Chapter Eight: If You wanted to Make it Up to Me

Eight

If You Wanted to Make it Up to Me

 

Dorsey couldn’t sleep.  Bouncing Vardon from the school, being shown up by Dominic Spackle and thoughts of the opening passages from Tomas Witt’s newly acquired journal caromed through his mind.

Morning brought a comm from Tomas Witt, interrupting Dorsey’s search for bits of breakfast which might spare him a trip to the mess.

“What do you think of the material?” Witt’s voice rattled out of the speaker that badly needed refinements on Dorsey’s comms console.

“How do you know I even started?”

“Placed a tracer on the copy I sent you.  I know exactly how far you’ve read.”

“In that case,” Dorsey raised his voice, turning from the empty cabinet in his kitchen toward the v-box across the room, sure to be heard, “it’s as fake as they come!  An embarrassment for you!"

As Witt laughed from his end of the conversation, Dorsey shouted, “End-Trans,” bringing the conversation to a close.

Only a moment or two of silence passed before another call came through.

“Reject” Dorsey said forcefully to the call (and each of the five that followed).

Finally, the quick, triple-chirp which annoyingly signaled a coming announcement over the facility-wide address system pierced Dorsey’s quarters.  Equally obnoxious was the voice of Dominic Spackle that followed:  “Dorsey Jefferson to Director Sklar’s office immediately.  Repeat:  Dorsey Jefferson to Director Sklar’s office.”

 

V          V          V          V

 

            “You’re not under any expectation to fulfill his request and I understand why you wouldn’t want to,” Sklar said to Dorsey minutes later as they began the short to a set of fully furnished rooms which served as a de facto prison cell when Sykes found it necessary to confine an individual.

            “It’s okay.”

            “Between you and I, the cooperation is appreciated.  Vardon is asking for all sorts of things.  I agreed to grant him one in exchange for his silence.  This seemed like the most reasonable.”

            They had Vardon set up in a fairly comfortable room.  No worse than his quarters in the student sector had been, for sure.  A larger than average bunk, soft-end chairs which immediately stoked Dorsey’s envy and a round table where the remnants of Vardon’s most recent meal remained.  Someone would come and get the dishes -- better service than any faculty received.

            “Thanks for coming, professor, because I really wasn’t sure you would,” Vardon said, sitting up from his position reclined on the bunk.

            Sklar excused himself:  “Our man around the corner will lock the door when you’re finished.”

            “What’s it all about?” Dorsey asked the Vardon.

            “Yeah, you know, I never had a class with you, but I bet I’d have liked it.”

            “Vardon?”

            “Uh-huh.”

            “You know I can’t reverse my vote, don’t you?”

            “Sure.”

            “So…”

            “Oh, I don’t blame you for any of that.  I took a chance.  That’s how it goes.”

            “I still don’t see – ”

            “Professor, they’re going to send me off to one of these plephs.  Do you know about them?”

            “A little.  Pleph isn’t really the right term anymore.  They’re relocation cen -- ”

            “I know, but everybody still calls them plephs.”

            “You’re worried?”

            Vardon tilted his head slightly, as if perplexed by the question.

            “Why would I be worried?”

            “It’s a lot of uncertainty to deal with.”

            “Are you kidding?  Uncertainty is the best thing there is.  Opportunity comes from uncertainty.”

            Dorsey recoiled a bit at Vardon’s enthusiasm.  The younger man was either the ultimate adapter or prime for destruction.

            “I’m glad you’re embracing it so well.”

            “Right.  Yeah.  But there’s only one problem.”

            “And what’s that?”

            “Opportunity from uncertainty comes a lot easier when you’ve got a little currency to help exploit it.”

            “Are you asking me -- ”

            “Not a lot.  Just to seed my plans.”

            Dorsey didn’t know how to react.

            “I figured that if you were feeling bad about your vote with the committee.  You know, if you wanted to make it up to me.” Vardon said with a straight face.

            Dorsey’s refusal went easily with Vardon who shook Dorsey’s hand, wished him the best and then climbed back on his bunk, bothered not one bit about the fruitless end to their conversation.

 

V          V          V          V

 

22 February 2163

 

We reached our final destination six days ago. The planet is referred to only as FTC-45 and I am a one man medical staff. Many other Britons here, some Americans and a few Spanish.

 

Two years ago I never would have suspected I’d find myself in this situation: A refugee from the planet Earth. My family, circle of friends and frequent acquaintances (most everyone I know, in fact) received years and years of assurances that relocation would end long before we would ever be considered candidates for migration. We were a part of Earth’s bright future, they said.  The alarmist talk going ‘round of expanded forced migration was simply a rumor.

 

I chose to believe this sunny proposition even as friends of friends were receiving migration orders.  After all, I was a doctor.  Precisely the sort of person Earth would keep.  If I’d stopped to realize that more and more of my patients were being sent away, I might have understood a fundamental fact:  I was no longer needed.  A physician with no one left to treat certainly fits the definition of obsolete.

 

I also find it hard to avoid the shame that comes from the memories of my father -- may God rest his soul -- singing the praises of forced migration:  countries and cultures fundamentally unable to provide for themselves, removed from being a drain on the rest of the world population.  That speech, as I recall, took place when I was a boy of perhaps ten.  Even during my years in medical school, as our own countrymen began to be selected for relocation, father’s view didn’t change much.  They were the dregs of British society being removed (criminals, the perpetually unemployed and uneducated -- forever on the dole).

 

The decision makers on Earth now seem to believe that the original goal of reducing the world population to three billion is no longer enough.  They’re after a lower, yet to be publicly defined, target number. 

 

One of the administrators on FTC-45, a balding mess of a man called Scowbrenn, comes to see me frequently with a stomach complaint which I can only remedy for brief periods.  He’s uninterested in long-term solutions or even finding out what the true cause of his misery might be.  He writes it off to bad food and seems content with that answer.

 

Scowbrenn’s latest notion about handling new arrivals at this settlement where he has been stationed for nearly a year is that “welcomers” ought to be brought in to help smooth things along.  Being unfamiliar with the concept of welcomers, Scowbrenn filled me in:  Welcomers are men, women and even children who can provide “friendship” and an easy transition for those suffering from the extreme shock at being thrust into such a completely foreign environment.  It is a learned profession (part actor, part psychologist), they don’t come cheap and will only stay for a relatively brief period, working the new arrivals into a routine that helps calm them.  Scowbrenn couldn’t answer my concern that welcomers who initially presented themselves as friends would suddenly disappear one day, leaving the subjects of their assistance to adapt anew.

 

On his most recent visit, Scowbrenn complained of not only nausea, but also joint pain.  It provided an opportunity for him to enlighten me with how he would have handled the massive migration program from the beginning:

 

“The thing to do,” he told me, “was to make it seem like it was a privilege to relocate to one of the colonies.  Just a question of using psychology.  So your average Earther of poor breeding and limited resources says to himself, ‘What an opportunity!  If only I could get in on that.’  Of course, you’d have to present colonization as being limited -- only a few will qualify.  I tell you, the weak-minded would have lined up and begged for a chance.”

 

How difficult it was for me to keep from telling Scowbrenn that he must come from poorer stock than all those only now arriving.  He was removed from Earth before they were.  The fact that he has a position of minimal authority (doling out punishments for violations committed by lower level employees) makes him a slightly more indulged prisoner of the system which has landed us all here in oblivion.

 

The unfortunate reality for all of us is that we assumed we’d be safe until it was too late to alter our fortunes.  As I write this, there must be men and women on Earth without worry, without the vision to see the writing on the wall.

 

V         V         V         V

 

            The writing on the wall.

            Dorsey repeated the phrase aloud upon completing the second entry in the journal.

            "Without the vision to see the writing on the wall." Odd, he thought.  It took him a moment to retrieve the memory of where he'd heard it before:  an old Earth text.  Something he'd come across sorting through the data pilfered by his Dirty Water bosses from a settlement that they'd thrown over for fun and profit.  Never ones to leave any opportunity unexplored, Dorsey was tasked with sifting the information (records, accounting files and other random collections of text) acquired with the rest of the ill-gotten gains.

            "Lighting?  Was it that lighting thing?" Dorsey asked himself, trying to remember details of the hours he spent trying to chase down any assets that might have been hidden in the jumble of words and numbers.  He seemed to recall that it was a settlement devoted to crafting lighting.  The sort that bathed Sykes' promenade in EarthLight.

            Among the material to sift through was a piece of fiction from Earth.  Such fugitive bits of home planet culture were not very common, but they weren't as rare as plant or animal life that people continued to attempt smuggling into U-Space, either.  Dorsey had read several (one called Oliver Twist and another something to do with an artist as a young man -- both very confusing). 

            The one that came back to him from the 'writing on the wall' phrase told the story of a mid-20th century American man, primed to commit suicide in the face of a meaningless existence.  One portion of the story in particular featured the man sitting in an open wilderness area referred to as a park.  It bothered Dorsey immensely.  There in the fresh air and sunlight, amid trees and other vegetation, this troubled main character watched children play, resolved that life was pointless and began to mentally assemble a suicide "note" (whatever the hell that was).

            Asshole.  What Earther in the natural light of the sun had the right to contemplate taking his own life?

            There had been a reference to writing on the wall as the man neared complete desperation  Dorsey struggled with the phrase.  Did it refer to a comms method?  The journal helped to clarify it somewhat more.

            And what of the population levels on Earth?  What were they likely to be at the current moment?  How long did it all go on?  It would have meant, Dorsey imagined, the expulsion of billions from their home planet.  How would Earth go about doing that?

            One thing Dorsey did know:  there was no telling how many existed in U-Space.  Every attempt at a census had been unsuccessful.  Too many people afraid to answer, afraid to let their presence be known in the event that it was all an attempt to take advantage of them.  Company settlements didn't want the true number of their residents/employees to be known, lest they be targets for upstart enterprises to lure labor away.  And then there were more -- many more -- opposed to being counted for far less innocent reasons.  Such was the nature of U-Space.

Chapter 7: The Last Cockatoo on the Moon

Seven

The Last Cockatoo on the Moon

 

Just over a week had passed since the disastrous conclusion to the Arcadian crisis.  Nothing had returned to normal.

            The listening post was flying blind.  Temporary help trying to take up for Blivet and Penrose were using pure guesswork.  None of them could agree on which message intercepts were genuine, from where they had come or which group of unfriendlies had sent them.  There was no accurate sense of what lingered beyond the fringes of C-Space.

            Every other HSPB operation suffered as a result.  Patrol molkas running the boundaries no longer had the edge.  They were scared.

            Back on Luna, meanwhile, Leopold Doone had been suspended upon his return from Arcadia, per regulations.  That action, however, lasted just forty-eight hours before being overturned by powers outside of Luna.  Realistically, there was no way the suspension could have stood.  Doone had an unbeatable edge:  he was an Earther by birth.  Different heritage, different rules.

Caroline wasn’t immediately informed about the reversal and only discovered that Doone was no longer confined to quarters at a daily briefing when her antagonist from the Arcadian operation showed up unexpectedly.  Despite receiving a hero’s welcome from other Earth-born agents in the large auditorium-style facility, Doone made a point to seek out Caroline until the two locked eyes.

She could have looked away or glowered, giving him satisfaction, but she maintained the unaffected, calm gaze that left him nothing more to gloat over.

Not that it was easy for her to avoid a reaction.  It seemed as if insubordination and the murder of Blivet and Penrose was completely absolved without so much as an official hearing.

“They don’t even care how losing Blivet and Penrose puts all of us at greater risk,” Stovall said, noticing Doone as he took a seat beside Caroline amidst four dozen other ‘half-spetchers’, all of whom were relegated to the back rows.  Three times per day briefings took place, one for each shift of agents.  Without specific instructions to do so, non-Earthers always took seats in the very back.  It had been that way since Caroline first arrived on Luna.  No reason to think it was going to change anytime soon.

Caroline’s fellow lesser beings offered simple messages of support, weak by comparison to the grand reception Doone got.  But Caroline understood.  It was the nature of non-Earthers on Luna to be understated.  Unnecessarily calling attention to oneself only tended to make things worse.

To his credit, HSPB Luna director Cyril Redd took Caroline aside after the briefing was complete.

“Don’t let it bother you.  Nothing could be done.  People higher in the chain of command seem to have an interest in Leopold Doone.”

 “I try not to worry about things I can’t control,” she said.

Somewhat easier said than done.  Minutes later, back in her quarters, Caroline discovered her pet -- a Silver-Crested Cockatoo -- laying dead on the floor.  A narrow tresanium spike was driven through the bird’s head.

It had been the only Cockatoo on the moon.

The process to which Caroline had submitted months earlier in order to be considered for a pet was nothing short of absurd.  Three stages of permission culminating with a formal interview conducted by Cyril Redd (who’d already known her for years), followed by a two month wait as a final disposition was reached.  All for a bird.

Raised on Mars, it was Caroline’s first experience having a pet, unlike many of the Earthers stationed on Luna.  The recent reduction of a ban on living animals in C-Space provided the opportunity for Bureau agents to apply for the privilege.

As one of the few who qualified, Caroline originally anticipated the bird as an additional ‘decoration’ to go along with the fronial-lined, crystal lighting fixtures, Double-Spot™ deep-back chairs, sofas and Lunar-crafted wall hangings which adorned her quarters.  She didn’t understand just how attached she would become to the creature (which she only named Roland after weeks of calling it “bird”).

Hours spent simply watching Roland, marveling at the way he moved, provided pleasure.  Caroline became aware of a distinct personality in her new friend.  She’d only had Roland for a month, but the bond was inescapable.  Now, standing beside Stovall, gazing at the sight of her pet, skewered with the type of spike she recognized as coming from the mess hall, Caroline tightened her jaw to keep from weeping.

Kabobs were the one delicacy she’d discovered since being stationed on Luna which elicited her genuine enthusiasm.  They were part of the rotating fare available to agents with seasoned meat and vegetables on the dainty spikes that served no other practical purpose at the installation prior to being used as a murder weapon.  Anyone even casually observing her would know that Caroline Dahl indulged in kabobs with an uncharacteristic fervor.

“You have to spell decency with a question mark around here anymore,” observed Stovall, gazing at the sight of Roland.  Caroline hadn’t said anything yet and he may have thought it was the appropriate sentiment.  It didn’t matter.  She needed more time to settle herself.  She wasn’t going to walk away from the scene until she had controlled her emotions. 

As excited as Caroline had been about acquiring the privilege of pet ownership and as happy as her fellow non-Earthers on Luna were to see her get it, not everyone approved.

Traditionalists rankled at the idea of looser regulations.  The ability of agents on Luna to apply for pets was an experiment.  It could lead to the policy spreading to other places in C-Space.  Those who wanted strict rules maintaining the separation of Earth from everyone else had motivation to bring the thing to an end.  Hell, they even wanted to retract the policy that had gotten all the “reform” started:  admission into the HSPB Academy for qualified non-Earthers.

 

V          V          V          V

 

Caroline’s father was opposed to her joining the HSPB from the instant the notion surfaced. 

            “The Bureau's changing for the worse,” Andrew Dahl said to her every time the subject arose.  Eventually, he made reference to her size.  It would work to her disadvantage at the Academy where no punches were pulled.

Her petite frame and straightforward, simple attractiveness caused her to stand out from many of the other “carefully packaged” daughters of HSPB personnel on Mars.  As Caroline attracted considerable interest from the opposite sex while growing up in the Bureau-dominated Arcadia, Andrew took comfort when his daughter rebuffed the flirtations of every young HSPB man who came along.  He understood the life of a Bureau wife.  Something else he didn’t want for his pride and joy. 

            He assumed that when the time was right, her future would open up and present itself, perhaps somewhere else on Mars, away from the limitations of Arcadia. 

Andrew’s own association with HSPB had come as a result of his extraordinary knowledge of vessel maintenance.  He was part inventor, part engineer and offered genuine value to the Bureau.  But his affiliation would be confined to Arcadia, regardless of his talents.  Luna was only for honest-to-goodness agents. 

Eventually, the Bureau desired greater uniformity in the mindset of its people.  They required all new personnel involved in HSPB operations to attend the academy. 

What had once been the sacred province of men and women of Earth would be opened to select candidates from C-Space.  Eligibility for non-Earthers came as a necessity.  Strong, qualified candidates from Earth, interested in an HSPB career were running low.  The Bureau needed a larger talent pool.

            “You’ve always listened to me in the past,” Andrew Dahl beseeched his daughter at one of the dinnertime discussions about the academy as she came closer to applying.  “Trust me when I say that this is not for you.  It’s not for any of us born off-Earth”

            He’d stop the reasoning quite suddenly and segue into the troubles he was experiencing already with new, Academy-trained engineers.  “I can’t even keep my own staff straight since they started forcing those kids on me.  We’re not agents here and we shouldn’t try to do things the way agents do.”

            Caroline heard her father, but didn't really listen.  The allure of opportunity within the Bureau held too much sway.  She'd tell him of her choice when the time was right.  At least, that was her plan.

 

V          V          V          V

 

            Given the hostile views of most Earth-born agents on Luna, the question of what had happened to the Cockatoo wasn't all that complicated.  Several at the installation had voiced outrage at allowing Caroline the privilege (Doone among them).

            And yet, widespread awareness of the bird’s death could lead to chaos.  Reaction from typically disciplined non-Earthers might boil over.  Most such agents on Luna had been wronged at the hands of an Earther.  Roland’s murder could easily lead past the tipping point of an uneasy peace. 

After all, Caroline was very popular with fellow "half-spetchers".

            Flattering in a way, but she wouldn't risk it.  Caroline was determined to be a peacekeeper. 

“There has to be a better way,” she had told a collection of non-Earther agents one evening months earlier in a tavern when drink had overtaken reason.  They were plotting (only half-seriously) the sort of punishment and payback they’d dole out to the most egregious Earth-born Bureau personnel.

“I’d forge orders sending them to Callisto -- where no Earther has ever set foot for assignment.  They’d think they were being permanently exiled.  Shit themselves,” one of the inebriated agents suggested.  Everyone in the group liked the idea.  Caroline said nothing.  The alcohol would wear off and their bravado along with it.

On another occasion, Stovall described what an uprising against the Earth-borns might look like in a late night rant.

“We’d make them, I don’t know, strip to their under things, bow before us and acknowledge the superiority of anyone who could be born and raised without the advantages of Earth, yet still qualify for the Bureau.”

Caroline humored him for as long as his plans seemed purely theoretical.  When he started to make a list of other non-Earthers who might join them in such an operation, she surreptitiously dropped a sleep inducer into his drink (something prescribed to her by the installation physician for her own insomnia).

Stovall ended up sleeping through the first third of his shift the following morning, but it was preferable to him mounting a civil war.

She'd keep the story of the cockatoo quiet and swear Stovall to secrecy.  He protested, of course.  As protective of Caroline as anyone else in the non-Earther ranks, he wanted consequences.

            "If you have any respect for me," she said to Stovall, "you'll say nothing.  It can only make things worse."  She could have given him a direct order, but it was easier to make her point with a request.

            She incinerated the dead bird in her rooms rather than submit it to specialists to dispose of it in the prescribed manner for organic material.  Word would not get out from her end.  Yet the selfless act did nothing to abate her anger.  Even with Stovall she had to pretend she was over it all if there was any hope of seeing him hold his tongue.

            “If you had to guess,” Stovall asked Caroline while they walked to the communications wedge (named for the narrow room shoved between other facilities) where they both had an upcoming shift, “who would you think did it?”

            Caroline wasn’t going to have the conversation.  She actually quickened her step to pull away from Stovall -- not easy considering his height -- to let him know she’d leave him behind.

            “Ignoring it isn’t going to help.  Word will still the get out.  The people who did it –”

            “Careful, Agent Stovall.  Ears everywhere,” she cautioned in a hushed tone as they continued through the maze of corridors which occasionally caused them to pass clusters of other agents.  She was already mentally preparing for the tasks of coding and recoding, transmitting and relaying, compiling "dummy" comms for the benefit of U-Space listeners that made up a typical shift in the wedge. 

            Close as they may have been, Caroline and Stovall maintained the practice of referring to each other in a formal manner of address.  “Morning, Agent Dahl."  "Good morning, Agent Stovall.”  Some read into the exchanges a clumsy attempt to cover up romantic involvement.  Caroline, unaware of such speculation, never saw Zachary Stovall in that light.  He was a younger brother.  She hoped he felt the same way.

 

V          V          V          V

 

Caroline's decision to attend the Bureau Academy despite her father's discouraging words was less about rebellion than the plum offering for non-Earthers accepted into the HSPB:  the potential to earn permanent residence on Earth.  Not that it was a guarantee.  Most non-Earthers in the Bureau wouldn't ever get close to the home planet.  If, however, one gained top-tier rank and maintained a clean record, a small piece of Earth could be theirs.

            [Little did Caroline know at the time that such promises would began being broken, starting with Blivet and Penrose, as payment came due.]

            The way in which to tell her father that she not only applied, but had been accepted to the Academy became the biggest problem in Caroline's life.  She took the somewhat conventional approach of preparing most of his favorite foods. (This included fruit from Earth secretly acquired through an HSPB source known since childhood, costing her a hefty share of her savings.)

            Tidying their quarters, she set the aroma-regulators to "pipe smoke" (something she herself despised) and wore the dress her father had given as a present on her most recent birthday:  not a big favorite of hers.

            The person who next came to the door was not Andrew Dahl, however.  It was Klinken, longtime direct assistant to Caroline's father.  All effort toward a perfect evening had been for naught.  Andrew Dahl was dead.

 

V          V          V          V

 

            The half dozen Earth-born agents on duty at the comms wedge were all subordinate to Caroline.  But that did nothing to change the uncomfortable nature of the interactions.  There were whispers and glances in Caroline’s direction from the six throughout the shift.  One of them even crossed the room at one point mimicking the flapping of bird’s wings with his arms.  Stovall wanted to bludgeon the son of a bitch.

            “He did it, maybe,” Stovall said to Caroline.

            It was during the final hour of the shift that Doone appeared.  He ignored the rule prohibiting agents not on duty from wandering through an operational zone.  Emboldened by his acquittal, Doone hadn’t been given any reason by HSPB brass to think that he couldn’t get away with such a minor infraction.

            Ignoring Caroline completely, Doone approached his brethren, the six Earthers, and began to describe for them his new assignation:

            “Earth liaison for special circumstances,” he said, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear.

            “It sounds made up,” Stovall whispered to Caroline.

            “It is.”

            Caroline assumed that the invented, mostly unnecessary position was a way of justifying trips to Earth for the asshole.  Getting Doone out of sight would be to the advantage of general operations on Luna.  Cyril Redd, who Caroline generally considered decent, had his hands tied.  He wouldn’t be allowed to punish Doone.  Removing him for stretches from Luna was as good as it would get.

            Redd was an interesting case.  While he had Earth citizenship and was seen as an Earther by agents underneath him, he’d been born on Luna.  Redd’s father served as installation director at the time, foreshadowing Cyril’s destiny.

            And so, strictly speaking, by the most precise definition, Cyril Redd was a half-spetcher.  He was that extremely rare individual who could straddle the distinctly different worlds.  Caroline knew this from the equal respect Redd afforded all non-Earthers under his command.  Never a dismissive tone, suspicious look or even the faintest whiff of contempt from the man (and Caroline, along with most non-Earthers, was sensitive to such things).

            Doone finally left and the shift concluded shortly thereafter.  Stovall tried to interest Caroline in a drink or something to eat, but she declined.  She began the walk to her empty quarters, intent on closing everything else out and finding a way to reset her spirit.

 

V          V          V          V

 

The weight of a standard HSPB transport displacement drive cooling base is easily adequate to the task of crushing a human skeletal system.  The fact that Andrew Dahl was positioned eleven feet below the cooling base when it became unhinged from its support sealed his fate.

            “It was an accident,” Caroline had been told by dozens of different people over the days that followed.  She only trusted Klinken to provide details.  He’d never lie to her.

            “They’ll give you a few weeks,” he explained, telling her that the HSPB, which owned the housing she and her father had inhabited for as long as she could remember, would want her to make new arrangements.

            “It’s no problem.  I’m going to the Academy.”

            Klinken didn’t say a word against it, but Caroline could tell that he held the same general attitude that her father had.  And, in fact, both were right in the end about the disadvantage of her size.  Although Caroline excelled in all things cerebral, the physical demands of the three year program were daunting.

            She found herself either well-liked or generally ignored by her fellow cadets.  The other non-Earthers liked her and the Earthers didn’t regard her with any more disdain than they held for other half-spetchers -- her lack of physical skills rendering her a non-threat for top-tier class ranking.

            Caroline seemed to most as the sort of agent whose limitations would ultimately earn her a spot on Callisto or some other lackluster assignment.

            It was pure miscalculation.

            Among the variety of things that had passed from Andrew Dahl to his daughter, sheer force of will may have been the quality that would serve her best.  As her shortcomings in physical strength, dexterity and hand-to-hand combat began to indicate a less than satisfactory place in her class, Caroline mined the memories of her father, frustratingly, angrily stumped over some engineering or maintenance issue.  She remembered the faraway stare, the light biting of his right thumb, almost in rhythmic fashion as he sat or stood, internally chasing the solution anywhere he might catch the scent.  Days or weeks could pass with such determination, such intensity that it seemed impossible to maintain.  Others in the HSPB maintenance engineering division would be willing to give up.  Andrew Dahl would not.  She couldn’t recall a single situation in which he failed to ultimately reach the solution.

            More importantly, she understood the nucleus of that single-minded commitment.  Although it would require a completely different application, she’d do the same thing at the Academy.

            Gregor Kimball, lead instructor in physical disciplines, perpetually preached to his cadets in his courses on Sofun Reyeg (the HSPB brand of hand-to-hand tactics) that practice was the most important element.  The Earthers, many of whom had spent several years in schools that taught Sofun Reyeg before coming to the Academy, felt that they had already put in their practice.

            Conversely, the non-Earthers tended to have an approach of trying to do well, but not appearing to work too hard at it, lest they be perceived by Earthers as attempting to step beyond their natural station in the ‘order of things’. 

            Caroline had no intention of conceding anything.  She would use the Sofun Reyeg simulators during off-hours, when no one else was in the training section.  She took blows and bruises -- a necessary price to pay for real improvement.  However, when she volunteered to face off against Leopold Doone, the Earther whose skill in Sofun Reyeg was generally accepted as superior to any other in the class, the time and pain produced dividends.

            “Cadet Dahl has shown us why this is a three-year program,” announced Kimball as she stood over the shaken figure of Doone, a victim of her “whip” takedown and roto-kick to the solar plexus.  “Improvement is the point, ladies and gentlemen.  Cadet Doone is very, very good -- as good as he was week one of the program…and no better.  Cadet Dahl, it’s safe to say, has improved considerably.”

            At the end of their final year, Doone trailed only Caroline in the class rankings.  The first time a non-Earther had ever finished atop a graduating Academy class.  Highly admired by other non-Earthers who had come through the program.  Not likely to be forgotten by Earth-born cadets and agents.