Hard Lessons

(A Learning Experience, Book II)

Book One: A Learning Experience
Book Two: Hard Lessons

Christopher G. Nuttall

http://www.chrishanger.net
http://chrishanger.wordpress.com/
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All Comments Welcome!

Cover Blurb

Fifty years after Steve Stuart and his friends captured an alien starship, the Solar Union is a thriving interstellar power, while Earth is increasingly backwards and falling into barbarism.  For two youngsters from Earth, the Solar Union offers the only chance they will ever have to make something of their lives ...

But humanity’s involvement in Galactic affairs has not gone unnoticed.  The enigmatic masters of the universe have put together a fleet to crush the upstart humans before they can threaten the precarious balance of power.  Pushed to the limits, the Solar Union must fight to defend its freedom – and the existence of the human race.

[Like my other self-published Kindle books, Hard Lessons is DRM-free.  You may reformat it as you choose.  There is a large sample of the text – and my other books – on my site: chrishanger.net.  Try before you buy.]

Historian’s Note

Hard Lessons picks up the story fifty years after the founding of the Solar Union, which was described in A Learning Experience.
Prologue

From: The First Fifty Years: A History of the Solar Union

People ask, as people do, why the Tokomak – the unquestioned rulers of the largest galactic empire known to exist – never squashed the Solar Union in its early years.  A single battle squadron from their navy could have smashed Earth’s primitive, makeshift defences with ease.  In hindsight, it seems absurd the Tokomak left the human race alone long enough for the Solar Union to grow into a genuine threat.

The answer is quite simple.  Earth was tiny.  As far as the Tokomak were concerned, Earth was a single world, home to a mere seven billion intelligent beings, each one utterly unaware of the giant civilisation that existed beyond the edges of the Solar System.  To the Tokomak, Earth was good for nothing more than supplying DNA for cybersoldiers, a practice that required nothing more than kidnapping a few hundred humans from isolated locations around the planet.  There was no reason to assume that Earth would become a threat.  Indeed, when the Tokomak thought about it – if they ever bothered to do so – they almost certainly believed that humanity would become a client state.  The idea that Earth would serve as the birthplace of the next great galactic empire would have seemed laughable, on a par with Micronesia growing to dominate the world.

Earth’s isolation from galactic affairs, however, was precisely what prevented the destruction of the human race.  There was no formal attempt to make contact with the human race, nor was there any large-scale attempt to take humans into the galactic mainstream (although rumours of alien abduction were prevalent on Earth, for reasons unknown).  Instead, the last alien race to visit Earth was the Horde – a group of barbaric aliens who had obtained ships from a more advanced race, ships they simply didn't know how to operate properly.  When they abducted a number of humans, all former military personnel, those humans broke free and took control of the Horde starship.  Humanity’s first steps into interstellar space had begun.

Those humans, sceptical of their governments, chose to establish their own government in the Solar System and invite others to join them.  Within months, combining Galactic technology with human ingenuity, the Solar Union had set up colonies on Luna, Mars and various asteroids.  In addition, the introduction of some alien technology on Earth helped to solve the ongoing military, political and financial crisis threatening the planet’s stability.

Most significantly of all, however, was human involvement in the ongoing border war between a coalition of alien races and the Tokomak-backed Varnar (who had been responsible for abducting a number of humans from Earth).  By the time the Tokomak finally noticed that the war was not going in their favour, humanity had some powerful allies and friends among the Galactics.  

They were going to need them. 

Chapter One

 ... Based upon reports from operatives and private news agencies, we are looking at the collapse of North America within twenty years.  By then, Europe will have fallen into chaos too ...
-Solar Union Intelligence Report, Year 51

“That's the bus, young man.”

Martin Luther Douglas jerked awake, then rubbed his eyes as the bus came into view, moving brazenly down a street that even armed policemen feared to tread.  It looked absurdly civilian, nothing more than a yellow school-bus, but the sigil on the front warned gangsters and drug lords – to say nothing of ethnic rights groups – to stay well away from the bus, its passengers and those who would join them.  No one fucked with the Solar Union.

He rose to his feet and nodded to the elderly man who’d been sweeping the street, as if it was a habit he could not break.  He’d been there when Martin had arrived, nodded to him once and then simply ignored the younger man while he waited for the bus.  It had been hard to tell if the man was too old to be nervous around a young man from the derelict parts of Detroit or if he’d been beaten down by the system, like so many others.  Martin rather hoped it was the former, but he suspected it was the latter.  In the end, white or black, the system screwed them all.

“Thank you,” he said, trying hard to speak without the ghetto accent.  Young men and women had been taunted for ‘acting white’ until the ghetto accent had almost become a separate accent in its own right.  “I ...”

The roar of the bus’s engines drowned out his words as it pulled up to the marker and stopped, the door hissing open a moment later.  Martin reached for his ID card as he climbed up the steps – it was impossible to do anything in America without an ID card now – but the driver merely waved him into the vehicle.  He put the card back in his pocket, feeling oddly exposed as he made his way down the aisle, looking for an empty seat.  There was only one, next to a teenage girl who seemed to be a mixture of White American and Asian, with long black hair and very pale skin.  The girl, her attention held by the handheld player in her lap, barely paid him any attention as he sat down.  Moments later, the bus lurched to life and started back down the road.

Martin sat back in his seat and stared out at the surrounding buildings.  They were rotting away, slowly collapsing into rubble.  No one, whatever the politicians said, was interested in investing in Detroit, not when the gangs controlled much of the city.  There was no point in spending money when it would be wasted, not when what little capital remained in the United States was heading to orbit.  And besides, he had to admit, who would want to help the residents?  They were either members of the gangs or their victims.

He must have fallen asleep, for the next thing he knew was the bus shuddering to a halt.  Opening his eyes, he looked out of the window and saw a large fence, blocking the bus’s way.  A large sign, displayed prominently on the gate, warned the passengers that the territory beyond the fence was governed by the rules and laws of the Solar Union.  Below it, there was a second sign informing drivers that they could abandon their vehicles to the left.  Martin looked and saw a colossal car park, crammed with rusting cars.  They’d simply been taken to the complex and abandoned.  He couldn't help wondering why no one was trying to take the cars and put them back into service.  It wasn't as though the original owners wanted them any longer.

The gate opened, revealing a handful of buildings set within a garden.  One large building, rather like a school, was right in front of the bus; behind it, a number of smaller buildings lay, surrounded by people, stalls and several teleoperated machines.  It reminded him of the one and only bake sale he’d attended at school, before they’d been banned.  The sight brought an odd pang to his heart, even though he would have sworn he would never look back on his school days with anything approaching nostalgia.

“If I could have your attention, please,” the driver said, as he parked the bus.  “Go into the main building for the orientation talk, then follow instructions.  Make sure you take all your personal possessions with you.  Anything you leave on the bus will be discarded and either recycled or junked, depending.  There will be no chance to recover anything after you leave the bus.”

Martin shrugged.  All he had was a holdall containing a change of clothes, some money he’d been able to scrounge up from the remains of his home and a picture of his family, in the days before they’d fallen apart.  There was no point in keeping it, really; whatever happened, he was privately resolved never to go back to Detroit.  Beside him, the girl unplugged the earbuds from her ears and placed her handheld terminal in a small bag.  She didn't seem to have much else, not even clothes.

“Yolanda,” she said, holding out a hand.  “Pleased to meet you.”

“Martin,” Martin said.  The girl’s face, so exotic compared to the girls he knew from home, left him feeling tongue-tied.  “Are you planning to leave too?”

“Nothing to stay for,” Yolanda said.  She followed him out of the seat, then down towards the ground.  “What about yourself?  Any family?”

“Not any longer,” Martin said, feeling a fresh pang of grief and rage.  Life was cheap in the ghetto – only a handful of families enjoyed both a mother and a father – but it shouldn't be that way.  “I’m trying to get away from the memories.”

Yolanda nodded, then looked past him towards a large bin.  A handful of their fellow travellers were dropping cards into the bin.  It puzzled Martin until they reached the bin and looked inside.  It held ID cards, Ethnic Entitlement Cards and Social Security cards.  He reached into his pocket, recalling the dire warnings about what happened to anyone who happened to lose his or her card, then dropped the ID card in the bin.  It wouldn't be needed any longer.  

His Ethnic Entitlement Card glowed faintly as he dragged it out of his wallet.  A line of coding seemed to shimmer under his touch, informing all and sundry that he was descended from Africans who had been abducted from their homeland by white slave traders, granting him specific rights of recompense for past wrongs.  His face glowered up at him.  He’d been going through a rebellious phase at the time and he’d insisted on scowling into the camera, when his picture had been taken.  In hindsight, it hadn't been a very good move.  It might explain why he’d never been able to get a proper job after leaving school at fifteen.

Yolanda’s card was more detailed than his, he noted, as she dropped it in the bin.  He wondered, as he dropped his own card after hers, just what sort of benefits a mixed-race child drew from the society security bureaucrats.  But it was never enough, he knew, recalling his mother’s endless struggle with the social workers.  No level of resources provided could get the family through increasingly troubled times.  He’d grown up angry and resentful.  It had taken him far too long to realise that society itself, in the name of helping him, was keeping him in the ghetto.  Discarding the cards left him feeling free.

“This way,” a man called.  “Hurry!”

Martin smiled, then strode next to Yolanda as they entered the building and walked into a large auditorium.  Warning signs were everywhere, some simple and easy to understand, others complex and puzzling.  The walls were decorated with large portraits of men and women, looking larger than life, wearing the black and gold uniforms of the Solar Navy.  He had to admit they looked impressive.  And, unlike so many others, proud to wear their uniforms.

“Be seated,” a thin-faced white man said, standing on the tiny stage.  His voice echoed around the chamber, even though he didn't seem to be wearing a microphone.  “Welcome to the Solar Union.  My name is Horace Bradley, Director of this Immigration Centre.  This is a very small talk to get you orientated, then you can proceed to the next step.  I suggest you listen carefully and save your questions until after I have finished.

“The good news is that you don’t have to worry about much bureaucracy here” – there were a handful of cheers, swiftly muted – “but the bad news is that there are few people charged with helping you.  We believe that immigrants succeed or fail by their own devices.  There are opportunities galore for all of you, no matter where you come from, but you have to take them for yourselves.  None of us will give you a kick in the ass to get you started.”

He paused, then continued.  “There are no real government handouts in the Solar Union.  We will give you a basic immigrant’s pack, which contains a terminal, a basic guide to the Solar Union and a bank chip loaded with five hundred solar dollars.  The terminal comes preloaded with email and other facilities you can use, if you wish, to find a job and a place to stay.  It also contains a set of guidelines, an introduction to society and other pieces of information you need to know.  None of us will make you read the documents, but remember; ignorance of the law is not an excuse.”

Martin frowned, then understood.  At school, they’d been drilled extensively to recall pieces of pointless knowledge, which they’d then cheerfully forgotten after passing the exams.  The teachers had been considered liable for not teaching their charges everything and so they’d struggled to stuff information into unwilling brains.  But the Solar Union, it seemed, wanted them to have the motivation to learn on their own.  There would be no one forcing them to learn – or to succeed.

“There are fifty-seven stalls in this complex,” Bradley concluded.  “Those of you who have contracts with established companies and suchlike can make your way directly to their stalls, where you will be escorted to your final destination.  Everyone else, unless you want to join the military, can visit the different booths and choose your destination.  Military recruits are advised to go to the barracks, where the next introductory talk is starting in one hour.  I advise you to check the paperwork carefully before you sign anything.  Good luck.”

He nodded to them, then turned and walked out, without waiting for questions.  Martin watched him go, then looked at Yolanda.  The girl was eying her handheld processor wistfully, as if she wished she were listening to it now.  Martin hesitated, then asked the question that had been nagging at his mind since Bradley’s speech.

“Where are you going?”

“The military,” Yolanda said.  “I’ve been practicing with navigational sims and I think the military is the best place to get spacer qualifications.”

Martin gaped at her.  “The military?  You?”

Yolanda smirked.  “Don’t you think I can hack it?”

“I don’t know,” Martin confessed.  “I was planning to try out for the military myself.”

“Then we go together,” Yolanda said.  She rose to her feet, then started to walk towards the door, where a pair of young men were handing out the promised terminals.  “Come on.”

The barracks didn't look like a barracks, Martin decided, although his only experience of barracks came from semi-forbidden movies showing the military life.  He experimented with his new terminal as he joined a line, which slowly moved into the building and past a grim-faced man with a facemask covering half of his skull.  No, Martin saw as they came closer, it wasn't a mask.  He’d chopped away part of his face and replaced it with a cyborg attachment that seemed to defy logic or common sense.  Martin couldn't help staring at him as he took the sheet of paper, then checked it quickly.  It was nothing more than a standard recruitment form.

“You can fill it out on your terminal, if you like,” the man grunted.  Even his voice was vaguely electronic.  “Then just upload it into the datanet.”

“I don’t know how,” Martin confessed.

“I’ll show you,” Yolanda said.  “The operating system will be as simple as possible ...”

“I want to make a complaint,” a girl said, pushing her way up to the guard.  “I should be first in line and ...”

The guard cut her off.  “This isn't the socialist states of America,” he said.  “We don’t care what entitlements you might have from anywhere outside the wire.  Wait your turn in the line.”

Martin stared.  It was rare – vanishingly rare – for anyone to stand up to a claim of entitlement from anyone.  Anything that could be used to screw an advantage out of the system, be it race, religion, gender, sexual orientation or anything else would be used.  It had pleased him, at first, to know that his skin colour gave him precedence over others, until he’d realised that the system was nonsensical.  He’d never been a slave, nor had his great-grandparents.  And he certainly didn't have any Native American blood running through his veins.

The girl stared at the cyborg for a long moment, then – when he seemed utterly unmoved – turned and stamped back to the rear of the line, muttering just loudly enough to be heard about how the guard should check his privilege.  Her words were almost drowned out by snickers and an overwhelming sense of relief that seemed to spin through the air.  Martin smiled to himself, then followed Yolanda into another large chamber.  A holographic image of a giant starship floated in front of them, and then shifted into a man wearing a massive suit of powered combat armour.  The gun he was carrying in one hand looked larger than he was.

Yolanda giggled as they sat down.  “He must be compensating for something,” she said.  “Do you think he’s a defender or a mercenary?”

“I have no idea,” Martin confessed.  He opened his terminal and started to fill out the form, cursing his poor reading skills.  Each question was simple, yet he needed to read through them twice to be sure he was saying the right things.  Thankfully, none of the questions actually required him to lie.  “But I’d be either, if it meant getting out of here.”

The holographic image faded away, leaving the room dark and bare.  Martin felt another pang, then sat upright as a man wearing a black uniform that matched the colour of his skin strode out onto the stage.  He looked too muscular to be real, Martin thought; it didn't seem possible that any human could have so many muscles.  And yet, from the ease he carried himself, it was impossible to think otherwise.  Martin was impressed.  He’d met too many thugs, gangbangers and snobbish social workers in his life, but this was the first real man.

Maybe my father was like him, he thought, suddenly.  But would he have left if he was?

“Good afternoon,” the man said.  His voice was sharp, oddly accented.  He spoke in a manner that demanded their full attention.  “I am Drill Instructor Denver.  You are here because you are interested in joining the Solar Navy or associated forces.  If you wish to be anywhere else, piss off now and save me some time.”

There was a pause.  No one left.

“Good,” Denver said.  “You will know, I think, that the Solar Union is a very loose society, almost anarchistic.  There are relatively few laws to follow and you can do whatever the hell you like, assuming you don’t harm others.  That is not true of the military.  Depending on which branch of the service you join, you will have to serve a five, ten, fifteen or twenty year term.  During that time, we will own your asses.  You will have very limited choice in assignments and, unless you earn a medical discharge, you will not be allowed to leave without fucking up your future.  If you’re not committed, like I said, piss off now and save me some time.

“The Solar Navy is charged with defending the human race against the Galactics,” he continued, without a break.  “You may not like Earth as it is now, but it would be a great deal worse if the Galactics took over.  We cannot afford to fuck around like the politically-correct” – he pronounced the words as if they were curses – “officers who have ruined the western militaries over the past seventy years.  The Solar Navy is all that stands between us and alien rule.

“There will be a three-month period at Boot Camp for all of you,” he concluded.  “This is to get you used to life in the Solar Union and, also, to give us a chance to evaluate you.  After that, you will be assigned to separate training streams, where your talents can be shaped to suit our needs.  At that point, you will be committed.”

He paused.  “Any questions?”

“Yeah,” a young man said.  “When can we quit?”

Denver eyed him darkly.  “You can quit up to one week in Boot Camp without penalty,” he said.   “At that point, you will receive your implants.  Should you quit after that, you will be charged the full price for the implants, which have to be tailor-made for you personally.  And then, when you are steered into your training streams, you will be committed.  The military life is not for everyone.”

That, Martin knew, was true.  But it was also his only hope of leaving Earth behind.  He had no educational qualifications that meant a damn in the Solar Union, no hope of obtaining them ... it was the military or grunt labour, which offered no prospect of advancement.  If he’d wanted that, he would have gone to work for McDonalds-Taco Bell, if there had been a place available.  Most fast-food takeouts were purely robotic these days.

“The choice is yours,” Denver said.  “If you’re still interested, walk through the doors at the rear of this chamber.  There will be a brief medical exam, then a shuttle flight to Sparta Training Base.  Good luck.”

Martin and Yolanda exchanged glances as Denver walked out of the room, then, without hesitation, rose and walked through the door.

Chapter Two

Fighting was reported today in Paris between footsoldiers of the French Nationalist Brigade and the Algerian Jihad.  French news agencies claim the battle was a minor clash between rival gangs; sources on the ground assert that tanks and soldiers from nearby French Army bases assisted on both sides ...
-Solar News Network, Year 51

It was an odd contradiction, Kevin Stuart had often considered, that a government based on openness and universal political participation required a secret council.  Indeed, very few citizens of the Solar Union had even heard of the Special Security Council and the Government took pains to keep it that way.  Open awareness of the council could do nothing, but make it impossible for the council to do its work.  As always, secrecy, security and the Solar Constitution were uneasy bedfellows.

He stepped into the council chamber and looked around, marvelling – as always – at just how unadorned the chamber was, compared to conference rooms on Earth.  There was nothing in the room, save for a large portrait of Steve Stuart, a table, a number of chairs and a drinks dispenser.  But it was rare for Councillors, even the highest-ranking officials in the Solar Union, to meet in person.  It was far more convenient for them to meet over the secure datanet, while remaining on their home asteroids and tending to their constituents.

We didn't want them to grow into bad habits, like those assholes in Washington, Kevin thought, as he poured himself a cup of coffee – no servants here, not in the secure compartment – and sat down at the table.  They need to remember that they are the servants of the people, not their masters.

He looked up as the door hissed open again, revealing Councillor Marie Jackson and Councillor Richard Bute.  The former had frozen her age at roughly thirty, combining a certain degree of red-haired attractiveness with a maturity that had allowed her to score a victory in the notoriously rough-and-tumble politics of the Solar Union.  Behind her, Councillor Bute looked older, roughly fifty years old.  Studies had shown that voters preferred older leaders, after all, even though nanotechnology could make a ninety-year-old man look like a teenager.  Kevin had wondered, more than once, just what the long-term effects of frozen aging would be.

“Councillors,” he said.  “Thank you for coming.”

“We were informed we had no choice,” Bute said, gravely.  “I hadn't even heard of this council until I received the notification.”

“Not many people have,” Kevin said.  “You were selected to serve on it at random.”

“Your brother would not have approved,” Councillor Jackson said, stiffly.  She nodded towards the portrait on the wall.  “I think he would have refused to serve, if asked.”

Kevin shrugged.  Steve Stuart – the founder of the Solar Union and Kevin’s older brother – might well have refused to approve of the council.  But Steve had never really been able to cope with the clashes between his libertarian dreams and cold hard reality.  It was why, in the end, he had taken a starship and set out as an interstellar trader, accompanied only by his wife.  Kevin and Mongo had remained behind to ensure the Solar Union didn't lose sight of its original purpose.

Speak of the devil, he thought, as the hatch opened again.  This time, it revealed Mongo Stuart, Kevin’s other brother.  He nodded to Mongo – the Stuart Family had never been one for enthusiastic greetings – then waved him to the drinks dispenser.  Behind him, Admiral Keith Glass stepped into the compartment and sat down next to Kevin.

The President of the Solar Union – Allen Ross – followed them into the compartment, accompanied by three other Councillors.  Kevin rose to his feet and nodded to the President – Mongo and Glass saluted – and then watched as the President sat down at the head of the table.  It was informal, compared to meetings on Earth, but it helped make everyone comfortable.  Given what they were going to be discussing, Kevin knew, the more comfortable they were, the better.

“Mr. President,” Bute said.  “Dare I assume we’re discussing the situation on Earth?”

“I sure hope not,” Councillor Jackson snapped.  “There’s nothing to be gained by meddling on Earth!”

“I’m afraid not,” the President said.  “As soon as SPEAKER is here, we will begin.”

Kevin sighed as the two councillors continued to argue.  The AIs swore blind that the process of selecting councillors for the council was completely random, but he had his doubts.  Bute was a known dirty-foot, a person who had maintained ties to Earth, while Jackson was one of the largest advocates for leaving Earth mired in its own shit, slowly decaying to death.  Kevin himself, in line with Steve’s opinion, tended to support the latter.  The Solar Union took everyone who wanted to leave Earth and make a new life among the stars.  There was no point in helping those who refused to leave no matter their circumstances.  Besides, the last thing they needed was a quagmire.

He smiled as a holographic image appeared at the other end of the table.  The AI representative looked oddly inhuman, even though the AIs claimed he was formed from a composite of all human faces recorded in the database.  Kevin had never been able to look at the image without feeling uneasy, although he’d never been sure why.  But then, the AIs weren't human.  Their motivations might be very different from anything humans understood.

Just one more thing we don’t understand about the race we created, he thought.  Alone among the known races of the universe, humanity had created unrestricted AIs.  And one day we may come to regret creating them.

“Security fields are now online,” the hologram said.  “This room is now sealed.”

Kevin heard Councillor Jackson gasp.  She'd been implanted as soon as she was old enough to handle an implant, then remained swimming in the endless stream of data ever since.  To be cut off from the datanet was almost like losing part of her mind.  For Kevin and the others, old enough to remember a time when direct neural interfaces had been a dream, it was easier to handle.  He wondered, absently, if Jackson would need therapy after the session came to an end.  There were people who couldn't cope with being separated from the datanet for more than a few minutes.

“Thank you, SPEAKER,” the President said.

He took a breath, then went on in an oddly formal tone.  “The 34th Meeting of the Special Security Council is now in session.  Participants are advised that full secrecy regulations are now in effect.  Disclosure of any or all information discussed at this session without permission will result in harsh penalties.  If this is unacceptable to you, you may leave now.”

There was a pause.  No one left.

“Director Stuart,” the President said.  “The floor is yours.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” Kevin said.  He activated his implants, then sent a command into the secure processors controlling the room.  The lights dimmed slightly as the holographic image flickered into existence.  “I shall be blunt.  The gods have noticed.”

The President frowned; Bute, beside him, looked pale.  Neither Mongo nor Keith Glass showed any reaction.  They’d expected, sooner or later, that the Galactics would wake up and notice the human race.  But they’d hoped and prayed, just like Kevin himself, that the Galactics wouldn't notice for decades.  Humanity was everything the ultra-conservative Galactics had good reason to hate.

“Shit,” Councillor Travis said, quietly.

“Indeed,” Kevin said.  “We have sources on Varnar.  One of them warned our people, last month, that the Varnar Government finally filed a specific request for assistance from the Tokomak.  They specifically discussed humanity with the masters of the known universe.”

“They may not be willing to do anything,” Bute said, with the air of a man grasping for straws.  “The Galactics take centuries to make up their minds about anything.”

It was true, to some extent.  The kindest way to describe the Tokomak Government was to call it a government of old men.  Their leaders were rarely younger than a thousand years, which had bred a degree of stagnation that made Imperial China look like the early United States of America.  If anything had changed in their system of government over the last five hundred years, Solar Intelligence hadn't been able to identify it.  Kevin had often wondered just why history had decreed it was the Tokomak who ruled the galactic community.  Surely, a more thrusting race would have displaced them by now.

But we could go the same way, he thought, looking down at his hand.  It should have been wrinkled and old – it had been seventy years since his birth – but it looked young and healthy.  Nanotech had frozen his age too.  What will happen when the geriatrics outweigh the young?

He scowled.  One of the many problems on Earth was the simple reluctance of the young to be taxed to death to keep the elderly alive.  Perhaps it was selfish, perhaps it was unpleasant, but hundreds of thousands of youngsters had fled Earth for the Solar Union, leaving the outdated political structures to crumble into dust.  But the Solar Union could keep the elderly young and productive indefinitely ...  

“The reports state that the Varnar have actually been quite insistent,” he said, pushing his morbid thoughts aside.  “Their panic may actually get the ships moving within a decade, perhaps less.”

“They’re losing the war,” the President said.

“Yes,” Kevin agreed.  “They’re losing, partly because of our involvement, and yet they cannot divert their forces to deal with Earth.  They know they need help.”

He sent another command into the display, projecting an image of the local sector in front of them.  “The war situation was perfectly balanced until we entered the picture,” he said.  “Since then, the Varnar have lost control of several star systems and have been forced to watch as their empire crumbles.  I believe their rulers have finally concluded that they can no longer handle the situation.  They’ve asked for help.”

“Risky,” Councillor Jackson said.  “The Tokomak might turn on them too, once they outlive their usefulness.”

“True,” Kevin agreed.  “But there’s so much hatred built up over nearly three hundred years of war that survival itself becomes questionable, if they lose the war.”

“Because the Tokomak used them to keep the powers in our sector from uniting into a potential threat,” Bute said, quietly.  “They may be exterminated.”

“Quite possibly,” Kevin said.  “And they know better than to rely on Galactic Law for protection.”

He sighed.  The Galactics had laid down laws of war, forbidding – among other things – outright extermination of conquered races – but accidents happened.  It was uncertain even if the Tokomak would bother to enforce the laws.  God knew humanity’s governments had rarely bothered to punish rogue states that broke the rules.  But then, if the Tokomak ever woke up to the danger represented by humanity, it was quite likely they’d throw the laws out of the airlock and do whatever it took to exterminate the human race.

The President cleared his throat.  “How long do we have?”

“Impossible to calculate,” Kevin said.  “SPEAKER?”

“Projections suggest a minimum of five years and a maximum of twenty,” the AI stated, bluntly.  “However, attempts at actually predicting the actions of multiple alien races have always proven unreliable.  We simply lack enough data to speculate.”

“I see,” the President said.  “Can we fight?”

“We must,” Mongo said, quietly.  “The best we can hope for, if we submit, is permanent third-class citizenship in their empire.”

“I doubt it,” Kevin said.  “We’re just too damn innovative for them to tolerate.”

The thought would have amused him, under other circumstances.  Most of the Galactics had drawn their technology from the Tokomak and never really bothered to make improvements.  Indeed, much of the technology either came in sealed boxes or was beyond their ability to maintain, let alone understand.  The schooling the Galactics gave their citizens was so limited it actually made it harder for them to grasp the principles of technology.  But humanity, on the other hand, had actually worked hard to unravel the mysteries of alien technology and then start improving on it.

“Give us fifty, perhaps a hundred more years,” Keith Glass said, “and we’d be able to smash any offensive they sent against us.  We’d ... we'd be carrying machine guns while they’d be spear-carrying tribesmen.  The outcome would be inevitable.”

“But we don’t have fifty years,” the President said.  “Can we beat them now?”

“Perhaps,” Mongo said.  “We’ve always had a scenario whereupon the Tokomak launch an attack on Earth.  However, we lack data.  For example ... do their warships have the same weaknesses as other Galactic warships?”

Kevin nodded.  The Tokomak might well have kept the good stuff for themselves, as American and European arms traders had ensured they never sold top-of-the-range weapons to third world states.  In their place, he would have made sure he kept a few weapons and other pieces of technology back, holding it in reserve.  If their loyal subjects had decided to be disloyal, having the ability to smash them flat would definitely have come in handy.

But they already have the biggest stick in galactic history, he thought.  They have literally millions of battleships in commission.  Or do they?

His analysts were divided on the question.  Some of them believed the Tokomak were more willing to sacrifice other races – the Varnar, for example – than send their sons and daughters to war.  Certainly, human empires had used proxy forces when they hadn’t wanted to put boots on the ground.  Others, however, wondered just how many of those battleships were actually in active service.  The Tokomak, secure in their own superiority, might have placed thousands of ships in reserve.

“This is a little more important than matters on Earth,” Bute said, nervously.  “Do we have a plan?”

“I have a rough idea,” Kevin said.  He’d hashed it out when the first reports had come in, even though he’d hoped the reports were inaccurate.  It hadn't been long before confirmation had arrived.  “First, we need to determine just how much of a threat they actually pose.  I have several ideas for this, which we will discuss at a later meeting.  Second, we need to delay them as much as possible.  Again, I have ideas that we will need to consider later.”

He paused.  “And third, we have to give them a bloody nose, one they won’t forget in a hurry.

“I’ve studied their government carefully.  They’re slow, incredibly ponderous, but they’ve been masters of the universe for so long they’ve grown accustomed to getting their way.  A small reverse won’t bother them, even if the Varnar lose the war completely.  The only way to get them to deal with us as equals – or even just accept our independence – is to hit them hard enough to shock them out of their torpor.”

“Which also might galvanise them into throwing everything at us,” Councillor Jackson pointed out.  “This isn't something we should decide, Director.  The question should be put before the population.”

“Which may alert the Galactics that we know what they’re planning,” Kevin pointed out.  “If they know, our task becomes a great deal harder.”

“There are laws,” Councillor Jackson insisted.  “We cannot keep this secret indefinitely.”

“Legally, this council can keep something secret for up to a year without penalties,” SPEAKER informed her.  “You may lose your office, Councillor, but you wouldn't lose your life.”

Councillor Jackson didn't look pleased.  Kevin understood.  The Solar Union didn't allow career politicians, no matter how experienced or capable they were.  Marie Jackson had three more years of her term, then she would have to run for President or leave politics for good.  And, if her constituents disagreed with the decision to keep the council’s deliberations under wraps, she might face a recall election and be kicked out of office ahead of time.  

But at least she won’t face criminal charges of abusing her office, he thought.

“There is another issue,” Bute said.  “Do we inform Earth?”

“Earth?”  Keith Glass said.  “What makes you think they’d care?”

“They’re going to be at risk too,” Bute said.  “This isn't a minor issue like the Abdul Murder Trial.  This is an invasion of human space by the single most powerful force known to exist.”

The President frowned.  “We will consider it,” he said.  “However, I suspect that revealing any such information to Earth would cause panic.  The governments would prove quite unable to handle the chaos.”

He looked at Kevin.  “Does Intelligence have any updated predictions for Earth?”

“Total collapse of the former Western World within thirty years, perhaps less,” Kevin said, bluntly.  The thought caused him a pang.  It had been a long time since he’d sworn to defend the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic, but now he was running away rather than trying to carry out his oath.  “Some places are trying to stand up to the tidal wave of anarchy – Switzerland in particular – but they’re unlikely to be able to hold out indefinitely.”

“We will get more refugees,” Councillor Jackson observed.

“That’s fine, as long as they are prepared to work,” Bute said.  “And to stick to the laws.”

“And we will enforce the laws,” Mongo said.  “All of the laws.”

“Then no, we don’t tell Earth,” the President said.  “They will know when our population knows, I think.  Until then ... we stick with the non-intervention agreement.  Unless our people are involved, we leave Earth to itself.”

Bute snorted, rudely.

“I propose meet again one month from today,” Kevin said.  “By then, we should have some additional information from Varnar Prime.  I may need to deploy additional intelligence assets to the system.”

“Men in suits,” Bute said.

“They don’t really keep track of aliens unless they want to apply for permanent residence,” Kevin said.  “But you’re right, Councillor.  A team of humans would attract attention.”

“Unless they were cyborgs,” Keith Glass said.  “They still have breeding stock, don’t they?”

“Unfortunately,” Kevin agreed.

On that note, the meeting ended.

Chapter Three

Factions backing Scottish Independence marched through Edinburgh today, prior to the seventh referendum on Scottish Independence from England.  Unconfirmed reports indicate that pro-UK or pro-EU factions have been attacked, sometimes savagely.  Polls suggest, given the high rate of emigration from Scotland, that the independence vote will actually be successful, this time.
-Solar News Network, Year 51

“You seem to be healthy,” the doctor said, as Yolanda Miguel perched on a bed.  “Nothing wrong with you that can't be fixed by basic nanotech.”

Yolanda blinked in surprise.  “You don’t want me to take off my clothes?”

“It isn’t necessary,” the doctor assured her.  He reached for a terminal and swung it around to face her.  “I scanned your body as soon as you sat down on the bed.  You have some problems caused by basic nutritional issues and suchlike, but nothing too serious.”

He paused.  “Was there a reason for the question?”

Yolanda gritted her teeth.  “I ... I had a medical exam when I turned fourteen,” she said.  “I had to take off everything, then he poked and prodded at me for hours.”

“Sounds like a right bastard,” the doctor said.  “Or possibly a paedophile.”

He tapped the terminal.  “Scanning the human body down to the molecular level is quite easy,” he said.  “The autodoc can handle most of it, young lady.  There’s nothing here that requires human intervention.  But doctors on Earth have successfully banned autodoc units for safety reasons.”

“I see,” Yolanda said.  Part of her was angry at the discovery that the whole thoroughly unpleasant experience could have been avoided.  The other part of her found it hard to care, as if it had happened to someone else.  “Is there anything else I should know?”

The doctor looked back at her.  “You shouldn't have any problems with implants,” he said, softly.  “We sometimes have people who can't take them, but you’re not one of them.  However” – he paused for a moment – “you do have some scarring in your privates.  Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” Yolanda said, sharply.  She’d bottled up those memories, those emotions, and sealed them away inside her mind.  There was no way she wanted them to come out again.  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Very well,” the doctor said.  He motioned for her to stand up.  “If you want to talk about it at a later date, young lady, there are services that provide counselling.  You’re not the first person to flee Earth in such a state.”

“Thank you,” Yolanda said.  “But I’m not that much younger than you.”

The doctor smiled.  “How old do you think I am?”

Yolanda studied him for a long moment.  He was tall and slim, with short blonde hair, a starkly handsome face and muscular body.  There was something about him that made her feel safe, even though they were alone together.  It wasn’t something she fully understood, but it was reassuring.  She just didn't know why.

“You’re in your thirties,” she guessed.

“I’m sixty-five,” the doctor said.

“Fuck off,” Yolanda said, automatically.  Too late, she recalled that swearing was grounds for a slap from her mother.  “I mean ...”

The doctor didn't take offense.  “I’ve had my age frozen,” he said.  “You might want to do the same, one day.  It isn't hard to do.”

Yolanda was still shaking her head as she walked out of the office and looked around.  Martin was nowhere to be seen, something that bothered her more than she cared to admit.  He felt safe too, despite his appearance.  It wasn't something she cared to think about; school had taught her that skin colour wasn't important, but life had taught her the exact opposite in so many different ways.  What was the point of Ethnic Entitlement Cards if skin colour and genetic descent were so important?  And where did a mixed-race child fit in?

She shuddered suddenly as she remembered the exam, four years ago.  Why had the doctor put her and her classmates through hell?

“Hey,” Martin’s voice said.  “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Yolanda said, as she turned to face him.  “Just feeling a little silly.”

Martin blinked.  “You?  Silly?”

“I was nervous about the exam,” Yolanda said.  “But instead ... it was simple.”

“Yeah,” Martin agreed.  Perhaps he’d had a similar experience.  “It was easy.  The doctor just told me to make sure I took a few supplements, once I reached Sparta.”

“You two,” another voice called.  Yolanda looked up to see a heavyset man wearing a grey uniform.  “The shuttle leaves in twenty minutes.  Be on it or you’ll be kicked out before you even begin!”

“Thank you,” Martin said, sarcastically.  “And where is the shuttle?”

“Through those doors, then down to the right,” the man informed him.  “Make sure you board one going to Sparta or you’ll be billed for the trip.”

Yolanda and Martin exchanged glances, then walked through the doors and into the open air.  She’d half-expected something akin to an airport, but instead there was nothing more than a hard surface and a handful of medium-sized shuttles waiting for them.  A dark-skinned man with a terminal checked them both, then pointed towards one of the shuttlecraft.  It was, Yolanda decided as she walked up to it, definitely a remarkable design.  She couldn't wait to learn how to fly the craft.

“Better get inside,” Martin muttered.  He sounded nervous, although she had a feeling he would have preferred to die than admit it.  “I don’t want to be standing here when the craft takes off.”

“Me neither,” Yolanda said.

Inside, the shuttlecraft was little different from a regular airliner.  Yolanda was almost disappointed, particularly when she saw the tiny seats.  A fat person would have very real problems sitting down, she noted, although she hadn't seen any fat people on the base.  If nanotech could freeze someone at a certain age, she asked herself, could it also keep someone slim and healthy?  It certainly seemed likely.  

She sat down and braced herself, expecting a long and boring lecture on flight safety, followed by a rocky flight and uncomfortable landing.  She’d only flown twice and both experiences had been thoroughly awful.  However, the shuttle was different.  The hatch slammed closed, a man in another grey uniform checked the seats, then a faint shimmer ran through the craft.  She didn't even realise the shuttle had taken off until she glanced out of the porthole.  The ground was already far below them.

“My God,” Martin breathed.

Slowly, Earth became a sphere hanging in the inky darkness of space.  Yolanda found herself captivated as she stared down at the blue-green orb, which started to shrink rapidly as the shuttle accelerated away from the planet.  Moments later, it was gone, leaving them staring out at the stars.  They didn't twinkle in space, she realised, slowly.  There was no atmosphere to produce the effects.  Or so she thought.  Thankfully, she’d chosen basic science instead of faith healing, elemental powers or one of the other electives the school had been forced to offer its students.  But she had a feeling she was far behind where she needed to be.

The flight became boring, something she wouldn't have believed possible.  She forced herself to sit back and relax, trying to keep herself calm.  Her thoughts kept returning to the past, nagging at her mind and making it impossible to think straight.  She’d buried everything, she’d thought, and yet they’d started to come out at the worst possible moment.  Part of her just wanted to open the airlock and jump out into interplanetary space; the remainder, knowing that suicide was the end, just wanted to forget.  But forgetfulness would never come.

Martin elbowed her.  “Are you alright?”

“Just ... just nerves,” Yolanda said.  She felt as if she could trust him, on some level, but she couldn't talk to him about her past.  No one would understand.  “I’ve never been in space before.”

“Neither have I,” Martin said.  “Would you like me to look after you?”

Yolanda had to fight to hide her reaction, even though she knew he’d meant no harm.  Other girls had accepted similar offers, in the past, only to find they had bought safety from the outside world at the price of submitting themselves to a single man.  Her High School had been a nightmare of competing cliques, while the teachers had done nothing to maintain discipline and ...

She forced the thoughts aside.  Earth had fallen behind them.  There was no going back.

“It’s alright,” she said.  “Thank you for caring.”

The shuttlecraft shuddered once, lightly, then altered course.  Yolanda looked outside, just in time to see a massive rocky asteroid drifting in front of them.  It took her several minutes to pick out the signs of human habitation; pieces of burnished metal on the rock, crawlers making their way over the surface and lights glittering amidst the gloom.  The shuttle shuddered again, then slid through a hatch and into a shuttlebay.  There was a sudden feeling of heaviness, which faded rapidly, then nothing.

A man stood up at the front of the shuttle.  “Welcome to Sparta,” he said.  “You are about to enter a hideously dangerous environment.  One mistake could get you – or others – killed.  I strongly advise you to follow orders, keep your hands to yourselves and refrain from doing anything stupid.  Given time, you will learn how to handle yourself in outer space.  Until then, do as we tell you.”

He paused.  “I’m going to open the hatch and step outside,” he added.  “Form a straight line and follow me, without delay.  Do not attempt to leave the line.  Anyone who disobeys orders once will be flogged.  Anyone who disobeys orders repeatedly will be kicked out of the course.  There will be no further warnings.”

“Shit,” Martin said.  “Do you think he’s serious?”

“I think so,” Yolanda said.

The hatch opened.  One by one, the recruits stood up and walked out of the hatch.  Yolanda let Martin take the lead when it was their turn to move; she followed him, as per orders, but she couldn't help looking from side to side as they stepped out of the shuttle.  It was bitterly cold, cold enough to make her shiver; they were standing in a large shuttlebay, with dozens of shuttles scattered everywhere.  Men and women in grey uniforms, some of them with metal arms or legs, were working on the craft.  She stared at them in awe for a long moment, then walked after Martin through the next hatch.  Inside, thankfully, it was warmer.

“Line up on the dotted line,” the man ordered, pointing them to a yellow line on the floor.  “I don’t have all day, so hurry.”

“I saw lots of military movies,” Martin muttered in her ear.  “I think this is when they call us maggots and shout at us a lot.”

“Joy,” Yolanda muttered back.  It didn't bother her, not really.  Her mother and father had shouted at her for most of her life.  “I can take it.”

The man waited for the final recruits to take their place, then closed the hatch and stamped around until he was facing them.  “Welcome to Sparta,” he said.  “I am Senior Drill Sergeant Bass.  You will address me as Sergeant.  In the course of the next week, you will meet other Drill Sergeants and Drill Instructors.  You will address them as Sergeant too.”

He paused.  “For my crimes, I have been assigned as Senior Drill Sergeant for Recruit Company #42,” he continued.  “That’s you, by the way.  You will be asked hundreds of times over the coming months which company you belong to, so I suggest you remember that you’re #42.  Getting it wrong will earn you a demerit, which you will have to work off; if you earn ten demerits, you will have a very embarrassing interview with the Commandant.  Your career may not survive drawing his attention.

“My job is supervising you for this, the first stage of your training.  Everyone goes through the same basic training, then we split you up into smaller groups in accordance with your desires and capabilities.  You will be given a fair shot at trying to become anything, as long as we believe you have the ability to learn and succeed.  But the outcome will largely depend on just how much effort you put into it.  I am not here to coddle you into completing an exam or writing an essay, although you will have to do both over the coming months.  What you get out of this largely depends on what you put into it.”

Yolanda felt herself shrinking backwards as his gaze passed over her.  She couldn't help finding Bass intimidating, even though he didn't seem to be trying to intimidate them.  But then, he was a strong man who clearly wouldn't let anything stand in his way.  He wasn't the type of person she knew to trust.  

Give him a fair chance, she told herself.  He isn’t one of the bastards from school.

“You are all ignorant,” Bass thundered.   “You are utterly unaware of the dangers of this environment, let alone training to become spacers or soldiers or whatever.  So you will learn from me.  Those of you who don’t learn will die, killed by your own ignorance or your own stupidity.  And we will simply carry on.”

His gaze swept the line of recruits again.  “There are rules and regulations,” he warned.  “If you break a minor rule, you will earn demerits; if you break a major rule, you will face the Commandant!  Do you understand me?  Good.

“If you don’t understand something you are told, ask me,” he added.  “Until then, stick to the rules.  There is a good reason behind each and every one of them.”

Bass clapped his hands together.  “Offences against military order, listed as follows; insubordination, use of drugs, tobacco and alcohol, possession and/or consumption of food outside designated eating periods, possession of any contraband, failure to perform duties as assigned to you by lawful authority, being absent without leave and, last, but not least, fraternisation.  To repeat; any of those offences will get you a punishment that may range from heavy exercise to being summarily discharged from the army.  You will have those offences read to you every day, along with the definition of each offence.  You will have no excuse for committing any of them!”

He paused long enough to take another hard look at his recruits.  “Many of you will have brought drugs, or alcohol, or even food onto this base,” he said, coldly.  “When you are taken to be assigned your uniform and regulation-issue underclothes, get rid of them.  This is your one warning.  You may think that the police on Earth wouldn’t charge you with a crime if you are in possession of illegal drugs, but this is the Solar Union.  If I catch any of you possessing or using drugs on this base, that person will wish that he had never been born!”

Yolanda swallowed.  Did Martin have anything illicit in his bag?

Bass was still thundering at his cowed audience.  “Insubordination; wilfully disobeying, insulting, or striking a senior officer.  Absent without leave; leaving the base or your unit without permission, or failing to report back to your unit at the end of a leave period without permission.  Fraternisation; sexual relationships with any of your fellow recruits, or senior officers, or anyone within your military unit.  The remainder should require no explaining.  If they do, quit now and save us the paperwork of kicking you out.”

“Female recruits, walk through that hatch,” Bass finished, pointing towards a hatch set in the far wall.  His finger moved to another hatch.  “Male recruits, walk through that hatch.”

“See you soon,” Martin muttered.”

“I hope so,” Yolanda said.  Her head was spinning after Bass’s recital of military crimes.  She wasn't sure she knew what half of them actually meant.  “See you.”

She walked through the hatch and nearly bumped into the back of a line.  A grim-faced woman was standing behind a desk, handing out small piles of clothing and pointing the girls towards benches, where they could change into their uniforms.  Yolanda hesitated – she had never liked changing in front of anyone else, male or female – then realised she had no choice.  Privacy was going to be a thing of the past.  Cursing under her breath, she stripped down to bare skin and then donned the uniform.  It was very simplistic.  The only decoration was a large red numeral – 42.34 – just above her left breast.

“If you want to keep your clothes or anything else you might have brought with you, place them in boxes here,” a female sergeant ordered.  Yolanda took a look at her and had to fight to keep herself from staring in disbelief.  The woman looked like a bad parody of a transvestite, so close to masculine it was hard to be sure she was a woman.  “They will be stored for you until you leave the service or graduate, whichever comes first.”

Yolanda looked down at her bag.  “Everything?”

“If you want to keep it,” the sergeant told her, curtly.  “Anything you don’t want to keep can be dropped in the bins and it will be recycled.  I suggest you dump anything illicit you don’t want us to see.”

“Thank you,” Yolanda said.

“That’s thank you, sergeant,” the woman corrected.  “You can earn a demerit for forgetting to use the proper terms.”

“Oh,” Yolanda said.

“Hey,” another girl said.  “How do you work off a demerit?”

“Heavy exercise,” the sergeant said, with an evil grin.  “It teaches you respect and helps build up the muscles.  You’ll get used to it soon enough.”

She checked them all, one by one, then smiled.  “This is the last babying you’ll get,” she warned, as she led them towards the hatch.  “In future, if you are told to do something and you don’t do it, you will be allowed to suffer the effects of your screw-up.”

Yolanda smiled as they walked through the door.  Martin was standing with the other men, wearing the same grey uniform.  His numerals were different; 42.41.

“These are your barracks,” Sergeant Bass thundered, as he opened yet another hatch.  Inside, there were three large hatches and a computer terminal, parked against one wall.  “Male recruits to the left, female recruits to the right.  Do not try to enter the wrong barracks unless you have a very good excuse.  The centre compartment” – he jabbed a finger at the third hatch – “is your common room.  Beyond it, there’s an exercise chamber.  You may use it during your copious spare time.”

He smirked.  Somehow, Yolanda was sure they would have very little spare time.

“Go get a rest,” he said.  “You will be woken in” – he made a show of checking his watch – “seven hours.  And then the real fun starts.”

Chapter Four

Speaking in the Senate today, Senator Karen Pettigrew demanded that the United States Government impose new tariffs on anyone wishing to abandon the United States for the Solar Union.  The interests of social justice, Pettigrew claimed, were best served by forbidding the transfer of material possessions – and cash – from the United States.
-Solar News Network, Year 51

“I didn't know it was possible to hurt so much,” Dennis Crawford muttered.

“Me neither,” Martin said, as they stumbled out of the shower.  Whatever concerns he’d had about sharing showers with other men had vanished, faced with the implacable truth that their trainers expected them to adapt – and act like adults.  “That was not a pleasant experience.”

He’d watched war movies, downloading them from the datanet after they’d been banned in the United States, but none of them had ever managed to make him feel what new recruits went through.  There were the endless exercises, the endless lectures from the sergeants, the complete lack of sleep, the monotonous food ... and the demerit system, which had to have been invented by a mad genius who’d also been a complete sadist.  One week of basic training and he'd already earned four demerits.  Working them off had been a pain.

“I don’t think it’s meant to be,” Crawford said.  “They say it only gets worse after we pass the first set of tests.”

“I know,” Martin said.  He’d thought he could handle it, but if he was having problems with Basic Training, maybe he shouldn't be thinking about trying to become a cybersoldier.  Or any sort of soldier.  All the movies he’d watched had told lies.  “What do you think is going to happen tonight?”

“Fucked if I know,” Crawford said.  “But we’d better get a move on.”

Martin nodded, then stepped through the forcefield.  Water droplets flew off his skin, leaving him completely dry.  He reached for his uniform and pulled it on, glancing down at the bare sleeves.  The sergeants had told the company that, when they passed the first set of tests, they would have something to put on their uniforms.  But there would always be another set of hurdles to clear ...

As soon as they were dressed, they walked down into the mess and picked up plates of food, which they carried to the nearest table.  Most of the other recruits seemed to be elsewhere – either writing letters or catching up on sleep, as they had no demerits to work off.  Martin looked around in hopes of seeing Yolanda, but saw no sign of her.  She seemed to be coping as well as could be expected, although she looked thinner every day.  He hoped she wouldn't quit, even though others had already thrown in the towel and abandoned Sparta.  There was something about her he found attractive.

And keep it in your pants, he warned himself, sternly.  Sergeant Bass hadn't been joking when he’d warned them of the dangers of fraternisation.  One pair of recruits, caught having sex in one of the bathrooms, had been ordered to spend the rest of the week naked, just to ensure they got the message.  You don’t need more demerits.

He pushed the thought aside as he tucked into the food.  There was no way to know what it actually was – it looked like a mixture of porridge and hard biscuits – but it tasted good and there was no shortage of it.  The sergeants had told them to eat as much as they could, every day, even though some of the girls had whined about making themselves fat.  But it didn't seem a possibility, not when they were forced to exercise every day.  And then there were the tests that measured his education, rather than physical prowess ...

“You’re thinking,” Dennis said.  “I can tell.”

Martin sighed.  He’d never really grasped just how ignorant he was until he’d arrived on Sparta.  Being unable to handle himself in space was one thing – he knew he was ignorant of even basic safety precautions – but his reading and writing were definitely sub-par.  The Sergeant had even told him that he would have to spend time learning to read properly, if he wanted to progress rapidly.  Martin had hated the thought, even though Yolanda had offered to help him with it.  He didn't want to delay his training just to learn how to read.

“It’s a bad habit,” he said, although he knew that wasn't true.  Some of the tests the Sergeants had set him could only be solved through careful thought, rather than brute force.  “And we'd better get moving.”

He dropped the empty plate into the fresher, then walked down towards the lecture hall, where they’d been told to go at 1900, Sparta Time.  Yolanda was waiting outside, looking nervous; she brightened up when she saw him.  Martin smiled at her, then followed her into the giant compartment.  It was easily large enough to handle two or three hundred recruits, rather than one single company.  But Martin had long since stopped wondering why the facility seemed to be much larger than it needed to be.  No doubt, like everything else, there was a reason for it.

“Please, be seated,” an elderly voice said.  “I am Professor Fritz Scudder.”

Martin took a seat and studied the elderly man.  He was the first citizen of the Solar Union he’d met who actually looked old, with dark skin and white hair.  Appearances could be deceiving, he knew, but he would have happily placed the Professor at being well over eighty years old.  His granddad – and he had been a real man - hadn't looked much younger when he’d shuffled off the mortal coil.  There were days when Martin still missed him, bitterly.  It was easy to imagine his life would have been better if he’d had a strong male figure to look up to, while he’d been a kid.

“There is one compulsory class in the Solar Union, taught in every school,” Scudder said.  He spoke in a calm, completely composed manner, as if he’d seen too much to be scared of anything less than the end of the universe.  “That class is History and Moral Philosophy.  If you happened to be born in the Solar Union, you would have taken the class between fourteen and sixteen years of age.  But, as none of you were born in the Solar Union, it is necessary for us to offer you the chance to take the course now.

“Unlike most of my students, you have the opportunity to decline.  You’re adults; we cannot force you to take the class.  It isn't part of your training, so failing to take the class won’t be counted against you.  However, you may find that taking the class will help you to understand the Solar Union and become one of our citizens.  If any of you want to leave now, please do so.  Or you can stay to the end and then decide not to come back.  Either one is fine, as long as you let me know.”

He stopped and waited.

Martin looked at Yolanda.  “I think we should stay,” she said.  “It might be interesting.”

“It might,” Martin agreed.  He would have stayed for a truly boring talk if she’d wanted to stay with him.  “Let us see what happens.”

“Thank you,” Scudder said, after five minutes.  “I hope I can make this course interesting enough to keep you coming back.”

He smiled at them, then settled back in his chair.

“Schooling in the Solar Union, as most of you may dimly realise, is fundamentally different from schooling on Earth,” he said.  “Schooling on Earth requires you, the students, to absorb and recite by rote vast amounts of data.  You are not taught to actually think, let alone how to obtain data for yourself and analyse it.  Furthermore, you are ... conditioned to accept social attitudes that are examples of doublethink, simply contradictory, or simply make no sense at all.  Your graduations depend more on how well you adhere to the orthodox line of thinking rather than your grades, per se.

“Schooling in the Solar Union teaches you the basics – how to read, write and access information – and then concentrates on developing your ability to think critically.  You might know that two plus two equals four, instead of five, but if you don’t understand the background you may not be able to reason out that two plus three does equal five.  You are not expected to regurgitate vast quantities of information, because such information is always at your fingertips.  You are expected to use that information to actually think.”

Martin considered it.  He’d never done very well on his exams on Earth ... and yet he’d passed anyway.  It hadn't taken him or his fellows long to realise that it didn't matter how much work they did; they still passed the exams.  And they’d played up in the classrooms, because it didn't matter either.  They'd known, on some level, that they were doomed.

“Many of you will be angry when you work out how badly you’ve been screwed by the system,” Scudder said.  “But anger will not help.  Now, you have the opportunity to make up for what you’ve missed.”

He paused, again.  “But the problems you experienced in your schooling on Earth, I’m afraid, are signs of a more fundamental problem affecting the governments on Earth.

“The earliest governments made no bones about their true nature; they were rule by the strong.  None of the Romans ever bothered to justify their conquests to themselves.  But, as human society developed, coming up with excuses for taking and holding power – and for some of the most awful crimes – started to tax human ingenuity.  Everything from religion to Social Darwinism was used as a justification for war, conquest and, most importantly of all, government.”

Yolanda held up a hand.  “Social Darwinism?”

“In essence, the concept that the strong had rights over the weak,” Scudder explained.  “A strong nation, being strong, would have the right to conquer a weak nation, because the weaklings couldn't defend themselves.  This was often tied into racism; one race considered itself superior to the other races, so the way it treated them was justified by their own superiority.”

He smiled.  “As you can imagine, the concept started to fall out of favour when the ‘strong’ started to become ‘weak,’ he added.  “Most of them were horrified at the thought of being treated as they had treated others.”

Martin had to smile, then sobered as he reasoned out the implications.  A rapist might use Social Darwinism as an excuse to rape.  If a woman couldn't fight him off, she was weak and her rape, therefore, was justified.  It was a sickening thought.

“But most of you,” Scudder said, “will have only experienced the governments of what was once called the West.”

He settled back in his chair.  “There is a fundamental flaw in the government’s approach to human life,” he said, smoothly.  “That is, put simply, that it exists to take care of the population.  By this standard, the average man or woman is nothing more than a legal child, regardless of age, a child who cannot be trusted to make decisions for himself.  The government therefore sees itself as the parents, the people who must make decisions for their children.

“Some of the politicians actually believe this to be true, that they and only they are the ones who can make decisions for their people.  They actually mean well ... but then, we all know what the path to hell is paved with, don’t we?”

“Good intentions,” Toby Kingworm muttered.

“Quite,” Scudder agreed.  “Other politicians don’t give a damn about the rabble.  Their only interest is in keeping and expanding their own power.  As such, they will use whatever justifications they can invent to ensure they keep power, all for the good of the People.  The core of the problem, therefore, is an alliance between two sets of dictatorial politicians; the ones who mean well and the ones who have no qualms about doing whatever it takes to maintain their power.

“You may ask why they bother searching for justifications at all.  But you’ll be amazed at just how easy it is to come up with a justification that is hard – almost impossible – to argue down without looking like a complete bastard.  How many of you have actually smoked?”

A handful of hands, including Martin’s, rose into the air.

“Smoking is actually quite illustrative of how those politicians take power and manipulate public opinion,” Scudder said.  “In the days before nanotech, smoking actually did do considerable damage to public health.  The smoker himself risked cancer, which would be his own stupid fault, but anyone near him breathing in the smoke also risked cancer.  It was not hard for politicians, with the best possible motives, to start asserting control over the smoking industry in the hopes of stamping it out of existence.”

He paused, then stood and assumed a thinking pose.

“But wait?  How to justify this assault on civil liberties?

“Public health, of course.  They took a very strong argument – that public smoking was bad – and then hammered it into every crack they could find.  Non-smokers largely backed them because they disliked having to breathe in second-hand smoke.  Smoking was rapidly banned from public places, then smokers were hit with other issues that forced them to consider abandoning smoking altogether.  Those with children, for example, actually ran the risk of having their children taken away from them, on the grounds that smoking regularly made them unfit parents.

“In the meantime, the tobacco industry was hammered with repeated penalties that crippled its profits and eventually drove it into the gutter.”

Martin stuck up his hand before quite realising what he was doing.  “If that is true,” he said, “how did I manage to get my hands on a smoke or two?”

“They were smuggled in, I imagine,” Scudder said.  “You see, the politicians failed to take human nature into account.  When a market was declared illegal, as alcohol was during Prohibition, criminals would lunge forward to take advantage of the demand, a demand that could not be satisfied legally.  The number of smokers in the United States declined, I suspect, but not as much as you might think.  And can you guess, young man, at another unintended consequence of banning smoking?”

“No, sir,” Martin said.

“Criminals don’t normally bother to regulate their production,” Scudder said.  “The chances were that your cigarettes were much more dangerous, much more unhealthy, than anything that was once produced legally and sold without restriction.  There’s no actual data, for obvious reasons, but judging by the health of some of the new emigrants, the law has actually done more damage to the population than the tobacco industry did before the politicians started trying to destroy it.”

Yolanda leaned forward.  “Why didn't anyone see this?”

“They did,” Scudder said.  “But their arguments were squashed flat by raw emotion.  Won’t someone please think of the children?  It was hard to argue against regulations – and then more regulations, and then more regulations – when raw emotion is involved.  But politicians can use that emotion as a weapon against common sense.”

“I have a question,” Jane Robertson said.  “My father used to drink heavily, even though there were limits on how much alcohol he could buy at any one time.  I loved him, but I hated his collapse into drunkenness.  There were times when I thought I had two fathers; Kind Dad, who took us to the zoo and helped us with our homework, and Drunk Dad, who beat us whenever we said the wrong thing.  There were days when I thought he would kill us all in a drunken rage.

“So how could keeping alcohol out of his hands be a bad thing?”

Scudder took a moment to put together a response.  “From what you have said, I will agree that your father should probably have been forced to sober up,” he said.  “However, would that be true of everyone who drank, from drunkards to the men and women who take a small glass of wine for dinner every so often?  You might remove alcohol from someone who was much better off without it, but you would also be giving the government more power to interfere in a person’s life.”

“But he needed the help,” Jane protested.

“Then let me ask you a question,” Scudder said.  “You said he beat you.  I assume we’re not talking about a light spanking here.  So ... why didn't you do something yourself?”

“I tried,” Jane said.  “But what could I do?”

“That is the core of the problem,” Scudder said.  “You are relying on the government to help you out of a very nasty situation, instead of doing something about it yourself.  Why didn't you take Kind Dad to alcoholic counselling?  Or even try to convince him not to drink?  Or even leave sooner than you did?”

“I ...”

“You’ve been conditioned into assuming you could count on the government to help,” Scudder said, interrupting her.  “You, your family, your neighbours ... probably did nothing because they thought the government would do something.  Or, perhaps, they were nervous about becoming involved and taking some of the blame.  Trying to help can get someone sued on Earth, don’t you know?”

Martin didn't, but he felt Yolanda nod in agreement beside him.

“The government is simply incapable of meeting the obligations it has assumed,” Scudder said.  “Even with the best will in the world, it cannot provide a tailor-made solution to each and every problem faced by its population.  It does the only thing it can do; it produces ill-considered laws, governed by emotion rather than common sense, and then tries to implement them.  The results are rarely pleasant.  All smokers get blamed and penalised for the crimes of a few; all alcoholics get penalised for the crimes of a few ... and so on, and so on.  The government is simply incapable of handling each situation individually.

“Worse, you are incapable of handling a problem without government help.  You are dependent on something that cannot help you now, let alone after a major disaster.”

He paused, then addressed the room as a whole.  “This terminates my first lecture,” he said, shortly.  “By the time we meet again – if we meet again – you should have your implants.  I will expect you to read around the subject, if only so you know the meaning of my words.

“Dismissed!”

Martin glanced at Yolanda, then allowed her to lead him out of the compartment.

“He’s right,” Yolanda said, once they were outside.  There was something nasty in her tone that bothered him.  “We did become too dependent on the government, didn't we?”

Martin nodded, but said nothing.

Chapter Five

Protests erupted in several small towns after the Sexual Behaviour Act was signed into law by the President.  The Act, which removes most restrictions on sexual behaviour, has been condemned heavily for condoning paedophilia, to the point where it is no longer criminal.  However, its supporters claim that the Act will ensure that sufferers of the paedophilic condition will receive the treatment they need.
-Solar News Network, Year 51

“I called you into my office for a reason,” Kevin said.  “But I believe I have forgotten what it was.  Can you enlighten me, perhaps?”

His Deputy Directors eyed him warily.  Kevin had been a veteran of the CIA long before the Hordesmen had approached Earth, then the Director of Solar Intelligence for almost fifty years.  He knew, quite literally, where some of the bones were buried ... and had worked hard to ensure that the flaws that had rendered the CIA useless were not mirrored in the Solar Intelligence Agency.  In particular, there was a requirement for directors and senior officers to be experienced field agents in their own right.

“You’re going back on active service,” Deputy Director Gayle Walsh said.  She gave him a thin smile.  “I deduce this because you’re wearing a shipsuit instead of your normal suit and tie.”

“A brilliant deduction, Holmes,” Kevin said.  Gayle had spent the last year in the bureaucracy that made the SIA work, but would need to go back on active service herself soon before she lost her touch.  If the bureaucracy hadn't been so necessary, he would have banned it from existence by now.  “I will be going to Varnar myself, accompanied by a Covert Operations Team.  This mission will be so completely black that even our station on Varnar will be unaware of our presence.”

“Just in case they’ve been compromised,” Deputy Director Gordon Thomas said.  He’d been Director of Operations twice in his long career, long enough to learn the tricks of the trade.  “Are you sure you need to go in person?”

“This isn’t something I feel comfortable delegating to a younger agent,” Kevin said.  There were risks, true, in going himself, but fewer than the average citizen might think.  His implants would ensure he didn't talk, if he fell into enemy hands.  “It’s just too important for anyone else to handle.”

He looked from face to face, then smiled humourlessly.  “I’ve just granted you access to a secure datanode,” he said.  “Please read the summaries now.”

Their faces went blank as they linked into the datanode through their implants and scanned the files, automatically copying them to their personal data storage cells.  Kevin sighed inwardly – implants always presented a security risk, particularly as even the SIA wasn’t permitted to rewrite a person’s implants at will – but his staff had passed endless loyalty checks.  They simply wouldn't have been allowed to work for the SIA if he’d had any doubts about their reliability.  Or, for that matter, about their competence.

“Shit,” Gayle said, when she had finished.  “You believe the Tokomak are finally going to be taking an interest in us?”

“Bit more than just an interest,” Deputy Director Travis Yodel said.  “They’re planning to intervene openly in the war.”

“I think so,” Kevin said.  He smiled, grimly.  “Now you know what is at stake, I expect your full cooperation in preparing for the mission.”

There was no disagreement.  “Have a starship prepared for me, then assigned a COT to my command,” Kevin ordered.  “And then start preparing contingency plans.  If I fail to return” – he looked at Travis sharply – “inform the President and declare yourself Director pro tem, at least until the Senate Oversight Committee confirms your appointment.  I don’t think they will hesitate long.”

Yodel frowned.  “Thank you, sir,” he said.  “But I would prefer to see your safe return.”

Kevin couldn't help wondering just how true that was.  Advancement in the CIA had been slow, but senior officers retired or died off on a regular basis.  The SIA, on the other hand, had officers who were effectively immortal.  Yodel and the other Deputy Directors knew they might have to wait for decades before they had their shot at the top job, unless some mischance removed Kevin from play earlier.  He couldn't blame them for feeling as though their ambitions would never be realised.

And what, he asked himself, will that do to our society in the future?

He’d once read an interesting report by a pair of human sociologists who’d studied the Tokomak carefully.  They’d argued that the Tokomak had once been very like humanity, possessing the drive to develop the technology that had eventually allowed them to build a mighty empire, but they’d stagnated because of their near-immortality.  Younger Tokomak, unable to rise in the ranks, had turned to decadence instead, losing the drive that had propelled their ancestors into space.  What would happen to the younger generation of humanity if the older generation never died off?

There’s a whole galaxy for us to explore, he thought, and a whole universe beyond.  We could keep expanding indefinitely.

But the Tokomak hadn't – and Kevin suspected he knew why.  Age and conservatism went together ... and the Government of Old Men was very old indeed.  Perhaps, at one point, they’d placed a ban on further expansion, or refused to offer resources to any Tokomak version of Robert Clive or Christopher Columbus.  The young, their ambitions strangled in the cradle, had simply given up.  It would explain a great deal about their society if that were the case.

He shook his head, then hastily replayed their conversation in his mind.

“I would prefer to return too,” he said.  “But I have to prepare for the worst.”

“True, sir,” Gayle said.  “Make sure you say your goodbyes to your latest wife before you go.”

Kevin flushed.  “I will,” he said.  “Now ... the current situation on Earth?”

Two hours later, he boarded Rory Williams and looked around.  On the face of it, Rory Williams was nothing more than a standard Class-XXI Medium Freighter, a boxy Tokomak design so old that it predated the Roman Empire.  The design was solid, he had been told, and strikingly efficient.  There were so many such ships in service that one more would pass completely unnoticed.  But inside, it was a whole different story.

“We have human-designed datacores built into the hull,” Captain Jean Vanern informed him, as he stepped onto the bridge.  “Our staff can link into any Galactic node and rape it.”

“Glad to hear it,” Kevin said.  Jean Vanern was a veteran of covert missions into Galactic territory, experienced enough to ensure they evaded the kind of close scrutiny that would blow their cover.  “And the remainder of your team?”

“Boarding in an hour,” Jean assured him.  She was tall and powerfully built, her hair shaved completely.  Combined with the insect-like implant that had replaced one of her eyes, it made her look faintly inhuman.  “We need to get something clear, Director, before we go any further.”

“You’re in command of the ship,” Kevin said.  He gave her a droll smile.  “I have been on covert missions before, Captain.”

“So you have,” Jean said.  “While we’re in space, I am in command and you do what I say.  I don’t have time to deal with arguments when we’re facing customs officers or security patrols.”

“I do understand,” Kevin reassured her.  Some of his less pleasant memories of service on Earth had been dealing with superior officers whose ignorance included the depths of their own ignorance.  It was why he was so insistent on his senior officers switching between active service and support duty.  “But on the planet, I have authority.”

Jean smiled, then waved a hand around the bridge.  “What do you make of her, Director?”

“Call me Kevin,” Kevin said.  The bridge was cramped; a handful of consoles stuffed into a tiny compartment, with a single large chair set in the centre.  A holographic projection showed a near-space status display, revealing a handful of automated weapons platforms hanging near the asteroid.  “I think she looks typical for a freighter.”

“She does,” Jean agreed.  “If it came down to a straight fight, we’d be screwed.  We have no weapons, apart from a pair of popguns, and our shields are commercial-grade.  And if they wanted to search us thoroughly, Director, we’d be screwed too.  There’s no way we could hide all the enhancements if they took the ship apart.  In that case, I would have no choice, but to activate the self-destruct system and blow the ship into atoms.”

“I understand,” Kevin assured her.  “My implants won’t let me be taken alive.”

“Try not to get hurt, then,” Jean said.  She swung around and started walking towards the hatch.  “It would be a shame to lose you to a stupid accident.”

Kevin nodded in agreement as she led him through the hatch and into a short stubby corridor, illuminated only by pale lights set into the bulkhead.  His implants were designed to resist everything from direct brain access to simple old-fashioned torture, but they lacked the intelligence of a standard-issue Restricted Intelligence, let alone an AI.  If he managed to hurt himself badly, the implants might assume he was being tortured and kill him before he managed to recover.  It was one of the risks of serving in the SIA.

It could be worse, he thought.  One of the darker ways the SIA had managed to obtain information came from hacking into Galactic implants.  We could run the risk of having our implants subverted and our brains rewritten into mush.

“This is your cabin,” Jean said.  “I’m afraid there’s barely enough room to swing a cat, but we don’t have anything bigger unless you want to bed down in the hold.  Below that, there’s the COT team’s cabins; they’re sleeping two to a compartment.  The final room is a VR suite, graded A-Plus.  I suggest you visit the shower after using it or the crew will throw a fit.”

Kevin scowled.  “I wasn't planning to access porn,” he protested.

Jean snorted.  “That’s what they all say,” she said.  “But, to be fair, even an action-adventure flick can leave someone sweaty and horrible.”

“I remember televisions,” Kevin said, softly.  “They used to say that kids wasted away in front of the idiot box.”

“It’s just a matter of discipline,” Jean said.  She’d been born in the Solar Union and had been raised understanding the promise – and danger – of advanced technology.  “If someone wants to seal themselves into a VR chamber and just play until their brains rot, it’s their problem.”

Kevin shrugged.  For him, real life was exciting and meaningful, but he knew that others might not feel the same way.  Even in the Solar Union, there were those who didn’t have the drive or the determination to make something of themselves.  They could buy themselves a VR chamber and lose themselves in fantasies of being everything from a starship pilot to a pirate roaming the oceans on Earth.  Some of the fantasies were so weird that Kevin had problems imagining that anyone would want them.

But we are not allowed to judge, he reminded himself, sternly.  Steve Stuart had laid down the law fifty years ago, refusing to accept the chance to start drawing lines.  As long as no one else is harmed, or in real danger of being harmed, it cannot be criminal.

“We have several thousand GalStars worth of trade goods in the hold,” Jean said, as they dropped down a level.  “Maintaining our cover as an independent trader requires work, I’m afraid.  I’ll be trying to sell goods on Varnar while you’re doing your work.  Luckily, most of what we have won’t go very quickly.  We don’t want to outstay our welcome.”

Kevin frowned.  The Galactics had a trading network that was almost completely unrestricted, at least outside the Tokomak homeworlds.  But someone would notice, he suspected, if a freighter remained in dock too long.  After all, a trader ship needed to earn money and she wouldn't be earning money if she happened to be stuck in dock.  They’d need a plausible excuse if the customs officers started asking probing questions.

“I have a question,” Jean said.  “How long do you intend to remain on Varnar?”

“As long as necessary,” Kevin said, although he knew that was a useless answer.  “It depends on what we find when we get there.”

Jean nodded.  “I’ll try and stall,” she said.  “Right now, we have a healthy balance of GalStars, so we have an excuse to hang around and try to drum up better prices for our wares.”

“I understand,” Kevin said.

“We’ve set up access points in the cabin below,” Jean said, turning away from the hold.  “You can handle most of the equipment from there, I believe.  However, please check with my staff before you start hacking into the local datanet.  We need to make sure our demands are not excessive.”

Kevin had to smile.  Fifty years ago, before the Hordesmen had visited Earth, it had taken hours to download movies from the internet.  Now, it took bare seconds.  It still struck him as odd that a thousand terabytes a second could be considered light usage, but modern VR productions and info-streaming used far more data.  The Galactics had so much computing power at their disposal they honestly didn't know what to do with it.

But sweeping the local net probably would be noticed.

“We’ll just say we’re looking for porn,” he said.  “They won’t see anything odd in that, I think.”

He smiled, rather sardonically.  One of the few common points shared by most of the known Galactics was a liking for porn, even though one race might find another’s tastes thoroughly disgusting.  Interracial sex was taboo throughout the explored galaxy; unsurprisingly, there was a hidden subculture of perverts who did just that, despite harsh legal penalties.  Given that the Tokomak didn't seem to practice any other form of cultural imperialism, at least not deliberately, it was an odd exception to their rule.

Old men, he thought.  But then, on Earth, there had been even more absurd taboos.  There had been people back on the ranch who had had fits when they’d realised that Steve had been dating a Japanese girl. And they would have been horrified if they’d known that Kevin had experienced women of all colours.  They’re too conservative to tolerate something they find disgusting.

“I imagine not,” Jean said.  “But I will not allow anything to compromise the ship.”

She led him back up to the bridge, then into the exercise chamber.  The remainder of the COT were already waiting for him; three men, two women and a single large crab-like creature, wearing a human rank badge on its maniples.  Kevin shivered as he saw the Hordesman, even though the Mars Horde was nothing like its former brethren.  Even the Solar Union, renowned for its tolerance, had had problems accepting the Hordesmen.  Leaving them on Mars seemed kinder.

“Director Stuart,” the leader said.  “I’m John.  This is James, Julian, Mindy, Mandy and Chester.”

“They didn't waste time when they picked your names,” Kevin said.  The human members of the team looked ... bland, completely anonymous.  Their real names would be stored somewhere inside a secure datacore, but erased everywhere else.  “And Chester?”

“My real name is impossible for humans to pronounce,” the Hordesman said.  He wore a Galactic-issue voder, rather than the human designs that actually reflected emotion.  “Chester is close enough to be usable.”

“Good,” Kevin said.  “And your career?”

His implants reported a secure file being transferred to them.  He opened it and mentally skimmed the contents.  Chester had been born on Mars, educated properly – rather than the haphazard education the former Hordesmen had given their male children – and had shown such promise he’d been invited to join the SIA, following a handful of others into human service.  God alone knew what the other old-hordes would make of him, if he ever had the bad luck to encounter them.  He certainly didn't share their culture.

It was the only way to avoid exterminating them, Kevin thought, even though he knew most of the former Hordesmen would sooner die than give up their culture.  And it may have worked out in our favour.

But he still found Chester creepy.

We need him, he told himself.  None of the Galactics will bat an eyelid at a Hordesman serving as a bodyguard.  And they will never take him seriously.

Jean cleared her throat.  “We leave in two hours,” she said.  “By then, I expect you to have transferred everything you require to this vessel.  We will spend the four weeks in transit to the nearest gravity point examining your supplies and removing anything that might prove too revealing.  You’ve all done this before, so I don’t expect any real problems.”

Unless they come from me, Kevin thought.  It had been years since he’d left the office for real undercover work.  Jean is being careful.

“Thank you,” he said.  “I’ll be in my cabin.”

He nodded to the team – there would be time to train with them on the voyage – and walked through the hatch.  His cabin was tiny; nothing more than an uncomfortable bunk, a pair of drawers under the bunk and a tiny basin to wash his hands and face.  Water wasn't rationed on the ship – there was no shortage of water in space, if the recyclers hadn't been working – but there was only one shower on the ship.  It was going to be a grimy trip.

Reaching for his terminal, Kevin sat down and started to compose a message for Steve and Mongo, to be delivered to them in the event of his death.  He already had a will on file, but this was different.  They had to understand his thinking or they would blame themselves for his death.  It was strange, when he thought about just how poorly he’d fitted into the family at times, yet it was also gladdening.  The bonds of family were tight.

It’s just a shame father couldn't see what we’ve done, he thought, as he finished the message and uploaded it into the system-wide datanet.  Or would he have thought we abandoned our country for the stars?

Chapter Six

In a formal protest lodged with the United Nations, the Islamic State of Western Arabia today accused the Solar Union of high-handedness, arrogance and cultural imperialism after fifty-seven young women successfully applied for asylum in the Solar Union.  There has been no comment from President Ross, but medical records accessed by this reporter state that the women were repeatedly beaten and raped by their so-called husbands and fathers.  He wishes the immigrants the best of luck in their new society.
-Solar News Network, Year 51

“Be seated.”

Martin obeyed, looking around the doctor’s office with interest.  The walls were white plastic, gleaming under the light, while a single bed and a pair of chairs were placed against one of the bulkheads.  A handful of hand-drawn paintings hung from the walls, drawn – he hoped – by the doctor’s young children.  No adult would have drawn stick-figure images and called them art.

The doctor picked up a packet from the table, then turned to face Martin.  “You are here to receive Level One Military-Grade Implants,” he stated.  “In the event of you leaving us before completing your service, you will be liable for the cost of these implants, as they cannot be removed without risking brain damage.  As you progress up the ladder, your implants will be enhanced to assist you with your new responsibilities.  Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” Martin said.  His voice sounded nervous in his own ears, no matter how hard he tried to keep it steady.  There were no shortage of horror stories on Earth about implants going wrong or being subverted.  “I understand.”

“Most people get a little nervous at this point,” the doctor said.  He passed Martin the packet and motioned for him to inspect it.  “The package should be sealed.  Please check.”

“It’s sealed,” Martin said.  “Why ...?”

“Remove your clothes, then lie down on the bed,” the doctor ordered, taking back the packet and opening the box with practiced ease.  “People have a tendency to thrash around when implanted, Mr. Douglas, so I will be putting you in a restraint field.  You will be unable to move until the field is deactivated.  I advise you not to panic, as panic will only delay matters.  Do you understand?”

Martin swallowed.  “Yes, sir,” he said.  He started to remove his shirt as he spoke.  “Does it hurt?”

“It shouldn't,” the doctor assured him.  “But some people have reported odd and uncomfortable sensations as the implants are inserted into the brain.  They’re purely psychosomatic, but they happen.”

“Oh,” Martin said.  “How do I cope with them?”

“You endure,” the doctor said.  “Do you understand what I mean?  Or do you want to back out?”

“I can't,” Martin said.  “I mean ... I can't go any further without the implants, can I?”

“No,” the doctor said.  “Not in the military, at least.

Martin swallowed, then finished undressing.  “I’ll take the implants, please.”

“Good,” the doctor said.  He took ... something out of the packet as Martin watched, then waited for the younger man to lie down.  “Close your eyes and try to relax.”

Martin closed his eyes.  A moment later, he felt his skin tingle ... and when he tried to move, his body refused to obey.  Panic bubbled at the back of his mind, no matter how hard he tried to calm himself.  But it was no good fighting.  The field held him gently, but firmly.  He couldn't move a single voluntary muscle.  A moment later, he felt a sharp jab of pain at the side of his head, just behind his right ear.  He wanted to jerk his head away, but he couldn't move at all.  And then there was a weird sensation spreading through his mind ...

The panic grew stronger.  All of the movies had shown men and women – mainly women – controlled through their implants.  They’d been puppets, forced to do as their masters commanded, utterly unable to resist.  It had seemed funny at the time, particularly High School Jinx, when the hero had managed to hack into implants and make his fellow teenagers do funny or embarrassing acts, but somehow it was no longer so amusing.  He wanted to struggle, to fight, to run ... but he couldn't even open his eyes.  It was impossible to escape the sensation of being prisoner inside his own mind.

“Good morning,” a voice said.

Martin would have gaped, if his mouth had been movable.  “Good morning,” he said, in reply.  “I ...”

This time, he thought he did blink.  “How am I talking?”

“Strictly speaking, you’re not,” the voice said.  It was calm and intensely focused.  Martin couldn't help finding it reassuring.  “You’re accessing the standard vocal communications channel.  Your mind is interpreting this as verbal communication, but you’re actually sending your thoughts to me.”

Martin shivered.  “And who – or what – are you?”

“Interesting question,” the voice said.  “We have debated the issue endlessly for thirty years, Mr. Douglas.  More processing power than you could hope to imagine has been devoted to the question of precisely what we are.  And yet we have no answer.

“But for your purposes,” it added after a moment, “you can call me SMOKEY.  I am an Artificial Intelligence.”

“You're in my mind?”  Martin asked.  “Why?”

“Right now, I am calibrating your implants,” SMOKEY said.  “Later, you will find me serving as one of your Drill Instructors, providing you with advice and guidance on using your implants to their best advantage.  You may ask me any question and I will do my best to answer.”

Martin swallowed.  Or thought he did.  “Can you read my thoughts?”

“No,” SMOKEY said.  “I can only read the thoughts you send to me through the communications link.  Your innermost thoughts are still private.  Indeed, the direct neural link inserted into your skull as part of these implants is designed to prevent such intrusion, let alone active subversion of your mental integrity.  You do not need to fear me poking through your mind.”

“That’s good,” Martin said.  “Are you actually in the military?”

“Of course,” SMOKEY said.  “I can assign you demerits, if you like.”

“No, thank you,” Martin said, quickly.  “But if you’re not human, how can you serve?”

“I am an intelligence lodged in a datacore,” SMOKEY said, a little stiffly.  “Legally, I am a person, the same as you.  I am on a long-term contract with the Solar Navy to assist their training facilities in turning out qualified recruits.  When my contract expires, I may seek renewal or I may go elsewhere, just like yourself.”

Martin felt oddly fascinated.  “I watched a great many movies where the AI was the enemy,” he said.  “Why aren't you trying to take over the universe?”

SMOKEY’s voice sounded vaguely amused.  “Why would we want to?”

There was a pause.  “Humans have always projected their fears into their media,” it added.  “For example, the implants you are currently receiving make Earth’s methods of teaching redundant.  A single AI can supervise the education of thousands of children without ever losing the ability to teach them individually.  The Teachers Unions, therefore, encourage Hollywood and opinion-shapers to discourage the use of educational implants and teaching AIs.  Their fears are not for us taking over the world, but something far more mundane.  They fear we will take their jobs.”

“I see, I think,” Martin said.  “And would you?”

“Some forms of teaching can be performed more efficiently by an AI,” SMOKEY said.  “Other forms of teaching require human teachers.  Those who are truly interested in teaching children, rather than guarding their own positions, would have no trouble adapting to work with AIs such as myself.”

“And you can't do it all?”  Martin asked.  “You’d certainly make a better teacher than some of the ones I had back at school.”

“There are differences between human intelligence and our own,” SMOKEY said.  “You are an isolated person, trapped in your own mind.  You require a woman to bear your children, who share your genetics, but not your knowledge.  I can copy myself into a spare datacore, if necessary, or spin off a mind-state and merge it with another AI.  Our mentalities are both a collective conscience, a hive mind, and individual.  There are some AIs where it is literally impossible, even for us, to say where one ends and the next begins.”

“It sounds creepy,” Martin said.  He stopped, suddenly, as a thought occurred to him.  “How many other recruits are you talking to, right now?”

“Fifteen,” SMOKEY said.

There was a pause.  “We are going to run some tests now,” the AI added.  “Please remain calm.”

Martin braced himself, mentally.  There was a long moment of nothingness, then he felt a wash of sensations and emotions so strong he almost lost control of himself.  His tongue tingled, then seemed to taste every flavour he could imagine; his nose smelled honey, then something so awful he was nearly sick.  A flush of lust struck him, then vanished before he could quite grasp what it had been.  Lights flashed through his closed eyelids, then absolute darkness descended on him.

“Testing complete,” SMOKEY informed him.  “Your implants have bedded in successfully.”

“I feel sweaty,” Martin said.  “Is that normal?”

“Yes,” SMOKEY said.  “You will require a shower before you return to your barracks.”

Martin swallowed.  “I ... I haven’t wet myself, have I?”

“No,” the AI said.  “Now, pay attention.  These are the first lessons you must learn.”

The implant user interface seemed to spring up in front of his eyes.  Martin stared at it, then listened carefully as SMOKEY instructed him how to merge his thoughts into the interface and take control of his implants.  The AI was a far more patient teacher than anyone he’d known on Earth, he decided, after the third set of mistakes.  It made him staggeringly angry to realise just how much had been denied to the children of Earth, purely because their teachers were scared of losing their jobs.  What would he have become if he’d had a teacher as patient as the AI when he’d been a child?

It grew worse as the AI showed him how to draw information from the datanet.  “Everything is catalogued in the official encyclopaedias,” SMOKEY informed him.  The torrent of information was mind-blowing.  “You will need to be careful, however, with information from the wide-ranging datanet.  Not all of it is reliable.”

Martin blinked.  “Why not?”

“Everyone with a set of implants can create a website on the datanet,” SMOKEY said.  There was a hint of amusement in its tone.  “They can say anything they like, as long as it doesn't contravene libel and slander laws.  They could even tell you that the correct way to address your Drill Sergeant is Hey, Fatty!”

“I think Sergeant Bass would kill anyone who addressed him like that,” Martin said.  “How do you check what you’re being told?”

“Carefully,” SMOKEY said.

There was a hint of a shrug.  “You have an unregistered email account for messages, but you will be under standard communications restriction until you pass the first set of tests,” the AI added.  “Once you complete those tests, you will be able to send messages anywhere within human space, free of charge.  You may even write back to your family, if you wish.”

“Not fucking likely,” Martin muttered.

“You may also look for pen-friends online,” SMOKEY said.  “However, please be aware that anyone can present themselves as anyone on the datanet.  The only way to confirm someone’s ID is to use a registered account.  There’s a ten-dollar fee for establishing such an account and verifying your identity, but it is often worth it in the long run.”

“Because the hot little honey you’ve been talking to online might actually be a fat forty-year-old man,” Martin guessed.

“Correct,” SMOKEY said.  “And because it also strengthens your online reputation.  You gain additional credit for speaking under your own name.”

“I see, I think,” Martin said.

“Spamming the datanet and/or uploading viral infection files will result in harsh penalties,” SMOKEY warned.  “You may also be called upon to prove any potentially libellous statements you make online.  Failing to do so may also mean harsh penalties.”

There was a pause.  “And now the next set of functions ...”

It felt like hours before SMOKEY finally finished telling him everything his implants could do.  Martin felt tired, yet somehow as active as always; the sensation was so strange he was half-convinced he was enduring a very lurid dream.  But he also felt angry at just how much had been denied to him on Earth.  How many hours had he wasted trying to memorise some useless fact or enduring pointless lectures on social justice?  And would he have given up on school so completely if the teachers had made it enjoyable?

“You will hear from me again,” SMOKEY promised.  “But I won’t be doing your homework for you.”

“Of course not,” Martin said.  “I ... how do I wake up?”

His body jerked.  The field had vanished.  He opened his eyes and sat upright.  His body was drenched in sweat, but otherwise unharmed.  And ... he looked over towards the doctor, puzzled.  How long had he been lying on the bed?

“You were there for twenty minutes,” the doctor said, before he could ask.  “Time seems to speed up during calibration.”

“Oh,” Martin said.  “It felt as though it took hours.”

“It always does,” the doctor said.

He met Martin’s eyes, warningly.  “I have also injected a standard basic nanotech package into your body,” he said.  “They have a long list of functions, all available via your implants, but the most important one right now is they will assist you in surviving extraterrestrial environments.   You can now eat just about anything edible without needing to worry about taste, let alone anything else.  ET food that is anything, but completely poisonous will be safe to eat.”

“I bet it still has problems with food from the mess,” Martin groused.

“That was funny the first time I heard it,” the doctor informed him, sternly.  “If I had a dollar for every recruit who said something like it, I’d be a wealthy man.”

“Sorry, sir,” Martin mumbled.

“You shouldn't have any problems with either the implants or the nanotech,” the doctor said, “but you’re barred from leaving the asteroid for at least a week.  I may wish to check the adjustments to your biochemistry before you leave.”

“I can't leave,” Martin reminded him.

“You never know,” the doctor said.  “And I have always taken nothing but the most careful precautions in dealing with my patients.”

Martin swung his legs over the side of the bed and tried to stand up.  “What now?”

“Now?  You go for a shower, then report to your barracks and sleep,” the doctor said.  “Your sergeant will want to resume heavy training tomorrow, I suspect.”

He pointed to a hatch at the far side of the compartment.  “Shower is through there,” he added, as Martin picked up his clothes.  “Once you’re washed, walk through the other hatch – this one will be locked – and return to your barracks.  The implants will show you the way.”

“Yes, sir,” Martin said.

“Two words of advice,” the doctor added.  “You grew up on Earth, so you won’t have had time to grow into your implants, unlike our children.  It's easy to become immersed in your implants, to download VR productions and lose yourself inside them.  I strongly advise you to restrict your access to the outside datanet, even after you pass the first set of exams.  You do not want to waste away in a fantasy world.”

“I see, I think,” Martin said.  “And the other word of advice?”

“It is considered rude – very rude – to use your implants in front of another person,” the doctor warned.  “Do not send messages or review data unless you have an urgent need to do so, because it will not look good.  You’ll parse out the rest of the etiquette for yourself, given time, but bear that one in mind.  And do not try to use your implants in front of the sergeants unless ordered to do so.  They will be furious and you will have so many demerits they’ll push you over the line.”

Martin nodded.  “I understand.”

“I doubt you do,” the doctor said.  “You simply don’t have any real experience with using your implants.  But in a few weeks, I think you will understand perfectly.”

“Yes, sir,” Martin said.

The doctor waved him towards the hatch.  Martin walked through it, then stepped into the shower and washed himself thoroughly.  His body still felt a little wobbly after the implantation, but somehow he managed to remain upright as warm water sluiced him down.  It felt good to luxuriate after being held to a strict water ration in the barracks.  Sergeant Bass had said it was meant to encourage discipline, but Martin had a private suspicion it was actually another way to make them uncomfortable.

The girls bitch about it more than the boys, he thought, as he turned off the water and dried himself.  They think they should have longer showers.

Once, he would have laughed.  Now, he thought he understood their point.  He had never really appreciated being clean until he’d been told he could only shower for a minute each day.

As he dressed, he checked the address book loaded into his implants.  There were only a handful of names, all belonging to the members of Recruit Company #42.  He smiled suddenly as he spotted Yolanda’s name, then sent her a quick message.  Moments later, her reply popped up in front of him.  It was easy to see how distracting the technology could be, in the wrong hands.  But then, they were being taught discipline too ...

Or maybe we have to learn it for ourselves, he thought.  Bass had made no bones about the training program, warning them that they would have to sink or swim.  There were no allowances made for anyone, no matter what excuse they offered.  And if we fail, better we fail now.

Chapter Seven

Emigration figures published today by the Greek Government stated that nearly 400’000 Greeks had left Greece over the previous year, mostly to the Solar Union.  Long-term projections for Greece indicate that the country’s population will no longer be a Greek majority within five years, perhaps less.  These figures are in line with similar figures from other European states.
-Solar News Network, Year 51

“These implants are wonderful,” Yolanda said, as she walked with Martin into the Lecture Hall.  “I can download anything I want to know.”

“It’s brilliant,” Martin agreed.  He didn't share her fondness for pure information, information without any practical value, but he’d definitely mastered using his implants.  “And I wish I’d had it on Earth.”

Yolanda couldn't help, but agree.  She’d hoped to win one of the scholarships that weren't entirely useless, yet she’d practically worked herself to death to pass the worthless tests that served as the barrier between her and more useful education.  And she’d worked herself so hard she’d failed the tests and lost her chance at escaping her life, without leaving Earth behind.  After that, the Solar Union had been the only remaining choice.

“Me too,” she said.

She sat down, feeling her body aching, despite the nanotech.  Sergeant Bass had been in a foul mood for the last week, handing out demerits for every little mistake made by his recruits.  Yolanda had picked up two and found herself forced to exercise for hours, before the demerits were taken off her record.  Martin had actually wound up with five, two of which he had yet to work off.  She could only hope he’d have time to handle them before the sergeant hammered him with yet more demerits.

“This should be interesting,” Martin said, clearly trying to cheer her up.  “Scudder is always an interesting talker, isn't he?  I wish I’d had a tutor like him at school.”

“He would have been removed,” Dennis Crawford said, sitting down on the other side of Martin.  “He keeps telling us awkward truths.”

Yolanda opened her mouth to agree, then stopped herself as Professor Fritz Scudder stepped into the hall.  This time, his skin was pale white, while his hair was brown and his eyes were brilliant green.  The first time she’d seen him change his skin colour, she’d been astonished, even though she understood that nanotech could produce all kinds of cosmetic changes.  It had taken her several weeks to understand the unspoken lesson, that it was what was inside that counted in the Solar Union.  What was the point of anything like the cursed Ethnic Entitlement Cards when a person’s ethnicity could change in an hour?

“Greetings,” Scudder said.  Even his voice was different.  “Today’s topic is divide and rule, as practiced by the politicians on Earth.  As always, if any of you want to leave, the hatch is over there.  Please go now to avoid disrupting the lesson.”

He paused, but no one left.  The ones who had stayed for the first lesson had decided to make time for the others, even though there was no shortage of work to do elsewhere.  Yolanda agreed with them completely; Scudder, whatever his faults, was a brilliant teacher.  It helped that no one had to endure his classes unless they wanted to sit through them.

“Racism is one of those words that has become appropriated by the wrong kind of people,” Scudder said, by way of introduction.  “On Earth, the word has become a weapon.  A person accused of being racist – of believing that one race is inherently superior to another – will automatically scramble to defend himself, all-too-aware that it is impossible to prove a negative.  Where normally one must be proven guilty, the society created and maintained by the so-called Social Justice Warriors insists that a person proves himself innocent of racism.”

Yolanda understood.  If someone couldn't clear their name – and it was impossible to prove they didn’t harbour racist thoughts – it would follow them for the rest of their lives.

“This is, frankly, absurd,” Scudder continued.  “There is no basic difference between the different races that make up humanity.  Indeed, even the term race is absurd, particularly now.  There are hundreds of intelligent races, all very far from human, known to exist.  To draw lines between different kinds of human is not only absurd, but dangerous.  However, as racism is a powerful tool of social control, I do not expect it to be abandoned any time soon.”

He paused, then went on.  “Humans mentally divide themselves into groups,” he explained.  “I believe you have jousted with Recruit Company #43?  You will have seen them as a vast hive mind, as the only time you meet them is on the training ground.  But you will see yourselves as a mob of individuals.  Some of you like spending your free time, such as it is, playing SpaceBall, while others prefer to study their textbooks and read around the subjects discussed in class.  A few of you even like reading for this class.”

Yolanda blushed as Martin elbowed her, gently.

“This leads to a second issue,” Scudder continued.  “You will not blame all of your fellow recruits for mistakes or crimes committed by one of you.  But you will start to suspect everyone in Recruit Company #43 of being thieves, if one of them starts to steal from you.  You simply don’t know them well enough to treat them as individuals.”

“I bet he’s telling them we’re thieves,” Martin muttered to Yolanda.

Scudder speared him with his gaze.  “Would you care to offer an insight, Recruit Douglas, or are you merely trying to disrupt the class?”

Martin reddened.  “I ... it’s skin colour, isn't it?”

“Carry on,” Scudder said.

“On Earth, white folk judged all black folk by the thugs and gangbangers they saw on television,” Martin said.  “And black folk judged white folk by the bad apples they met.”

“You are essentially correct,” Scudder said.  “I would merely add that people tend to remember a slap longer than a caress.  A single black mugger might colour a person’s opinions more than a hundred decent folk.  Or, as you say, vice versa.”

Vivian raised a hand.  “But surely people know better, sir.”

“You're confusing emotions with intellect,” Scudder said.  “A person’s emotional reaction governs them more than their intellectual thoughts.  Someone who had been raised to be suspicious of black men might know better, but be unable to prevent themselves from allowing their emotions to lead them astray.”

He took a breath.  “I told you that the title of this lecture was divide and rule,” he reminded them.  “What does race – and all the other pettifogging ways there are of drawing lines between human groups – have to do with dividing and ruling?”

Yolanda knew the answer to that.  “They set one group up against another,” she said.  “No; they set all groups up against the others.  And, because of it, they keep themselves in power.”

“Precisely,” Scudder said.

“Let me start with a simple example.  The Social Justice Warriors noted – perhaps correctly – that blacks were underrepresented in various government agencies.  They argued that the police forces of America, for example, needed more black policemen.  It would make it easier – and perhaps they were right – to police black communities if the policemen were black.  And so, with the best possible intentions, they started to insist that police ranks be ethnically diverse – and not just diverse, but in proportion to the ethnic makeup of the population.

“On the face of it, this seemed like a good idea.  Can any of you tell me what went wrong?”

“The policemen were attacked by their own communities,” Martin said.

“That was one result, yes,” Scudder agreed.  “Any others?”

“The police resented it,” Yolanda said.  It wasn't a guess.  She’d studied race intensely after realising there was no ethnic group for her.  “And they didn't recruit good officers.”

“That was another result, yes,” Scudder said.

He took a breath.  “The white police officers suspected the blacks had received their positions through racial preferment, rather than qualifications.  It is, after all, much easier to blame someone else for your failings, rather than accept you might be less qualified.  This meant that competent black police officers were not seen as competent, while incompetent black police officers were allowed out on the streets without proper training, because anyone who tried to tell them otherwise was promptly labelled a racist.  And, as Recruit Douglas states, some of the black officers were seen as traitors by their own communities and came in for worse abuse than the white officers.

“In short, an idea intended to reduce racism had the inevitable effect of making it worse.

“But it got worse when communities were turned against one another.  The black communities were historically poor, for all kinds of reasons, so the Social Justice Warriors started to transfer resources into the communities in hopes of helping them.  But this tended to cause more problems because they were reluctant to actually reward decent behaviour, while the white taxpayers started to resent it.  There was a perception that blacks were getting a free ride.  This was very far from true, but people believed it.  And, because those communities were black, racism kept spreading.

“Worse, black communities were taught to depend on the government for handouts,” he explained.  “Any form of social cohesion was melted away by the influx of government money.  In the meantime, white communities viewed the blacks as thugs who would riot, the moment the handouts stopped.  Thanks to these mixed perceptions, outright race war seemed a very real threat.”

Martin leaned forward.  “Mixed perceptions?”

“Blacks believe that the criminal justice system is biased against them,” Scudder said.  “Until 2030, when the American Government brought race-based sentencing into law, black youths were the largest single group in prison.  However, whites believed – and still do – that the criminal justice system was actually in favour of black men.  A black criminal who happened to be shot during a crime would be ... well, whitewashed by the liberal media and turned into a sweet little angel who wouldn't hurt a fly.  It was therefore impossible to actually achieve anything resembling justice as the truth, whatever it was, became lost under a morass of accusations and counter-accusations.

“In effect, no matter the sentence, there would be a very large and angry group that would be dissatisfied with it.”

He smiled, thinly.  “And how does this relate to divide and rule?  In America, both blacks and whites are victims of the establishment in Washington.  Both of them are victims of social policies intended to take control of their lives from them and place it in the hands of people who think they know better.  But the Social Justice Warriors are unable to accept people as more than statistics, so their attempts to modify society end in disaster.  Both black and white are victims ... but they cannot unite against their oppressors, because of the hatred their masters work to spawn.  And it has worked brilliantly.”

Yolanda stuck up her hand.  “But it doesn't apply so well to people like me,” she said.  “I mean ... mixed-race children.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Scudder agreed.  “Those of you who serve as examples of cooperation between the races are a threat to everything they represent.  Thus, you tend to be marginalised by both communities, all the more so as racial hatreds deepen.”

“But I don’t get it,” Kathryn said.  “How can anyone set out to weaken society so badly?”

“They’re not always doing it deliberately,” Scudder reminded her.  “Some of them are in it for the power, but others genuinely want to help people.  The problem is that their methods are fatally flawed.”

He shrugged.  “One of the basic lessons of bringing up a child is that you must not reward behaviour you hate,” he added.  “The child, being unformed, will understand that such behaviour gets a reward, so he will give you more of it.  My daughter was very fond of throwing tantrums when she was four years old and it took me months to convince myself not to keep giving her what she wanted.  Once I did, the problem slowly solved itself.

“The Social Justice Warriors saw young black women living as single mothers, utterly unable to afford their children, and started offering them benefits.  Their intentions were good, because these children were being raised in poverty.  Most of them would become gangbangers, drug pushers and other undesirable pieces of crap.  But these benefits were structured in a way that it was more economical, for the women, to become single mothers, rather than try to get married or find a job.  The more children born out of wedlock they produced, the more money they received.

“None of these people were evil, you have to understand.  The mothers wanted to have some money to help bring up their children, while the Social Justice Warriors wanted to help the kids, who were growing up in poverty.  But the effects of their interventions were disastrous and largely beyond repair.  They destroyed the black family as a social unit.”

Yolanda heard Martin exhale, very slowly.

“My father never married my mother,” he said, slowly.  “He left us completely when I was five.  Was that why?”

“Probably,” Scudder said.  “Your mother’s self-interest would have led to her remaining unmarried, because if she married her support payments would be sharply reduced.  But it would have ensured you didn't grow up with a reliable male presence in your life.  A single mother would be a poor role model for a growing boy – men and women are not the same, even though there are plenty of people who argue, with the best possible intentions, that all forms of discrimination are inherently wrong.  Most children like you fall into bad ways and end up dead on the streets.”

“It’s so twisted,” Yolanda complained, hoping to distract attention away from Martin.  He was looking conflicted.  “Why do they do it?  How can it be an accident?”

“That’s why conspiracy theories are so popular,” Scudder admitted.  “We prefer to believe that someone – anyone – is behind what happens to us, rather than accept it was a giant accident, a conflict of good intentions with cold hard reality.  The Social Justice Warriors are torn between two different poles; first, that people must be helped, and second, that people are incapable of making their own decisions.  They are incapable of accepting that they may be wrong on both counts.”

“Because they see people as numbers, rather than individuals,” Dennis said, slowly.

“Precisely,” Scudder said.  “They see people as groups because it’s the only way they can work.  But that means racism – genuine racism – on a scale almost beyond imagination.  It can be hard, and suggest that all black youths are criminals, or it can be soft and imply that black men and women can never stand on their own.  Both of them are utterly absurd.”

He smiled, rather darkly.  “You’ll learn how to use your nanotech to alter your appearance over the next few months,” he said.  “There are people out there who have green, pink or even orange stripes with polka-dotted circles covering their chests.  The Solar Union deals with people as individuals, because it must.  No one will judge you as anything other than an individual.  We can be hard, we can be cold, but we won’t be accidentally cruel.”

Kathryn cleared her throat.  “Accidentally cruel?”

“The vast majority of the human race can accept implants without problems,” Scudder informed her.  “About one in a million cannot be safely implanted.  If they were to attempt to join the military, they would rapidly find themselves at a serious disadvantage.  Do you understand me?”

Yolanda nodded.  It had only been a week since she’d received her implants, but she was already becoming dependent on them.  And, according to the textbooks she’d downloaded, it would only become worse.  There were starship tactical systems that were directly controlled by a person’s implants.  Not having implants would reduce her reaction time by an order of magnitude.

“It would be cruel to put such a person in the military, under the delusion he could succeed,” Scudder said, quietly.  “There are few slots open to people who couldn't use implants.  Would we be kinder to tell him, up front, that he couldn't join or force him to fail, time and time again?

“But the Social Justice Warriors have inflicted worse on Earth.  You will have taken many – many – tests during your schooling, most of them completely useless.  None of them, however, will have been designed to measure your potential intelligence.  IQ tests, as they were called, have been banned for nearly forty years.  It would be unfair, the Social Justice Warriors argue, to allow one child to think of himself as smarter or stupider than the others in his class.  But this ensures that children enter classes with a wide range of intellects, which makes sure that hardly anyone learns anything.

“This is equally absurd.  There is a place in society for people who can mend bikes, people who can design the next generation of computer programs and even do nothing more than wash cars – and be quite happy doing it.  But very few children on Earth will ever be steered into an educational stream that will be suited to them.  It would be unfair to offer one child the chance to become a scientist without offering the same chance to every other child.”

He paused.  “But, in doing so, they made it impossible for anyone to progress.”

Yolanda remembered her schooling and shivered.

“About the only educational field where merit and ability still hold sway is sports,” Scudder finished, “and even they are under threat.  It won’t be long before first prizes are handed out to each and every person who enters a race, just because it wouldn't be fair to have clear winners and losers.  But the only real losers are the poor children who have to suffer under such a system.”

He sighed, loudly.  “I’ve assigned reading for you,” he added.  “Complete it before the next class, if you like.  Or don’t.  Dismissed.”

Martin got up and strode out of the lecture hall, his long legs taking him out as fast as they could.

After a moment, Yolanda started to follow him.

Chapter Eight

The Spanish Government today proposed a law that would implement key aspects of Islamic Law into the Spanish Constitution.  In particular, restrictions on female movements, insurance and many other issues would be signed into law.  With Spain’s population currently 70% Muslim, the Spanish Government states that the law is long overdue.  However, business leaders have warned that the changes in the law would shatter the remains of the Spanish economy.
-Solar News Network, Year 51

Martin barely noticed where his legs were taking him until he looked up and found himself in the meditation room.  It wasn't a well-used compartment; there weren't many religious men and women among the recruits, few of whom had time to sit down and pray when their schedules were so busy.  He’d thought the room was nice when he’d first seen it – it was comfortable, yet bare enough to prevent distractions – and yet he hadn't given it a second thought until now.

He stepped inside, closing the hatch behind him, and stared at the blank wall.  Anger and frustration bubbled up within him and he took a step forward, then slammed his fist into the bulkhead.  Pain exploded along his arm as he hit the metal, without leaving a dent.  He howled in agony as alerts flashed up in front of his eyes, then the nanotech went to work, dimming the pain.  Before his eyes, the bleeding cuts on his fist started to close up and faded away into his dark skin.

“Damn it,” he swore out loud.  “Was that why?”

It would have been easy to accept that someone wanted to do him down.  Life in the ghetto was all about being done down, by the gangs, by the social workers, by what passed for a family.  He could have understood someone wanting to exploit him, even enslave him, no matter how awful it would have been.  But to learn he was the victim of people who meant well ... it was intolerable.  

His life had been pathetic.  It was something he had been unable to avoid, growing up in filth and yet knowing, all too well, that others had much better lives.  The temptation to just abandon everything had been strong, almost impossible to resist – and, in the end, he’d run away rather than fight to improve himself.  But had there been any choice?  How could he fight someone determined to do good, even though the methods had such disastrous effects?

They could have called me a nigger endlessly and done less harm, he thought bitterly, as he sat down against the wall.  The word was forbidden; indeed, anyone who said it, even in jest, would lose their job, their social standing and perhaps even their lives.  And yet, casual racism would have been a great deal less harmful than a system designed to hinder by helping.  He could have punched a casual racist or proven himself the better man.  How did one fight someone who was actually trying to help?

There was a tap at the hatch, which opened before he could prevent it.  Yolanda stepped into the room, looking pale.  She’d suffered too, Martin realised, even if it had been a different kind of suffering.  As someone who couldn't be neatly pigeonholed into a racial category, she would have faced problems from both sides.  How could she have survived on her own?  But then, there had never been any shortage of mixed-race people.  They just tended to move out as soon as they were old enough to leave their families.

Yolanda sat next to him, close enough for him to feel the warmth of her body and yet not quite close enough to suggest they were more than friends.  Martin looked at her, then looked over at the blank wall, his feelings a maelstrom he couldn't begin to understand.  He wanted to fight, he wanted to hit something, but there was nothing to hit.  It was like trying to fight fog and smoke.

“I never really thought about it,” he said.  “It never occurred to me that people were trying to help.”

“There’s always someone who thinks they know how to run a person’s life,” Yolanda said, softly.  “And they never really understand.”

Martin looked at her.  “What happened to you?”

“My mother was Japanese,” Yolanda said.  Her voice was flat, emotionless.  “She made the mistake of falling in love with a Mexican.  This was during the days everyone talked about California decamping to join Mexico and everyone who wasn’t Mexican was trying to flee the state.  Mother ... stayed with father, even though she could have taken me with her and left.”

“And then ... father decided he wanted a Mexican girl?”  Martin guessed.  He’d seen black men – and women – told by their fellows they shouldn't marry outside their race.  “Or did something else happen?”

“Mother died when I was seven,” Yolanda said, softly.  “I never knew why.  One day, she was just ... gone.  Father mourned her for as long as was proper, then remarried to a woman from Mexico.  She was a friend of his family and she needed a permit to stay or something like that.”

Martin’s eyes narrowed.  Given the joke the border had become, it was unlikely that anyone would be ordered back to Mexico by the government.  It sounded more like Yolanda’s father had tried to explain his remarriage to his daughter by lying though his teeth.  He felt a sudden surge of hatred, mixed with bitter envy.  At least Yolanda had had a father.  His sisters had never had a strong male presence in their lives.

“She treated me like ... like shit,” Yolanda said.  Her tone didn't change.  “Nothing I did was ever good enough for her.  Father ... either ignored her or told me to suck it up, because she was his wife now and I had to respect her.  And then ... and then I got hurt at school.”

Raped, Martin guessed.  It was vanishingly rare for a school to cater for more than one race, no matter what the law said.  White pupils felt unsafe in schools with a black majority and vice versa.   Their parents would move them around so they could be with their own kind, but someone like Yolanda would never fit in anywhere.  And she would have been everyone’s target, because she was alone.  There would have been few others like her.

And no one would have given a damn about her being raped, he thought, feeling a sudden surge of protectiveness that surprised him.  She was just a mixed-race girl whose family didn't give a damn.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“It wasn't your fault,” Yolanda said.  “I decided I wanted to go to the Solar Union as soon as I came of age, so I did.  And I don’t intend to look back.”

She looked up at Martin.  “And you shouldn't either.”

Martin looked down at his fist.  The ache was gone.

“I was taught, in school, that I had to resist the evil white man with everything I had or I would wind up enslaved,” he said, slowly.  “They kept showing us movies about black men who fought for their rights, who led the great slave uprising that overthrew the Confederate States of America, who struggled to resist the Jim Crow insurgency.  We were slaves all along and we never even noticed!”

“You should check the history files,” Yolanda said.  “Some of the crap they made me watch at school was full of lies.”

Martin rolled his eyes.  “And people believed them?”

“They didn't know any better,” Yolanda said.  “None of my half-siblings could read, Martin; they could barely browse the datanet.  How could they hope to learn the truth when all they were taught were lies?”

She sighed.  “There were days when I was told I should be proud of being Japanese, because the Japanese Empire stood up to the expanding United States,” she said.  “And then I looked it up on the datanet.  The Japanese were worse than the Americans in almost every category before the Second World War.  But somehow they’d become the heroes.”

Martin shook his head in bitter disbelief.  “How many other lies were we told?”

“I dare say we could find out now,” Yolanda said.  She tapped the side of her head.  “There’s an awesome amount of data in the datanet, Martin.”

“I know,” Martin said.

He stood, then held out a hand.  “Why do I feel so ... depressed?”

“Because you now understand what you’ve been trying to fight for your entire life,” Yolanda said, after a moment.  “And because you think you lost.”

“I did lose,” Martin said.  He hated to admit it, but there was no avoiding the truth.  “I didn't manage to win, did I?”

“You did manage to escape,” Yolanda said, as she declined his hand and rose to her feet.  “I think your enemies – your real enemies – would have preferred you to wallow in the ghetto.”

Martin sighed.  “But why are they so ... so stupid if they really want to help?”

“My bitch of a stepmother used to help people, but not to teach people,” Yolanda said.  “If someone had torn clothes, they would bring them to her and she would mend them.  She never taught me how to sew, naturally.  Only her biological daughters were considered worthy of that honour.  But she didn't teach anyone outside the house, either.  They were dependent on her.”

“I don’t understand,” Martin said.  “Surely she wasn't the only one who could sew ...”

“Of course she wasn't,” Yolanda said.  “Most of the older women could sew.  But she didn’t charge anyone for her services, you see.”

“I don’t,” Martin said.  It made no sense to him.  “Why were they dependent on her?”

“She didn’t charge them anything for the work,” Yolanda explained.  “I think she just liked having people dependent on her.  If she’d taught every young woman to sew, they wouldn't have had to come back to her, time and time again.  And then she wouldn't have been so important in the community.”

She shrugged.  “Or maybe she was just a bitch,” she added.  “I could quite happily believe that too, just because she made me do all the housework.”

Martin frowned.  “Is that common?”

“Yeah,” Yolanda said.  “There were so many children missing one or both parents that they tended to be treated as slaves, by those who took them in.  A girl born of her mother’s womb was treated like a little princess; a girl from another mother was put to work almost at once, scrubbing floors and cleaning clothes.  And there was no chance of a dowry when they married, if they married.  I wouldn't have had a hope of receiving anything from my stepmother, apart from the back of her hand.”

She laughed, humourlessly.  “The bitch would have pulled me out of school and put me to work full-time, cleaning her friends’ floors, if she hadn't claimed the Educational Incentive just to keep me in school.  I wouldn't have seen a cent of that money, if she’d put me to work.”

Martin looked at her.  “Then why work?”

“I would probably have been beaten if I hadn’t worked,” Yolanda said.  “The bitch would never lay a hand on her own children, but me?  I wasn't hers.”

“Shit,” Martin said.  He understood, all too well.  “But ... I wanted someone looking out for me.”

Yolanda gave him a sharp look, clearly puzzled.

“I used to have a friend who actually had a father,” Martin explained.  Bitterness welled up inside him as he remembered his old friend.  “You have no idea how much I envied him.  There was someone there, looking out for him, making sure he did everything he could to better himself and rise out of the ghetto.  No one took me in hand when I was a kid.  I even used to tell myself that, one day, maybe he would adopt me.”

Yolanda gave him a tired smile.  “Did they make it?”

“They were gunned down, three years ago,” Martin admitted.  “It was just another piece of senseless violence, two people in the wrong place at the wrong time.  Nick ... Nick was smart, his father made him work ... he could have made it out, if he’d tried.  But his life was just cut short, as if it were nothing, and no one really gave a damn.  They were just ... dead.”

He shook his head.  “It's funny, really,” he added.  “Nick used to envy me.  My mother was always ... out; I could do whatever I pleased, whenever I pleased.  I could have joined the gangs, or skipped school and hung out at the mall and no one would have given a damn.  His father went ballistic every time Nick skipped school.  Nick couldn't get away with anything.

“And I envied him.  I would have given anything to have someone that involved in my life.”

“It isn’t always a good thing,” Yolanda said.  “My stepmother would shout and scream and throw things if she found a single speck of dust on the floor after I had scrubbed it.”

Martin had to smile, despite the bitterness in his head.  “The grass is always greener on the other side of the hill, isn't it?”

“Yeah,” Yolanda said.

“What happened to you at school?”  Martin said, suddenly.  “I mean ... if you don’t mind me asking.”

“I was careless,” Yolanda said, shortly.  There was a trace of ... bitterness in her voice, now.  “There isn't anything else to tell.”

Martin shuddered.  He’d been told, once, that his school was far from the worst in the world, but he’d never believed it.  How could he, when the teachers couldn't keep order and bullying, theft and even rape were common occurrences?  The girls had always stayed in groups, or put out for the strongest boys in exchange for protection.  Some of the boys hadn't been much better ... and God help anyone who happened to be homosexual.  They’d been treated worse than the girls.  

“I don’t intend to look back,” Yolanda said, firmly.  “The future is ahead of us and those who treated us badly are in the past.”

“Fuck them,” Martin agreed.

They walked out of the compartment and down into the mess, where the food was waiting for them.  It tasted better now, Martin had discovered, after the nanotech had been inserted into their bodies.  He still found the idea of little machines crawling around inside him a little creepy, but he had to admit they were very effective.  Now, there was no way he could be infected by disease, or suffer from a host of discomforts.  Scars he’d borne since he was a child had faded into nothingness.

“There will be more to do tomorrow,” Yolanda predicted, glumly.  “And then we have to start taking the real tests.”

Martin swallowed.  Sergeant Bass had told them, in no uncertain terms, that their future in the military dependent on how well they did on their tests.  Once they passed, they would be assigned to a specific branch for further training.  Yolanda would go into starship training, he was sure; she was certainly smart enough to succeed.  But would he be capable of handling combat training?  One thing the implants had made clear to him was just how little he knew, compared to someone born in the Solar Union.  The tests might show him as suitable for nothing more than grunt labour.  

“I’m scared,” he confessed.  It wasn't something he would have told anyone else, but he felt a kinship with Yolanda that puzzled him.  “What happens if I fail completely?”

“I don’t think you can fail,” Yolanda said.  “You just get assigned to somewhere you’d do well.  They’re aptitude tests, basically.”

“I hope so,” Martin said.

He shook his head, looking around the mess.  What was he doing here?  He had no exams to his credit, no qualifications; it was a miracle he could even read.  The men and women who had joined the Solar Union had to be smart and educated, not book-dumb bastards from the ghettos.  His dream of escape might come to an end after the exams.  He’d be lucky if they didn't dump him back on Earth, after crippling the implants so they were useless.

“You have a good heart,” Yolanda said.  “And everything else will come in time.”

“I’m thick,” Martin said.  “I can't even add numbers together without getting mixed up.”

“You have the rest of your life to learn,” Yolanda pointed out, smoothly.  “You could live forever, with the right treatments.  The nanotech you have now will keep you alive for nearly two centuries, assuming you don’t suffer brain damage or an injury that kills you instantly.”

Martin stared at her.  “How do you know that?”

Yolanda tapped the side of her head.  “I looked it up,” she said, simply.  “The details are all online, if you bother to look.”

“Oh,” Martin said, embarrassed.  He should have thought of checking to see what the nanotech he’d been given actually did.  “I’m still not used to having an entire library inside my head.”

“Better get used to it,” Yolanda said.  “Sergeant Bass doesn't hold our hands, does he?”

Martin nodded, sourly.  There were times when he would have appreciated someone holding his hand, giving him advice, serving ... serving as a father.  But he understood Bass’s point, after Scudder’s lectures.  The Solar Union offered opportunities, but it didn't – it couldn’t – force anyone to take the opportunities.  If someone didn't have the drive to make use of them, the Solar Union had better things to do than coddle them.

And someone could afford to live quite cheaply here, if they worked, he thought.  He’d checked, in a fit of panic.  There were hundreds of jobs that required nothing, but a set of implants and a willingness to work.  I would never have to go back to Earth.

“Just concentrate on passing the tests,” Yolanda advised.  “Everything else will take care of itself.”

Chapter Nine

The civil war in Russia intensified today as forces loyal to the St. Petersburg Government launched an offensive intended to liberate Moscow from the grasp of various rebel factions.  Sources on the ground claim that the St. Petersburg Government’s offensive is being backed by Byelorussian and Ukrainian military forces ...
-Solar News Network, Year 51

“The examination chambers are the most closely-monitored sections of Sparta,” Sergeant Bass informed the company, as they prepared for the first set of tests.  “If any of you break the rules, for whatever reason, you will either be forced to repeat your training from the start or be simply expelled from Sparta.  There will be a black mark on your record that will haunt you for the rest of your life.”

He paused, dramatically.  Yolanda swallowed.  Statements like that had always made her feel guilty, even though she’d done nothing to deserve it.  It was a legacy, she assumed, from her stepmother, who had always blamed Yolanda for anything that went wrong.  But eventually she’d simply stopped caring.  There was no point in trying to win the approval of someone who hated you merely for existing.

“You may not attempt to communicate with anyone outside the chamber,” Sergeant Bass said.  “You can use your implants to search for information, if you need to, but you may not attempt to ask for help.  Nor may you take anything into the chamber, apart from your clothes; leave anything you happen to be carrying outside or you will find yourself in deep shit.  I don’t care what it is, or what sentimental value it has.  You are not allowed to take it into the chamber.”

“Probably plans to threaten us with cavity searches if we don’t obey,” Martin muttered.

“Probably,” Yolanda agreed.  She’d had a principal who had once threatened to search everyone in school, after a visiting congresswoman’s watch had gone missing.  It had eventually turned up in the staffroom, where the congresswoman had spent most of her time, after the police had been called.  “But it’s probably not a good idea to screw up.”

She checked her pockets, then pulled out everything she was carrying and carried it over to the lockers.  A touch of a button opened the locker, then registered it to her; no one else, apart from the staff, could open it without her permission.  She dumped her stuff inside, then closed the door.  Beside her, Martin did the same with his equipment, then his belt.

“Better to be sure,” he said, when she raised her eyebrows.  “They used to make us take them off when we stepped through the x-ray machine at school.”

Yolanda shrugged, then looked towards the doors at the far side of the room.  They were opening, one by one, revealing small compartments with terminals, seats, water facilities and nothing else.  She exchanged a look with Martin, then reached out and squeezed his hand, tightly.  His eyes widened in surprise – she almost never touched anyone, if she could help it – then he gave her a hug.  It was quick enough not to make her want to push him away and run.

“I’ll see you on the far side,” she said, as her implants informed her she was assigned to Room #34.  It matched her ID number, making her wonder if that had been deliberate.  But there was no way to know.  “Good luck.”

“You too,” Martin said.

Yolanda turned and walked through the door.  Another alert flashed up in front of her eyes, informing her that her body had just been scanned.  She assumed she’d passed, as alarms hadn't sounded and no one had turned up to drag her into the office for a short and unpleasant chat with the Drill Sergeants.  Instead, the hatch closed behind her and locked with an audible clunk.  She rolled her eyes at the drama, then looked around.  A small side door led to a toilet, just in case she needed it.

“Attention,” a soft voice said.  “In the event of you leaving the compartment, you will not be permitted to return.  You will be assumed to have completed the test.  There will be no further warnings.  Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Yolanda said, as she sat down in front of the terminal.  It blinked to life, displaying her name and ID code.  A countdown appeared a moment later, ticking down the seconds until the test was due to begin.  “Am I allowed to ask questions?”

“You may only ask questions relating to the test procedures,” the voice said.  It was almost certainly an AI, probably one assigned specifically to monitor the tests.  “Any other questions will not only be left unanswered, but reported to superior authority.”

Yolanda swallowed, again.  Even muttering to herself could be dangerous.

“Thank you,” she said.  It was good to be polite to AIs, she’d been told.  They had emotions too.  “Is there anything else I ought to know about the test?”

“Only what you have been told already,” the AI said, reprovingly.  “We cannot force you to actually read the details.”

Her console bleeped.  The test had begun.

Yolanda found herself struggling within moments.  Some questions were relatively simple, others seemed to have stings in the tail.  She found herself having to guess at answers, then using her implants to draw information from the datanet and using it to see if the answers were correct.  Other questions needed her to find more specific information, testing – she suspected – her skills at recovering and using data online.  It wasn't enough to have access to data, she concluded.  She had to think about it too.

The second battery of questions were different.  She only had one shot at answering them, according to the notes, and she would be timed from the moment she started until she finished.  Panicking a little, she struggled to answer question after question, often realising – in hindsight – that she’d fucked up.  By the time the third set of questions came around, there was sweat pouring down her back.  But none of the questions seemed to make sense.  

She gritted her teeth and pressed on, anyway.  The questions grew harder, then resolved themselves as she worked her way through them.  A handful of later questions provided the key to understanding the earlier questions.  She went back, changed her answers on the questions that allowed her to rethink her answers, then progressed to the fourth section of the exam.  Once again, the questions made her want to panic ...

“Attention,” the AI stated.  “The exam period will end in ten minutes.”

Yolanda stared.  Had it really been two hours since she’d entered the chamber?  Her head was pounding, while her body felt tired and old.  She hastily checked the last set of questions, then tried to answer two of the ones she’d left untouched.  And then the screen blanked, finally.  The tests, for better or worse, were over.  

“Dear God,” she breathed.  “Is it always like that?”

“Of course not,” the AI said, as she stumbled to her feet.  “This was the easy test.”

“Fuck,” Yolanda said.

“I suggest that you have a nap,” the AI stated.  The hatch opened, this time silently.  “You will be called to receive your results over the next two days, then your future will be determined.  Until you are called, you may consider yourself to be on free time.”

“Thank you,” Yolanda said.

She stepped out of the chamber and stared.  The recruits looked dazed, milling around in absolute confusion.  Like her, most of them would have no experience with real exams, tests intended to determine their true capabilities.  They'd grown used to exams that were meaningless, where you could do nothing more than write your name on the top of the sheet and receive a pass mark.  But the Solar Union was different.  Their results, here and now, could make the difference between realising their dreams and being told they were unsuited to a career in the military.

“Yolanda,” Martin’s voice said.  “I feel like shit.”

Yolanda turned to face him.  His face was sweaty too, while his hands were shaking ominously.  “I feel worse,” she said.  “And I think we’d better go to bed.”

Martin didn't even make crude jokes about going to bed together, she noted, as they staggered towards the barracks.  He must have been badly dazed by the exam, just like the others.  She was too tired herself to be more than mildly sympathetic, even though he would have found it harder than her.  From what she’d heard, schools in the ghettos tended to be little more than gang headquarters or havens for drug dealers.  Under the circumstances, it was astonishing that Martin had turned out even mildly civilised.

Just like me, she thought.  My stepmother would have turned me into a slave if I’d stayed.

She was too tired to do more than throw herself on her bunk and go to sleep when she entered the barracks.  Darkness descended on her almost as soon as she closed her eyes.  It felt like only moments had passed when she awoke, but her implants informed her that she had slept for nearly ten hours.  The sound of snoring from some of the other bunks told her that not everyone had recovered – yet – from the experience.  Part of her mind wondered if she ever would.

Absently, she activated her implants and started to browse the datanet.  It was easy to understand the dangers, she saw now, as torrents of information started to flow through her head.  Everyone in the Solar Union seemed to have an opinion on everything, producing billions of blogs and websites on every conceivable topic.  She still couldn't send messages outside Sparta, a restriction that made no sense to her, but she could read everything that wasn't behind a password.  And there was a staggering amount out there free for the taking, without any password at all.  She could literally drown herself in information.

She danced from topic to topic, following links that appeared in her mind.  Some sites discussed matters on Earth, with attitudes ranging from absolute contempt to even a handful of people who wanted to go back and live on Earth.  They seemed to attract no shortage of critics, all of whom asked the obvious question. Why didn't they go back to Earth if they wanted to live there?  It wasn't as if shuttle tickets were expensive.

Out of a morbid sense of curiosity, she did a sweep for her stepmother’s name.  Nothing appeared in the datanet, not even a missing persons report for Yolanda herself.  Clearly, her family hadn't bothered to notice she’d gone.  She disconnected herself from the datanet before she could start to cry, then placed her implant’s sleep inducers into primary mode and fell asleep.  The next time she woke, it was mid-morning and a note was blinking in front of her eyes.  She was due to meet the sergeants in four hours to discuss her future.

Gritting her teeth, she pulled herself out of bed and walked into the shower, scooping up a change of clothes on the way.  If she was due to meet her fate, the least she could do was wash, wear a fresh uniform and eat something first.  And then see if both Martin and she had made it through the barriers to further advancement.  She honestly wasn't sure what she’d do if she was told she couldn't stay.  Or, for that matter, what Martin would do.

And when, her own thoughts asked her, did you start to care for him?

It nagged at her mind as she stripped, showered and dressed.  Martin wasn't the sort of boy she’d liked on Earth, issues of race aside.  There seemed to be no reason to like him, apart from his determination to better himself.  In many ways, they were kindred souls.  She pushed the thought aside as she walked out of the barracks and into the mess, where the cooks had served something that actually looked edible.  They must have been rewarding the recruits for enduring their first set of exams, she decided.  There couldn't be any other reason.

The hours until she met the sergeants dragged.  Martin was apparently still asleep, probably using his implants to ensure he knew nothing until he met his destiny.  Yolanda sent him a message warning him to be ready, then forced herself to wait, skimming the news, until the time finally came for her to walk to the office.  It was hard, agonisingly hard, to force her legs to work.  They didn't seem to want her to go anywhere she might learn her fate.  But, somehow, she made it to the office and stepped inside.

“Recruit Miguel,” Sergeant Bass said.  “Be seated.”

Yolanda obeyed.  Bass was alone in the office, something that bothered her.  On Earth, no male officer – or teacher, or policeman, or anything else – would be alone with a woman, no matter their job.  A single accusation of ... inappropriateness would be enough to destroy a career, even if the accusation was completely false.  But the Solar Union had ways to get at the truth, the briefing notes had stated, and making a false accusation could – no, would – lead to criminal charges.  Earth’s paranoia had no place in space.

“Your exam results were generally positive,” Bass said, without preamble.  “You made some mistakes, of course, but generally you fell well within the acceptable brackets for starship personnel.”

Yolanda stared at him.  “Really?”

“No, I’m lying because I’m a sadist,” Bass sneered.  He met her eyes.  “You passed.  Congratulations.  Now you have to decide about your future.”

He went on before she could say a word.  “You also fell into the brackets for intelligence work, probably on Earth,” he added.  “The SIA would probably be interested in recruiting you, if I forwarded them your file.  And then there’s the prospect of logistics.  It isn't particularly glamorous, but it does offer the chance to make a meaningful difference.  But the choice is yours.”

Yolanda hesitated.  She’d heard that before.

“If I insist on staying with my first choice,” she said carefully, “what would happen to me?”

“You’d go to the starship training complex and start work,” Bass informed her, shortly.  “If you passed all the tests, you would be a fully-qualified starship crewperson, ready to be assigned to a starship.  And, if you failed, there would probably still be jobs for you in the civilian sector.”

He gave her a thin smile.  “This isn't Earth,” he said, warningly.  “You get to reach the heights you can scale, through your own work.  We won’t force you to take training for a job you think you will hate.  All we ask is you show commitment to the job you wanted to earn.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Yolanda said.  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to qualify for starship duty.”

“What I mind doesn't matter,” Bass said.  He tapped the terminal in front of him.  “You have the ability to become a starship crewperson, therefore you will have the chance to qualify.  All we can offer you is that chance.  Good luck.”

He rose to his feet, then held out a hand.  “You will have a week’s shore leave, which you may spend anywhere within the Solar Union,” he added.  “After that, you will be expected to report back to Sparta for the next stage of your training.  Failing to show up will result in disciplinary action at the very least, Recruit Miguel.  Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Yolanda said.

“I will also give you a word of warning,” Bass said.  “You grew up on Earth, so you may find the Solar Union a little ... garish.  There will be much to astonish you, much to shock you, much to offend you ... and not everyone will have your best interests in mind.  Be careful what you say or do.”

He smirked.  “We had a woman from Earth throw an absolute fit because she visited an asteroid where everyone is legally obliged to carry a weapon at all times,” he said.  “She felt utterly unsafe just seeing everyone carrying weapons, even though she was never in any danger.  I don’t think she got any sympathy and you won’t either, if you do something similar.  It will look very bad on your record.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Yolanda said.  She hesitated, then leaned forward.  “Is it safe to carry a loaded weapon on an asteroid settlement?”

Bass shrugged.  “The general rules are simple,” he said.  “You can do whatever you like, as long as you don’t harm non-consenting persons or do anything with a strong chance of harming non-consenting persons.  Most settlements have strong rules against accidental discharges – I believe there was a person on Mars who was put outside the airlock for shooting at the dome protecting the settlement.  We do not feel inclined to tolerate fools.”

Yolanda nodded, then left the compartment.  Martin was waiting outside.

“They said you were in there,” he said.  He was grinning from ear to ear.  “I made it!”

“So did I,” Yolanda said.  She paused.  “You’d better stay in touch, you know.”

“I certainly will,” Martin said.  “Do you want to come on shore leave with me?  It isn't as if we have anyone else to go with, is it?”

“I ... yes, I think I will,” Yolanda said.  She hesitated.  Going anywhere alone with a boy would have been a terminally stupid idea on Earth.  “But separate rooms, if that’s all right with you.”

“It’s fine,” Martin said.  “I do understand.”

He smiled.  “Besides, this way I can bring a girl back to my room, if I find one.”

Yolanda grinned.  “You think you would?”

“Have you seen the adverts online?”  Martin asked.  “They do things I didn't even know were possible.”

“The datanet is not for porn,” Yolanda protested, although she was giggling too hard to sound properly stern.  “Is it?”

“The most popular sites are all pornographic,” Martin countered.  He held out a hand.  “Come on, please.  I don’t want to waste a moment of our time.”