*****
The next morning he went to the restroom before class, and found Thom waiting with friends. Two grabbed him. He kicked at them and bit their arms until, cursing, they let go. He scrambled out, and collided with three students standing in the hall.
At recess Keelic got into a fight when someone called him "Annoboy." Uban came to the boy’s rescue, and Keelic flailed at Uban with a fury he didn’t know he had. Surprised, the big boy tripped backward and broke his wrist trying to catch his fall.
Uban was sent off to the town hospital.
After the school medic examined Keelic, he was sent to wait in the Chief Instructor’s office. The Chief returned before the end-lunch chime and called Keelic’s parents.
"Your son has been in another fight. He is fine, but he broke another student’s wrist."
Keelic’s head shot up, and he shouted, "Did not! He fell."
The Chief’s eyes blazed, and Keelic subsided.
"I’m afraid your son is becoming a problem here, Mrs. Travers. He can’t seem to get along with the other students."
"Get along?" said his mother’s voice.
Keelic knew that angry tone, and watched to see what the Chief Instructor would do.
"Get along?" she said again. "My son is one of the kindest children you will ever meet, Mr. Webs. Something is clearly wrong with your school if you can’t control the boys who keep attacking him."
The Chief Instructor’s cheek twitched, and he said in a tight, placating tone, "Well, this is a new world for him. Perhaps he hasn’t adjusted yet."
"Hmm," said his mother coldly.
"I am giving your son detention. Fighting is not allowed here. I’m afraid you will need to come and pick up Keelic when he is done."
That evening his mother came to get him, but at home neither parent mentioned the call from school. They had the look they got after a serious, unresolved argument. In his room he asked Anny to compile everything she could on the Colony Battles of Crit. He stayed up late writing six pages, including active diagrams of the battle fronts.
In class the next day, Keelic displayed his diagrams on the walls, and read the text of the report to the class. Ms. Coster gave him no praise; rather, she questioned the accuracy of a number of details on the final battle. He told her that the data was correct. She ignored him, and reiterated her statements, adding that he shouldn’t make things up. He interrupted her and told her she was wrong. Ms. Coster called him impertinent and ordered him to be silent, and to stay after class. Angry, Keelic drew on his desk for the rest of class.
The end-class chime spoke its freedom note, and all the students pulled their tablets from their desks and surged out the door, except for Keelic.
He knew that Ms. Coster had never liked him, even though she gave him good judgments on his assignments. He had worked hard on the report and knew it was all true because Anny had given him the data. This instructor hated him and wanted everyone else to hate him, too. Worse, he knew more about the Great Human Expansion, at least the wars, than she ever would. His thoughts were crimson around the edges and he found himself hating her as much as Thom.
While he was mulling over her many detractions, Ms. Coster walked over to Keelic’s desk and called up his last notes—a sketch of a Lasiter Frigate attacking an unfinished defense station that he had designed himself. As he started to appreciate the nuances of his drawing again, getting an urge to add a couple more big explosions, the instructor erased the picture.
She lectured him about what his parents would think of this kind of attention to his studies, how disappointed they would be—him, the son of a thrice Nobelin-graced family. Keelic Travers who would never rise to fame, never make his so very important father proud.
The class start-chime sounded. Keelic left, with false encouragement to do better following him like the six-winged stinging flies of the forest, only he had no emotional environmental suit, and the words bit. The halls were empty as he dragged his feet to the Chief Instructor’s office for a late-admission pass. Before going in, he heard the man talking, and put an ear to the wall.
The Chief Instructor said, "No, we do not have enough buses. Has the ADL really issued that? Ships get lost all the time."
Keelic frowned and pressed his ear harder to the wall. Buses for what?
"Yes," said the Chief. "Have that dealer send me five. That should do. We’ll put them in the bus barn, and have him do it at night."
The talking stopped, and Keelic checked the hall. No sign of anyone. After counting to ten, he walked into the door’s proximity field.
He took the Chief’s questions and derision without rebellion, and shuffled to his next class. He thought about what he had heard, but couldn’t make sense of it.
At home the alien tried to cheer Keelic up, but he ignored the attempts at play, and sat on his bed staring at the bluff. He called up the vid The Gleaming Door and watched it on his walls. It told the story of how the first Lasiter Frigate had destroyed an entire Quat-lat Kay-ku fleet. After the vid he called the alien over, gave it a control set, and sent his models into the air above the house, where they fought Anny in the dying light of sunset.
The next day was endweek, and Keelic spent the morning poring over Mr. Hallod’s homework. During the midday meal, his father watched the news, and Keelic heard mention of an overdue freighter. There wasn’t much detail, but Keelic remembered the Chief Instructor’s conversation. The ADL had issued a statement warning ships not to fly without sufficient escort. Was that why the school needed more buses? That didn’t mesh.
Early the next morning, he ran over to his parents’ bedroom before dawn.
His mother asked sleepily, "What is it, Keelic?"
"Can I go exploring today?"
His father looked at Mother and, resigned, she nodded.
Keelic then asked, very meekly, "Can I explore the sinkholes?"
"Absolutely not," said his mother.
After a bit, his father said, "The original cave I examined was very stable."
Keelic’s mother looked at her husband, amazed. "Have you examined these sinkholes?"
"No, but he has his suit—"
"His suit? Will that protect him from a cave-in?"
"He needs to explore, Sarah. It’s what boys do. Anny always monitors him. We can have her maintain a more active scan."
That was the last thing Keelic wanted, but he remembered how low-res the scans of the interior of the bluff were. His mother, sitting up in the bed now, didn’t answer for a long time. Finally, she motioned him over and gave him a firm hug.
"Be careful, Kee."
Keelic and his friend hurried, taking few breaks. At the bluff they charged up the ramp, but had to stop numerous times for Keelic to catch his breath. The alien seemed tireless.
On top of the bluff, Keelic said, "Anny, are you scanning me?"
"Yes, your mom has asked me to."
Frustration worked toward anger, but now was the time to check his theory.
"Will the scan work inside?"
"Not very well. The rocks there contain high concentrations of minerals that scatter scan signals, even penetrating ones."
"I’m going down now."
"Have fun, Kee."
Keelic grinned. Anny wasn’t worried about him.
At the crater he checked his chronometer and descended, the alien clinging to his back. The water was only puddle deep, and things thrashed here and there.
"Welcome again, Admiral Travers," said Las-Ann when they entered the simulator. "Do you wish to hear the status and repair report?"
Checking his chronometer again, he said, "No. Guide us to the bridge."
Sitting in the Command chair once more, Keelic said, "’Kay, Las-Ann. Continue from last time."
"Yes, sir. Mounted forward of the vessel’s engine are the six main torpedo acceleration tubes, each capable of accelerating a type three dense-matter torpedo to point eight four c while simultaneously supplying energized particle matter sufficient to
trap an eighteenth-power plasma corona within the torpedo’s magnetic field. Each tube’s recharge cycle lasts five point oh two standard minutes. Twenty standard Tosh-class tubes are mounted aft, as well as two in each of the four wings of the vessel, each capable of launching a standard torpedo at point five three c with acquired second-power coronas. The Tosh tubes have an accelerated point-one-eight-minute recharge cycle made possible by the Lasiter’s engine. Material sufficient to produce one hundred twenty thousand Tosh-class or eight thousand main tube dense-matter torpedoes is stored in cyclotron disassociation around the engine core.
"One hundred and eighty-eight long-range beam-weapon batteries provide overlapping coverage on all vectors surrounding the vessel, one hundred and ten of which have forward vectors within their targeting arcs. Point defenses consist of four thousand short-range plasma projectors, and eight hundred matter-hail guns.
"Standard crew complement consists of twenty-one bridge, five hundred tech ops, and one to three thousand tactical boarding members. Mission objectives and priorities guide autonomic vessel operation in all theaters of action. Bridge crew identify priorities, monitor, and serve as backup operators in the event of damage to the Ship-Ann."
"So, you do most of the fighting?" asked Keelic, disappointed.
"Affirmative, Admiral. Commanding officers set goals, which are accomplished with maximum efficiency by the onboard Announcer. Tactical analysis, weapon systems, and flight details are handled by the Announcer. However, the captain provides the primary source of strategic systems activity direction and can manually operate all system functions as needed. A captain can participate as much or as little as desired. Despite high-level Announcer sentience specialized for long-range strategic imaging and prediction, it has been shown that vessels without human guidance are less successful than vessels with experienced officer complements."
Keelic had heard about this before. Announcers had no self-preservation or risk-taking instincts.
"I want to play another one. I’ll make most of the decisions about maneuvers and weapons and you tell me when I do it right. ’Kay?"
"Sir, I am currently operating at Index Thirteen, incapable of operating the simulator bridge."
"Index Thirteen? What is that?"
"Standard Index of Cognitive Awareness. At Index Thirteen I have limited Lefram abstract-reasoning functions."
"You were at Three before. What’s your usual Index?"
"Index Sixty-Three, Grade One, fully sentient. I have managed significant repairs. Would you like to hear the report, Admiral?"
"Yes."
"One DL99 maintenance drone has been located and activated. First priority has been damage assessment, and repair of the datacore. Beta priority will be reestablishing communications capability. Gamma will be power connections to the maintenance and repair bay. Currently, all nano-repair systems are exhausted, and a new generation of nano-bots must be created."
This didn’t sound good. Keelic interrupted and said, "Repair the core first, but don’t try to repair com."
"Aye, Admiral."
"Can we do a simulation now?"
A single battleship appeared in the display, and the CI gripped his head. Keelic found that he could ask what his friend’s panels meant without losing concentration. He raised the shield, armed all torpedoes, and hurled the ship at maximum nominal speed toward the battleship.
Watching the firing potentials rise, he attacked, and destroyed the ship with a single torpedo.
"Yes!"
Two more battleships appeared in the display. One charged at Keelic’s ship, avoiding two torpedoes, and he destroyed it with a burst of beam fire from the forward batteries. The other vessel hit them with a torpedo, which they survived because Las-Ann showed the alien how to route power from the aft torpedo launchers to the shield before the torpedo hit.
"Yeow!" screamed Keelic in glee, leaping up. The headset interface moved with him.
Three battleships came into range, and he flung his vessel through the center of the triangle they formed, firing beam weapons all the way, and torpedoes from the wing tips.
"Incorrect, Admiral."
"What?"
The three vessels passed him and turned inward to give pursuit, firing on the frigate’s rear. Keelic maneuvered, but they kept on his tail. He whirled the ship to face them, but the screen went dark.
"You have been destroyed, Admiral."
Keelic sighed.
"A flight path tangent to such an enemy formation is more effective, Admiral."
"Show me."
The display lit to show the ship vector to engage only one vessel, and destroy it. The other two closed formation to engage, but the frigate accelerated out of range, turned, and engaged the enemy ships head on, destroying each with a single torpedo.
Sitting back satisfied, Keelic scanned the panels of his console to see what else he could do.
"Las-Ann, why are the shields at one percent of maximum? Is that why I die so fast?"
"Sir, that is the default configuration for level one training. Your deaths are the result of insufficient tactical expertise with Lasiter capabilities."
"Yeah, but why are the shields so low?"
"I am a radically new battle platform. No officer of the Corps has flown a ship with my capabilities. In level one training, the shields are configured to output consistent with the Wreaker-class battleship. The shield setting is designed to accelerate tactical and strategic thinking among officers without reliance on a new class of shielding as an input to foster a mindset of long-term survivability."
"So, your shields are a hundred times more powerful than the biggest battleship humanity had—has?"
"Correct, Admiral."
A chill flowed over Keelic. It also got him thinking.
"Was that because all the battles were suicide missions for the fleets that tried to stop the Quaties?"
"Yes, sir. We need you to learn that you can defeat the enemy and survive to defeat them again."
Keelic sat thinking about Thom and survivability. His chronometer went off.
"Thanks, Las-Ann. I have to go now, but I’ll be back."
On the way home, Keelic and his friend played over what they had learned. They invented some plans to try next time, creating scenarios with more ships. Keelic kept tripping when he concentrated, so they walked through the forest without further conversation.