asking if he was willing to step in. He smiled but shook his head.
“Interesting question. Old-time projectile guns had round metal barrels, and the bullet was essentially exploded out of it. The only controls for projectile velocity were knowing the material properties of the projectile and the propellant, and practical experience. The energy release and the friction generated intense heat, which slightly deformed the barrel. If you had to make your first shot count with a cold gun, you’d have to account for the difference when targeting, because most of your practice shots would have been with a warm gun.” She resisted the impulse to look to Jerzi to see if she got it right.
“Did you ever shoot one of the old-time guns?” asked Pharday.
“Nope, I was just a simple gunnin.” She’d have to explain that outright lie to Jerzi later. “Okay, that’s it for today.” She pointed toward the still-spinning holo diagrams. “Make note of the ratios, ladies and gentlemen.”
The students packed up and trudged, walked, or launched out of the room, according to their nature. Pico spoke briefly to her father, then headed out for her next class, leaving Andra alone with Jerzi. She was about to swear innocence in the gun question, when Vestering entered the classroom. He was smiling widely, which alarmed her, until she saw the woman who followed him in.
“Professor De Luna,” said Vestering with believable warmth, “Regent Quan asked to see you.” Andra didn’t have to be an empath to know that Vestering was unhappy about it.
“Hello,” Andra said, glad to see Jerzi tactfully slipping out the door behind them. He didn’t need to be catching Vestering’s eye again.
Quan smiled and moved closer. “I know you’re busy, but since I was in the area, I wanted to tell you we’ve heard good things about your Practical Applications class.” Her English had a distinct Mandarin accent. “As I was telling Mr. Vestering, we need more synergy across the departments.” She waved toward the holo display of spinning molecules that Andra hadn’t yet turned off.
“Thank you,” Andra said with a smile and a slight bow, because the woman meant well. She had no idea Vestering saw all other departments as the competition. Not without reason, considering O-Poly’s budget process was secretive and chaotic, fluxed one session with donations and flatlined the next because of reduced enrollments.
Quan captured one of Andra’s hands in both of hers. “I was hoping you could come to the little monthly soirée the regents host for special patrons five days from now, on Monday afternoon. We have a family foundation interested in sponsoring a materials sciences project lab. We’d like them to meet and get to know our faculty, so you’re more than just names and credentials in a brochure.”
Vestering’s jaw clenched before he caught himself and stepped back, out of Quan’s view. Andra covered her surprise by pulling her hand away so she could turn and switch off the holo display. “Thank you for the invitation, but I have a makeup class that afternoon.” She hadn’t officially scheduled it yet, but close enough. It was against university policy for the regents to require professors or teaching staff to do fundraising, but it didn’t mean they didn’t exert pressure to “volunteer.”
She disliked being shown off like the newest pet-trade fantasy animal, and detested schmoozing. After discussing the weather, about which there was precious little to say in a tropical paradise, late-season typhoons notwithstanding, the conversation usually turned to local politics, which she didn’t follow, or questions about her military service, which she couldn’t answer. They never wanted to discuss teaching or materials science.
“Oh, well, perhaps next time,” said Quan. Her bracelet percomp lit up, and she glanced at it. “Please excuse me, but I must take this.” She tapped her earwire as she turned and left the room. She moved surprisingly quickly for such a short woman.
Vestering started to follow, then turned back. “Do I need to remind you about the university’s curriculum approval procedure again?”
“As it happens, I reviewed it just yesterday,” Andra said evenly.
Vestering’s expression tightened in suspicious disbelief.
He pointed to the space where the holo had been displayed. “That wasn’t the approved diagram.”
She switched on the holo. “It is, actually.” She pointed to the new molecule. “I merely overlaid a real-world example for comparison.” She removed the extra layer before he could get a good look at it. She wouldn’t put it past him to derail the students’ project just to make her look bad.
If they’d been alone, he might have pushed the point, but Quan was pacing just outside the round doorway as she subvocalized with whoever had pinged her. Vestering’s mouth twitched in patent annoyance before he smoothed his expression into warm professionalism, then strode confidently toward Quan.
Andra quelled an adolescent urge to gesture rudely as he left. Instead, she turned off the holo and removed her content from the controller’s local dataspace. She wished she’d thought to warn the students to keep their project confidential until she could get it registered. Sometimes, academic maneuvering was more cutthroat than any jack crew.
Andra busied herself straightening up the room and organizing her sling bag until Vestering and Quan were long gone. Not knowing where Jerzi had hidden himself, she pinged him that the coast was clear and waited for him in the hall. After she took him on the official tour of the chemistry and materials sciences labs, she was looking forward to spending the afternoon with someone who didn’t have an agenda, other than to kick her ass at the shooting range.
She smiled. Well, he could try.
Chapter 6
* Planet: Nila Marbela * GDAT 3241.144 *
The gun range was less humid than the outdoors, but not by much. Jerzi pulled the sweaty cap-and-visor off his head as he rolled over on the gun range’s platform pad to watch Andra shoot. She locked her Hellrim analog combat rifle and ignored the attached scope in favor of using her ocular implants to eye the target, eight hundred meters away. Her implants connected to her gun’s onboard systems and gave her a visual readout. Most of her face was hidden by her protective glasses, but his angle gave him a full view of her form. The bright gold knit tank and tiger-print leggings suited her better than the subdued clothes he’d seen her in at the university. Her standing stance and technique were as unconventional as he remembered, but she’d reliably hit the center ring of the small target with twenty-nine out of thirty shots. Average shooters couldn’t have hit any of the rings at five hundred meters.
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