Academy 7 Page 4
“That’s really not necessary.” He snatched the envelope from her green-painted nails and stepped free of the perfume. Her shoulders stiffened. She sent him a haughty look as she rejoined the ranks of the other students.
Dane gave an inward shrug. He had neither the time nor the desire for a fling. Girls always wanted to get too close, to know too much. Especially pretty ones. He flipped open the outside compartment on the plane and removed two luggage bags.
The crowd began to hum, bodies shifting and pressing against one another. By the time he had heaved the bags into his grip, a narrow opening had formed. He walked through it, conscious of the gap closing behind him. Then, free of the tangle, he set off across the tarmac, heading north.
A male shout cut him off, ramming its way forward from behind the crowd. “Hey, Madousin! Landing speed is fifteen miles per hour. You break it again, you won’t even make it to the end of term.”
The crowd’s laughter welled up, broken by an instant hush as Dane dropped his bags and turned. With deliberate slowness, he ran his eyes over the group, daring each member to meet his gaze. You want to stare? Fine. But intimidation? I don’t play that game.One by one the faces looked down.
His hands reached again for the bags, and he walked away. As if there’s even a chance I’ll make it to end of term,he thought wryly. He had two and a half weeks until his father yanked him. At the most.
Dr. Livinski coughed as she entered the auditorium of the Great Hall. Thank goodness opening ceremony required only a podium at the front of the room. The lone janitor had already wiped down the slatted floor and wooden benches, but dust still clung to the air; Dr. Livinski dreaded what would happen once someone moved the stage’s heavy maroon curtain. This, however, was not the time to bemoan the sad state of the cleaning budget.
She had other priorities.
By now the hall outside should be bursting with students. Two of which she had an unusual interest to see.
Seating herself in the front corner of the room, she tucked her feet under the sharp edge of the chair and smoothed her straight beige skirt over her legs, then nodded consent for the doors to be opened.
The third-years entered first, calm and controlled, with heads held high. They walked not in a straight line but with a sense of purpose, each to his or her own place, without hesitation or hurry. They were seated within moments. Dr. Livinski smiled at the familiar faces, those of young men and women almost ready to take on active roles in the Alliance.
The same could not be said for the second-years, who arrived in a semblance of a brigade with too many captains and several loose cannons. One young woman tried to tell each person where to sit while a taller male classmate argued with her. Both scowled at a student wearing a pop-up watch and a pair of fluorescent AV goggles. A handful of stragglers burst in late, and Dr. Livinski found herself wondering which members of the class would buckle down to handle the advanced work of the second year and which ones she would have to send home with a letter of regret.
The disorder of the juniors, however, was nothing next to that of the first-years. The new pupils arrived in an awkward mass of gangly arms and legs, heads turning this way and that, voices raised in excitement. Instead of seating themselves quickly in the empty benches at the front of the room, they chose to scramble over one another in attempts to find seats farther back. Then, having reached the empty spots, they changed their minds, shuffling here and there and switching positions.
With no hope of recognizing any of the new students amid the turmoil, Dr. Livinski resigned herself to a longer wait and made her way briskly to the podium.
The chaos subsided as she began to speak, her deep voice powering its way to the back of the room. “This is the five thousand twenty-first year of Academy 7.” She let the words hang in the air. “To participate in this school is not a privilege. It is a challenge requiring hard work and commitment, nothing less. If you succeed in graduating, you will mark yourselves as the future of the Alliance.”
A change swept over her listeners. Sprawled legs crept inward. The goggles vanished under a bench, and gazes zeroed in where they belonged.
She launched into the climax of the speech. “Members of the first-year class, in the rare chance that you have not heard, I must make one fact quite clear. Fifty first-years are chosen to join Academy 7 each year, but the greatest number of slots open for the junior class is twenty-five. And let me assure you, that number is by no means guaranteed. Whether or not you return will be determined entirely by me.”
A heavy quiet descended, the weight of her words settling down over the new pupils. She waited, letting the moment stretch and expand until the silence itself became part of the challenge. Then she added, “I shall now introduce each one of you. Please stand when I call your name.”
The students did as they were told. Neither of the two Dr. Livinski wanted to see did anything exceptional. Aerin popped up then rapidly down as if trying to disappear, and Dane, who could not help but garner attention, stood and sat while holding his gaze locked on the wall, as though he hoped his curious audience might lose interest if he ignored them. Dr. Livinski severely doubted the offspring of Gregory Madousin or Antony Renning had any chance of blending in.
Chapter Four
CLOSE ENCOUNTERS
ACADEMIA’S SUN HAD BARELY CLEARED THE HORIZON when Dane stumbled up the stairs for his first class. The world was still a blur, and he nearly wrenched his ankle on the Great Hall’s uneven steps before reaching the third floor. He frowned at the tightly crammed classroom and rows of already-seated students, checked the timepiece on his wrist—not late—and wove through the old-fashioned desks to an empty chair.
It rocked forward, trying to spit him back out. He scowled at the bent chair leg and scanned the room for another vacant seat. Nothing remained except a broken bench propped against a bare wall. Resigning himself to staying put, he dropped his forehead to his desk and tried to clear the haze from his mind. Whoever had scheduled debate for this early in the morning deserved a commute through an asteroid belt.
“I am Mr. Xioxang,” a man’s deep voice cut through the haze. Dane lifted his head to find gold eyes tearing into his skull. Red teacher’s robes draped the man’s towering frame, and a slick hood outlined the sharpness of his face. In his left hand, he held a pen and a dark notebook. “Who can tell me why the Alliance is the greatest nation in the universe?”
Dane looked away. This was why he hated school. It was full of opinions presented as fact. Around him a mass of hands sprang into the air. Eager fledglings anxious to impress the hawk.
Ignoring the hands, Xioxang swept forward. His curved fingers landed with a sharp rap on the desk of a girl filing her painted-green fingernails. She dropped the file and shot the teacher an offended look. “What?”
Dane recognized her from the day before, Sean or Dawn or something like that.
The teacher frowned. “Need I repeat the question, Miss Entera?”
She gave an unsubtle glance in Dane’s direction, as if checking to make sure he was listening, then straightened her shoulders. “The reason the Alliance is great is because of the Manifest.” Yvonne: that was her name.
“Why the Manifest?” the teacher probed. “How can a document make a nation great?”
It can’t, Dane thought. That’s why your initial question is flawed.
Yvonne pursed her gloss-covered lips. “It isn’t the document itself, but the mission stated on it.”
“What mission?” Xioxang drew closer.
She tossed her black hair over her shoulder. “The mission to create peace and stability by bringing every planet into the Alliance.”
He groaned inwardly. The Manifest doesn’t say that.The mission is to unify all the planets, not absorb them.
Mouth curved downward, the teacher made a sharp mark in his notebook, then slapped his palm on the abandoned nail file and snapped it in half.
Yvonne stiffened and opened her mouth as though to protest.
Her response was soft but surprisingly quick. “Through equal rights and fair government.”
Dane frowned. Not that he disliked the Manifest’s ideals, but they were ideals. He couldn’t have listed the number of times the Council had sidestepped them in favor of growth.
“Plagiarism is not worth any points in this classroom.”
Xioxang lifted his pen to make another mark in his notebook.
But the girl lowered her text. “Then I disagree with the author’s opinion, sir.”
The pen froze. “How?”
She tucked her hair behind an ear. Dark eyes looked out of her solemn face into his penetrating stare. “If . . . if the Alliance believes in equal rights, why does it allow slavery to occur on X-level planets?”
Now there was a question.
The teacher once again lifted his pen. “That’s a detail that would fit better in a later discussion.”
“I doubt the slaves on those planets see it as a detail,” she blurted, her voice growing louder.
“The Alliance cannot impose its moral code on a planet that is not a member,” said Xioxang.
Right. Like that never happened.
The loose folds of the girl’s uniform shifted over her thin torso, and her skin took on a rusty red shade. “The Alliance seems to have done so with any number of planets throughout its history.” She gestured at her lowered textbook.
Dane was not tired now. His mind fastened on the argument.
Instead of admitting defeat, the teacher changed his tactic. “X-level planets are so labeled because their leaders allow inhumane treatment. By refusing those planets trade with the Alliance, the Council hopes to enforce change.”
In Dane’s opinion, it was the most reasonable argument the teacher had made thus far, but fury overtook the girl’s face and posture. She leaned forward, catlike, elbows bent and palms flat on her desktop. As if she might launch out of her seat and attack the swirling robes of her opponent. Her chin jutted out, and sharp cheekbones underlined the anger seething in brown irises. For several moments, her tongue stalled, then words spilled out in a rush. “That kind of hope is worthless when the price is the lives of thousands of young children!”
Xioxang took a step back from the flames of her anger. Then a strange smile appeared on his thin lips.
Dane knew that smile. It was the one his father wore when he foresaw triumph. Unwilling to let the bastard win, Dane threw himself onto the pyre. “Sir, doesn’t it seem wrong that our military has attacked Wyan-Ot when far greater crimes occur on X-level planets?”
A murmur traveled throughout the room, and something snapped from the direction of Yvonne’s desk, probably another nail file.
Surprise flitted across the teacher’s face before fading behind a measured response. “The military has not attacked Wyan-Ot, Mr. Madousin, as I’m sure you know. A small force has gone in to protect the planet from the Trade Union that had infiltrated their government.”
“I suspect the three hundred Wyan-Ot soldiers who died in the conflict viewed it as an attack. And you just highlighted her question.” Dane nodded toward the angry girl. “If the Alliance went in to protect the Wyannese, why doesn’t it go in to protect the thousands of victims on X-level planets?”
There was no answer. The argument stalled, each participant holding still with gritted teeth.
Until the bell rang.
Xioxang strode to the front of the room, then turned abruptly, his gaze sweeping over the rest of the class. “What do you think?” he said. “Is Mr. Madousin right? Is she?” His forefinger pointed at the girl. “Am I?”
Silence stretched throughout the rows.
“Well, you’d better decide.” The teacher snapped his notebook shut. “Because you won’t pass this class by quoting a text, even the required one. And you won’t pass by quoting me. I expect everyone here to have an opinion and to support it with a strong defense. Whether we’re talking about Wyan-Ot. Or X-level planets.” He paused. “Class dismissed.”
Dane’s thoughts reeled. Had he just been complimented? He stood up, wanting to speak to the girl with the vivid temper.
But she had fled the scene.
Her name, Dane soon learned, was Aerin Renning, and though she was nothing outstanding to look at, she had a mind like an Ephesian slicer. During science she rattled off the structure of an H20 replicator; and in Universal Literature, she was the only student to translate the ancient poem, “Migracion Humana.”
Still, with the lure of food less than an hour away, Dane might have lost interest in her. If the events in technology class had not rendered that impossible.
The tech lab was in the basement. And based on the semi-crumbling state of the other classrooms, Dane would not have been surprised to wade through a swath of cobwebs on his way through the door. Clearly the government’s decade of slashing the general fund in favor of defense spending had taken its toll on even the most famous school in the Alliance.
But the real condition of the room surprised him. Silver walls glimmered with data strips. Glassy panels covered the ceiling. Rows of cushioned, swivel chairs lined the tables: thirty chairs, one for each of the thirty state-of-the-art computers. Ravens. Dane recognized them. The tech lab must be supported by the Council.
A plump man in striped green robes gestured for the students to take their seats. His bushy beard flared out from his chin, and blue eyes sparkled above a crooked nose. Judging by his smile, he rather enjoyed the students’ stunned reaction to the lab.
Dane noticed Aerin enter the room, take a few halting steps, then sink down, her attention riveted on the shining black machine before her. He slid into the chair beside hers.
“Welcome to the Academy 7 tech lab,” said the robed man, stuffing his hands into large pockets and rocking back on his heels. “I’m Mr. Zaniels, and this is my domain.” He stuck out his chin in a smooth circle. “The database you can access from this room—and this room only—is the second largest in the Alliance. Your room code will serve as your password and will give you access to any data that might help with your schoolwork.”
You mean the code will restrict us from anything we aren’t allowed to see. Dane had heard about the Academy 7 database. There were supposed to be high-security files on every student ever to pass through the school: leaders, heroes, and criminals alike. Not even the military had control over those files.
Zaniels went on, “If you haven’t seen this type of computer before, don’t worry. Each of you is seated at a Raven ZL. The Raven has yet to hit the open market and works a little differently from other machines. Your challenge today is to be the first to retrieve the file titled”—he paused for emphasis—“Academy 7 Code of Conduct.”
A chorus of groans greeted the name. “If you get stuck and are not sure what to do,” continued Zaniels, “try something. Begin.”
Dane glanced at the blank screen before him. He failed to see how winning would prove anything other than that he owned a Raven back on base. At his side, Aerin was running her hands along the edges of her machine. She tugged a strand of mousy brown hair between her teeth, then let her fingers hover over the keyboard. “Something wrong?” he asked her.
She pulled the strand from her mouth and eyed him warily. “We’re supposed to figure it out for ourselves,” she whispered.
Dane shrugged and lowered his voice conspiratorially as he leaned toward her. “Technically, Zaniels didn’t say we couldn’t help each other.”
She pulled away, maintaining her distance, but her eyes flitted toward the other screens lighting up around the room. She bit her lip, then jerked her head in a quick nod. “Where is the power switch?”
He blinked. Sure there were differences between the Raven and other models, b
ut this was not one of them. “It’s already on. Just type in ‘Alliance’ for the entry code.” He reached for her keyboard, but she beat him to it, her head whipping around and her fingers flying over the keys. She did not thank him.
Incensed at the sudden brush-off, Dane punched the entry code into his own machine. He typed in his password, skipped over an introduction that would have taken time to download, and zapped away a bothersome graphic. Within seconds, he was in the database, scanning an endless list of files. Unbelievable. There must be twice as much data here as on base.
There it was: the file’s name. A message popped up listing the download time for clearing security as three minutes. He pushed his seat back and glanced at Aerin’s computer.
The words Code of Conduct glowed in brilliant purple letters at the center of her screen. His mouth dropped.
Something resembling a smile twitched across her face, making it not quite so plain. She stretched a skinny arm over his keyboard and hit the Restart button.
Anger replaced shock. “What do you think you’re—” he started to protest.
“Freeze it,” she interrupted.
“What?”
“Just shut up and watch.” Both her hands now usurped his keyboard. A few steps later and he was staring at the bright purple words blinking on his screen. Neither he nor she had entered his password.
Understanding scaled the inside of his chest. She had bypassed the entire security system.
And shown him how to do it.
Chapter Five
COMBAT
AERIN TRIED TO BLOCK OUT THE DEAFENING NOISE OF the cafeteria: utensils banging onto plates, plates onto trays, trays onto tables. Chairs scraped across floor tiles. Machines beeped at the entrance. And over it all came the jarring clash of a hundred voices talking about the first morning’s classes.