by Lance Berry
“Close the door, have a seat.”
Travis did as he was told, and sat in a solid-backed wooden chair across from Wentwell’s desk. The office was just barely the size of Travis’ own room, but even for all the citations on the walls, photos from the colonel’s career and the UEF flag standing in one corner, the room seemed less cramped than the one Travis shared with his bunkmates.
Good organizational use of space, Travis thought to himself.
“So, Cadet Rand,” Wentwell said, bringing the young man’s attention back to him, “How are you feeling about the death of your foster father, Captain Richards?”
The question caught Travis completely off-guard and he had no idea how to respond. “I don’t understand, sir,” he replied quietly.
“It’s a simple question, son. I don’t see what’s so hard about it. It’s been four months since he was killed in action. How do you feel about it?”
“I…” Travis fell silent, considering how to respond. He had no idea why the colonel felt it necessary to ask the question, or why he suddenly felt as if he were about to break into tears. “I haven’t thought about it much, to be honest, sir,” he finally answered, his throat suddenly feeling tight. Wentwell stared at him, seeming to look straight through to Travis’ inner self. Finally, the colonel nodded as if receiving an unspoken answer from the young man. “Thank you for coming in, Cadet. On your way out, be certain to send the next person in. Enjoy your free time.”
Travis looked at him silently a moment, almost not realizing he had been spoken to. He stood quickly and nodded, barely managing to get out a “yes, sir,” before leaving the office. It wasn’t until he stepped outside Brigand Division that he realized he had forgotten to tell the person after him to go in and see the colonel.
As he stood on the stairs, his knees suddenly felt weak, almost on the verge of buckling. He reached out to the railing and grabbed hold as he leaned against it slightly–an attempt to look cool rather than seeming to be about to collapse, although there were very few around to take note of him. Travis noticed though, that there were various looks of distress, fatigue and melancholy on the faces of those cadets belonging to his group that were present. Off to one side of the building, he could see one female cadet attempting to comfort another who was crying. A few yards away, a male cadet was leaning against a tree, his mouth curled downward into a severe frown as he stared up at the slowly darkening sky. A loud booming sound made Travis snap around, and he just managed to move out of the way as yet another cadet came running out of the building and down the steps, suitcases clutched tightly in both hands.
Travis’ head swam with questions. What was the point of Wentwell’s question? It didn’t make any sense at all for him to ask about something that was so far in the past; Jack Richards was gone, an empty uniform buried in a small cemetery in upstate New York. His body–whatever remained of it–was probably still drifting in space, amid the wreckage of the Samurai. There was no heaven for Jack to go to, to be with his longlost wife, both of whom would be forgotten by the indifferent universe, long before the war ever ended…
Before Travis even knew what he was doing, he was running across the quad. It took him only a few minutes to find a secluded tree, but it felt like hours. He sank to his knees, buried his face in his hands, and cried for a very long time.
Chapter 13
Travis went back to his room sometime later, and was so drained by his crying jag that he fell asleep. When he awoke, the time index on his computer indicated that he had slept halfway through dinner period. He ran to the head down the hall (dorm rooms weren’t equipped with them), slapped some water on his face to wake himself, then made a bee-line for the mess hall. Of course, the hall was full of cadets chowing down as Travis raced over to the serving stations. He grabbed a tray and was about to make his first selection, when a tap on his shoulder caused him to turn and look up into Colonel Wentwell’s face.
“Cadet Rand. It’s more than half past the dinner hour. Where have you been?”
“Sorry, sir. I overslept.”
“And in your wanderings through Slumberland, did you dream that the day had finally arrived when you don’t have to come to attention and salute a superior officer when they address you?”
Travis quickly tossed his tray back onto the pile, snapped to attention and saluted. But he had thrown the tray too hard and fast, and the first dozen or so slid off the counter and crashed to the floor. The cadets gathered in the hall turned to see what had happened, and Travis grimaced as Wentwell put his hands together and clapped slowly, derisively. The cadets cheered and joined in on the clapping. Travis felt about three inches tall, wishing that he could be anywhere in the universe but in this place at this time. Wentwell turned to the cadets and held his hands up for them to calm down. As they did, he focused his attention on Travis once more. “Pick up the trays, Cadet.”
Travis swiftly gathered the trays and very carefully set them back in place. He then came to attention and saluted Wentwell once more. “Sir! My apologies for being late, sir! I overslept in my quarters!”
Wentwell shrugged. “You told me that already, about a minute ago. You’re living in the past, Cadet. Come join me in the present, why don’t you. And in the present, do you think it’s fair that you get to sit down and eat a full meal after being late, when your fellows had the discipline and good sense to show up on time?”
Travis silently swore to himself. “No, sir!”
Wentwell nodded. “Good answer. But just to show that I’m not completely unfair, I’ll allow you to get a sense of what everyone’s having.” He turned on his heel, and spoke in that booming voice. “Attention, Cadets!” The entire hall fell silent, as all eyes gave their attention to Wentwell. “As promised earlier, one of your fellows has decided to give himself over to demonstrative discipline, in order to show you the dangers of falling short in your duties.” He turned to Travis, but continued to speak so that all could hear. “Cadet Rand. As punishment for being late to mess, you are to go around to each and every single person in this hall and ask them what they are eating for dinner. Your fellow cadets will then describe their meal, and hold their tray up so that you may take one good, hearty whiff. Once you are done going around the hall, you may then have the unparalleled pleasure of sitting in a corner and waiting until every last person in this room has finished their meal and left. Once the hall is empty, then and only then may you eat half the portion of one dinner serving.”
Travis’ eyes grew wide as saucers. He scoped the room; there were easily five hundred or more cadets in the hall, each one with a tray before them. Travis was already hungry, and knew he would be in absolute agony by the time–
“Do you understand me, Cadet Rand!” Wentwell thundered at him a second time, leaning down so that his nose almost touched Travis’ own. He had been so distracted by the enormity of this task sinking in, that he hadn’t realized Wentwell had addressed him. He snapped obediently to attention and saluted. “Sir! Yes, I understand, sir!”
There were several snickers around the room, but they stopped immediately as Wentwell spun to face the assemblage once more. “Cadets Booker and Horatio, front and center!”
There was the sound of chair legs hurriedly scraping the floor, and Theo and Francis rushed up to stand at-attention in front of Wentwell. They saluted, and Wentwell returned it before addressing them. “Cadet Rand is your bunk-brother, gentlemen,” he said in that same expanding voice, allowing all present to hear. “His failure to make it to mess on time is your failure as well. Was there any reason that either of you couldn’t have gone back to your dorm and woken him for dinner?”
“Sir! No, sir!” they answered in unison.
“You’re absolutely right, gentlemen! Good God, it’s so nice to have prodigies to work with.” There was some outright laughter at this, but Wentwell made no move to stop it this time. “You are to wait with your bunk-brother until every cadet has finished their meal. Once the trays are stacked for washing, it w
ill be your duty to divide the trays equally between you, then wash and dry them by hand.”
The most infinitesimal gasp escaped Francis Horatio’s throat before he could stop it. Wentwell was on him like white on rice. “Cadet Horatio! Are you about to make the noble sacrifice of offering to wash and dry every tray by yourself, thereby allowing Cadet Booker to go back to barracks and catch his much-needed beauty sleep?”
“Sir! No, sir!” Francis yelled, absolutely terrified at the prospect.
Wentwell shook his head slowly, feigning sadness. “What a shame. Here I thought we had the makings of a great hero. Oh well, Cadet Booker. Perhaps one day, this sad moment of personal failure will spur your bunkmate on to achieve greater things as he seeks to better himself. You two may take your seats. Cadet Rand, commence with your discipline!”
“Sir! Yes, sir!” Travis replied in as stoic a manner as he could muster, and then proceeded to the table closest to him. A lovely Native American cadet looked up at Travis, her large brown eyes taking him in with some wonder as he stood in front of her. “Excuse me. I was wondering what you were eating for dinner?”
“Split-pea soup, bread, chicken with gravy and onion rings,” she explained. She nibbled her lower lip anxiously a moment, the gesture showing she was obviously uncomfortable with having to help punish a fellow cadet. Yet Travis bravely pressed on for her: “Would you mind if I took a brief smell of it? It sounds good.”
This time the girl glanced at Wentwell, who eyed her sternly, assertively, in response. “Sure,” she said quietly as she turned back to Travis. She lifted her tray up to him, and he reluctantly took in a hearty whiff, as he had been ordered. He had never been partial to split-pea soup or onion rings, but he was forced to admit to himself the chicken smelled good.
No! The old spark of inner defiance came to him abruptly. He would never make it through the discipline with his sanity intact, if he allowed the smells to actually get to him, to contact with the pleasure center of his brain. He needed to be strong, rigid, in order to make it until the end, but not so outwardly defiant that it seemed he was rebuking the lesson that Wentwell wanted to teach him about being prompt…a lesson which had already sunken in as soon as the colonel told him what his punishment was to be.
“Thank you,” Travis said as the girl set her tray down on the table once more. He moved on to the next cadet, and the one afterward. Not all the cadets were as reluctant to join in on the discipline as she had been, however. Some took an almost nasty delight in watching him squirm. As he made his way to his seventh cadet, a black male maybe the same age as Travis, the young man smiled devilishly. Before Travis could ask, the young man stood before him with tray in hand. “New York strip steak, medium-rare. Salad with Italian dressing. Baked potato with extra butter. Mmm-mm!” The cadet took a whiff of it himself for good measure, then offered the tray to Travis. Travis did his best to not shoot him a dirty look, fearful as he was of further reprisals from Wentwell. He took a sniff, deeper than he had intended, and then stiffly thanked the cadet. “You’re so welcome,” the young man replied and sat down once more. Travis was about to make his way to the next cadet, but stopped suddenly, as he realized his stomach made a low, nearly inaudible rumble. He shook it off, then proceeded to the next cadet, then another, and another one.
By the time he made it to his thirtieth cadet, his stomach was openly and loudly growling. By the time he made it to his eightieth, he felt as if he would pass out if he didn’t eat something. Some cadets gave him looks of admonishment, some avoided eye contact as he addressed them. Some snickered, others laughed outright, and some gave him sparing glances of pity.
It was the looks of pity which he hated the most, but which also strengthened him to just get on with it. All in all, there were six hundred and forty-nine cadets eating dinner at the time of Travis Rand’s disciplining, and it took him two hours and fifteen minutes to make it from one end of the hall to the other, cadet-to-cadet. At the last, Travis’ legs were shaking somewhat, and his mouth had gone dry. His lips were curved down into a frown which he thought would never go away, no matter how hard he would try. He was blinking continually, and he wasn’t sure it was because it had gotten darker outside or in the hall itself.
“Cadet Rand, front and center!”
It took Travis a moment to figure out who it was that had spoken to him, or to home in on the direction the voice came from. But he finally made his way over to Colonel Wentwell, who stood by the serving station with Theo Booker and Francis Horatio. The two young men’s faces were almost pale with concern; Wentwell’s expression was completely neutral.
Travis came to attention and saluted. Wentwell returned it. “Get something to eat, Cadet.” It was a simple command, yet those five words were the most beautiful he had ever heard in his life. When he and Gilda had made love only a day before, she had never managed to say anything to him that sounded as wonderful. But his legs wouldn’t move, and Travis snapped into sudden cognizance as he realized why. “Begging the Colonel’s pardon. But my orders were to sit in a corner and wait until every last person has eaten and left. Upon that moment, I was to be allowed to eat one half of a dinner serving. I am able to carry out my orders as originally instructed, sir!”
The entire hall was silent. There had been the sound of forks and knives clinking against trays as the other cadets ate, but it stopped upon Travis’ declaration. Wentwell shook his head and fixed the boy in an almost admiring gaze. “The standard human being can survive without food or water for approximately seven days, and that is taking into account extreme circumstances. That same human can mentally will themselves from being hungry and fighting the urge to eat for approximately five hours, taking into account standard living conditions. And if they are not pressed on the matter. Don’t buck me, son. Your orders are being amended: get a half-portion, sit in a corner, and eat.”
Travis stared at him a moment, and it seemed to him as if it were taking longer than normal for his mind to process the information it was receiving as the colonel spoke. But the orders finally did reach his brain, the neurons fired, and he saluted in reply. “Sir! Yes, sir!” he said, then headed to the front of the serving station. He asked for part of a serving of whatever was left; at this point, he didn’t care what went into his stomach, so long as something went in. The chef doled out a hamburger and French fries, the only selection left out of the five different ones offered. Travis picked up the burger and set it back on the counter. He thanked the chef, went over to one of the tables and took hold of an unoccupied chair.
As he tried to lift it, his tray tilted slightly and a fry almost fell off. Travis’ eyes went wide and he dropped the chair instantly as he made sure the tray remained level. He was aware of all eyes being on him, but he no longer cared. He held the tray so that one edge of it was tight against his chest. With his free hand, he dragged the chair across the floor, its legs screeching against the linoleum tiles. Wentwell said nothing about it, so Travis ignored the sound. He positioned the chair so that it faced into a corner. He sat down, and although his shoulders slumped severely, he didn’t cry. He had cried enough already, and had decided that the wailing he had done in the afternoon would be the last of it. If he was ever to be a man, he would have to move past his tears and learn to endure. He sat in the corner, taking lingering, slow bites…savoring his cold fries for as long as he could.
Because of the disciplinary action he had undertaken, Travis missed both the jazz performance at Paddington Court and the general assembly at Meade Hall. Colonel Wentwell informed him that a transcript of the assembly would be available for review at his own Overnet address, so his nerves eased down a bit on that point. Francis and Theo also missed the scheduled activities, but because they were stuck cleaning trays at the mess hall, Travis got back to their barracks first. He knew they would probably be upset with him for receiving punishment as well, but at the moment he didn’t care. He undid his shirt and sat down at his vid-com to check e-mail. There were notes from both Aunt
Lisa and Gilda, and as promised, the transcript from the assembly. Travis bypassed all of them and took a look at the Daily Itinerary Posting for War Hawk plebes. There were several courses listed which he had expected to have to take, a couple of which he didn’t really look forward to…but he only opened the posting so that he would know what time he had to be at his first class. He sighed sadly, closed his mail and shut off the computer. He got to his feet, surprised as he turned around to find someone standing in his doorway, but too tired to care.
The boy was tall, about Travis’ height, and Asian. He wore the firstyear uniform and had only one duffel bag slung over his shoulder. “Hello. I’m Anthony Chen.” He stepped tentatively into the room and held out his hand. Travis nodded, reluctant to make the effort it took to walk the five feet over to Chen, but he pushed himself to do it. “Travis Rand. Nice to meet you.”
Chen smiled broadly. “Thank you. Which bunk is free?”
It took Travis a moment to remember, but ultimately he pointed to the lower bunk on the right side of the room. “That one. You’ll be sleeping under Theo Booker.” It was then that he recalled Theo’s earlier tirade against Asians, but he chose not to say anything to Chen. Apparently Chen had no such negative dispositions toward blacks, and Travis felt no need to set him along that path, if possible. “Look, Anthony…I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve pretty much had a shit-storm of a day, and since they’re about to play Taps, I just want to go to sleep. ‘Kay?”
Chen nodded affably. “Of course, Travis. I’ll try and be quiet while I unpack. And it’s Tony, to my friends.”
Travis did the best he could to muster a friendly smile in reply. “Goodnight, Tony.”
With that, he quickly threw off his shirt and pants, folded them neatly across the back of his chair and jumped in bed. He was asleep within seconds of his head hitting the pillow, well before the bugler’s first note sounded.
