Four

Dole Vardon

 

            “Mr. Vardon, you have the right to an opening statement.  Would you like to exercise that right?”

            The question, asked by the portly, perpetually bleary-eyed Pietro Sklar, Director of the Sykes Academy, was received by a red-haired young man wearing impeccable, expensive clothing and a blank stare.

            “Mr. Vardon?” Sklar prompted him once again.

            “How much does an opening statement count for?” the young man asked.

            “Count for?”

            “Right.  If I don’t have one, does it really work against me?  ‘Cause I can put something together now if it’ll help.”

            This was Dole Vardon.  A fourth year student in the midst of working on what was typically a three-year certificate which would allow him to apply for a trading broker’s license (a  near necessity for anyone hoping to do "legitimate" business in U-Space).

            Most who had encountered him at Sykes couldn’t determine if he was imaginative and resourceful or catastrophically foolish.  In truth, he was some of both.

            For the moment, however, he was mostly on the brink of expulsion.

            Vardon sat at the center of the medium-sized, non-descript stone-gray hearing room (no pictures or even representations of the Sykes insignia) in a straight-backed chair.   He faced the quartet which would decide his fate:  Sklar, as moderator, and the three members of the faculty disciplinary committee:  Madeleine Roote (psychology), Shanterr Burgess (engineering) and Dorsey Jefferson.  As committees went, it was one of the least desirable assignments.

            The single, long table at which the four were situated and the seats behind it sat very slightly higher than Vardon's chair.  The disparity had been Sklar’s invention.  He didn't vote on a student's fate in disciplinary hearings, and was expected to certify the decision reached by the three faculty members.  A sense of drama with positioning of furniture seemed the only direct influence within his reach.

            In Dole Vardon’s case, no measure of tactical intimidation was likely to raise the pulse or bring even the smallest bead of perspiration to his brow.  He seemed hardwired to be imperturbable.  The aplomb didn’t come from supreme confidence or cold calculation, but rather from an inherent tendency to not fight what faced him.  Dole Vardon simply “rolled with it”, regardless of what “it” happened to be.

            Dorsey’s awareness of Vardon was limited to the stories that had started circulating about the young man almost as soon as he arrived at Sykes.  First was the illegal, highly suspect lottery created by Vardon.  Once that enterprise was scuttled, another quickly took its place:  the sale of sleep inducers and spine stimulators at extraordinarily low prices to students (and a few faculty members).  These helped no one sleep and stimulated no spines -- although reports of severe headaches and nausea were widespread.

No one ever figured out where the alarmingly defective merchandise had come from and Vardon wouldn’t reveal his source.  It did result in the first administrative warning issued in his direction, but he shrugged it off with a sheepish grin.  Such was the bizarre mystique of the ginger-topped paradox under scrutiny by the faculty disciplinary committee.

The red hair (something which rarely occurred naturally in humans any longer) was suspected by many on Sykes to be dyed.  In truth, it was genuine, as was the red-triangle marking -- more accurately, branding -- on the back of his neck.  It signified childhood orphan or bastard status (a practice only recently abolished through most of U-Space).

Take the red hair, branding and Vardon’s activity and you had the ultimate outsider.

Yet Vardon had never appeared to Dorsey as particularly lonely, unhappy or disaffected.  Even as the young man stared at the panel before him with a doleful expression, Dorsey surmised it was likely for effect.  Given the charges, Vardon could certainly use any bit of sympathy available.

No opening statement was offered.  Dole Vardon was asked to account for the actions that led him to be brought before the committee in the first place.

“I like to think of it,” he began, “as applying the lessons I’ve learned here in a practical situation.  You see --”

“Mr. Vardon, we simply need you to apprise us of the facts.  What you did and when you did it,” Sklar asserted.

“You mean how I traded all the goods.”

“Without the additional commentary.”

“Right.  It started when I found out that the school was buying its food in bulk and stockpiling it for months.  I’m frequently influenced by my ability to recognize opportunity and the need to act on it.”

            Sklar shook his head in frustration.  “Please, Mr. Vardon.”

“I got into the school’s system -- which isn’t very secure, by the way -- and I located the registration number for the most recent ten ton food parcel to come in.” Vardon leaned forward and held his hands out, palms upward, as if suddenly addressing them on equal footing.  “Were you aware that the school really seems to be pushing the limit when it comes to spoilage of food?  It might be worth looking into before somebody gets sick.”

“Noted.  Move on.”

“I heard about miners on the Breen-Boffette colony and the low-end food they’re stuck with.  Apparently, it’s so bad…they don’t even joke about it.  They traded me a load of Tresanium ore for our ten-ton parcel.”

“Our?” Sklar asked, somewhat incredulous.

            “Right.  A lot of unauthorized construction projects can’t get the Tresanium they need because anyone selling to them could lose their mining and distribution licenses.”

“Yes, but about the promise of the food.”

“I know.  I’m getting there.  The people behind these projects are being sold Tresanium at ridiculous prices -- I couldn’t believe how high over market value.  And since I don’t have a mining or distribution license to lose, I was happy to trade with them.”

Sklar started to speak, but Vardon beat him to it.

“I traded the tresanium for the remaining eleven months on the contracts of fourteen very highly regarded hostesses.  I know some people don’t approve of hostessing, but I’m an open-minded type and the school seems like it’s -- "

“Please don’t characterize the school’s position on hostesses, Mr. Vardon.”

“Okay.  Sure,” conceded Vardon.

Dorsey stifled a smile.  Vardon’s appraisal of the concept of hostessing was both calculated and naïve.  What used to be called prostitution in the days of Earth (and even early colonization) continued to have a stigma, depending on whose point of view you were seeking.  Sykes, as a respectable institution, had to look down on it. 

It struck Dorsey that Sklar's irritation with Dole Vardon was, in part, of his own making.  One of the first decisions of Sklar's tenure (dating back before Dorsey arrived on the scene) was to open a program for students seeking to acquire a trading broker's license.  Sklar also claimed that Sykes would need to have "greater understanding" regarding qualifications for these students.

"The sort of person interesting in getting their license...he won't be so traditional," Sklar warned the gathering of highly skeptical faculty members at his first address following installation as director.  "But they'll pay tuition while they're here...and be in better position to demonstrate generosity with donations in the years ahead."

Sklar either didn't notice the eye-rolling by faculty members or didn't care.  Anyone coming to Sykes to secure a broker's license was predisposed to be a "dealer", a "bounce" -- the sort to serve self and then serve self some more.  The word "give" couldn't find room in the vocabulary of that type.

Pietro Sklar was the first non-academic to hold the position as administrative head -- an appointment made in the face of declining revenues at Sykes.  Too many deserving students couldn't afford to pay tuition.  Tolerance for that had run short once absolute ownership of the tiny orb in which Sykes had been excavated changed hands.  Selling rights to the planet and leasing for the school was the only way to keep it running.

And, as Pietro Sklar's primary task was to turn losses back to profits, broker's license-seeking students were admitted.  Among them, Dole Vardon.

“The promise of the food.  The promise of the food as part of your bargain.  Food that wasn't yours to barter.  Please address that.”  Sklar tried valiantly to get things back on track.

“Right.  There wouldn’t have been any problem if it hadn’t been for a little misunderstanding.  I was in position to trade the hostesses’ contracts to Rive Solderdon.  That’s the new resort opening in the L22 cluster.  They were going to send one ten-ton food parcel comparable to the one I offered the miners.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“A ten-ton parcel of food…along with what?”

“.02% ownership in the resort.”

“And to whom would that ownership go?”

“Well, since nobody else at this school ever expressed interest in such a thing to me...I thought I’d hold onto it.”

The apparent nonchalance of Vardon’s reasoning drew a sneer from Burgess and a surprised, almost amused look from Roote.

"But, turns out the resort didn't actually have any food parcels to trade.  They acted in bad faith," Vardon explained.

 “Wonderful,” Sklar said dryly, “Thanks to your trading skills, Mr. Vardon, we have -- within the last several hours -- turned over one of our food parcels to your miners to settle the account with them.  Your use of the proper registration number from the parcel made it absolutely binding.”

“I know.  That’s the only way I could get any trade started in the first place,” Vardon said without a hint of irony.

“Incidentally,"  Sklar announced, "the reason this institution buys food in such bulk is that potential disruptions in commerce and shipping require taking preventive measures to avoid starvation.”

Vardon scanned the faces staring back at him.  Nodding thoughtfully, he said:  “That makes sense."

 

V          V          V          V

 

Dorsey knew he’d be the deciding vote.  Burgess saw things as black and white, in or out.  He never appeared to have a moment of indecision and would doubtlessly vote for Vardon to go.  Roote, on the other hand, liked to believe in things and people.  She had a soft spot for “good causes” and challenged Tomas Witt for most popular faculty member.  Dorsey had little doubt that Roote would want to give Vardon another chance.  As they voted in descending order of seniority, with Burgess going first, Dorsey would be asked to split the tie.

Vardon probably didn’t belong at Sykes.  But Dorsey didn’t relish being identified with hardliners like Burgess -- which is what would come of a vote for expulsion.  Burgess and his sort were respected, but not liked by many other faculty members at the institution.  The hardliners didn’t even like each other.

From what Dorsey had been told by Tomas Witt and other longtime fixtures at Sykes, things had been much different even as recently as seven or eight years earlier.

“It was our golden age,” Witt would sometimes say, wistfully, with a far off look.  “You have no idea the number of people who came here from all kinds of settlements and institutions, wanting access to the brainpower, the expertise.  Every sort of problem that beset industry or governance, we had some way of addressing it.  Not only that, even the HSPB came for help.  Ladd Bankenshoff -- the HSPB came to him, I don’t know, maybe a dozen times over the years.”

“HSPB?  What, they crossed into uncontrolled space and all?” Dorsey asked.

“They got his input on piracy problems, smuggling and the like.  There was so much they didn’t know about settlements beyond their own territory.  When they absolutely had to know something to protect their interests, they came here.”

Dorsey had been disappointed with the notion of Ladd Bankenshoff , someone he’d admired before ever coming to Sykes, working with the HSPB.  The HezPebs (as people of U-Space often called them) were, after all, the gatekeepers, tasked with protecting the region of space that contained Earth and all that the home planet wanted for itself .

“He helped them?  The HezPebs?  That didn’t make anybody angry?”

“Nobody outside of faculty knew anything about it.  Kept very quiet.  And try not to use such epithets here.  It's seen as coarse.”

Dorsey nodded sheepishly, somewhat embarrassed.  He was brand new at the time.  He'd have to learn his surroundings better before coming forth with such language.  Witt smiled and patted him on the shoulder.  Nothing to forgive, really.

“Dorsey, you have to remember that these weren’t freedom fighters that Bankenshoff helped the HSPB find.  They were criminals in everyone’s eyes.  Killing and stealing meant nothing to them.  If the HSPB could put a stop to that, what’s wrong with pointing them in right direction?  Of course, most people wouldn’t understand that distinction.  The letters H-S-P-B trigger a reaction that can be…irrational.”

"Why should they have cared in the first place?"

Witt shrugged before conceding the point.  "The criminals in question were crossing the C-Space line and poaching."

"HezPebs," Dorsey replied under his breath.

Dorsey found it difficult to shake his uneasiness at the secret association with the HSPB, but even at that early stage of their relationship, he trusted Tomas Witt.

So the school was a fraction of what it had once been and students like Dole Vardon were examples of the decline.  Such was life.  But did it need to be that way?

Just as Dorsey knew they would, Burgess and Roote split the vote.  Sklar turned to Dorsey.

“That leaves you, Professor Jefferson.”

Dorsey glanced at Vardon who looked remarkably unconcerned as if it were somebody else whose fate rested on his decision.  Dorsey thought of his own deceptions through years of bouncing around and trying to improve his lot in life.  Was he really any different than Dole Vardon?  People did what was in their nature to survive.  He took a deep breath and replied:

            “Expulsion.”