Published: 24 Oct 2016

Part I

THREE WORLDS
Formerly Published as “0300 Books I, II, and III”

Chapter 1: Florence Nightingale Orphanage
El Paso, Texas
Earth Analogue I

An infant opened his eyes. Although he did not cry, a nurse came immediately to his crib.

“You’re dirty,” she whispered to avoid waking any of the forty other babies. “Let’s take you to the nurse’s station to change you, what do you say?”

An hour later, the baby was changed and had finished a bottle of formula. The nurse who returned him to his crib forgot to record that he’d been given a bottle. The nurse who came on duty two hours later wondered only for a moment why the baby hadn’t taken more than a little of his morning bottle, and then promptly forgot about it.

The dormitory for the two-year-olds held thirty-six beds. There were thirty-two occupants. Only thirty-one beds were furnished with sheets and blankets. One boy, who didn’t have a bed of his own, shared the bed of another boy, a different one each night.

In the cafeteria, twenty places were set at the table for the five-year-old cohort. Twenty-one boys lined up for meals. People behind the steam tables filled the plates of the first twenty. The twenty-first boy filled his own plate from whatever remained. Then, he sat alone at a vacant table. He had learned that if he took one of the other boys’ places in line or at table, the boy and the staff would become puzzled, and then get upset, even angry—not at him, but at their own confusion. So he stayed in the background.

He watched as one boy after another was adopted and left the orphanage. He watched when one boy contracted meningitis, and died. He wondered why he was never considered for adoption. He wondered why everyone ignored him until he demanded something—and then rushed to provide it. He discovered he could make others give him anything he wanted. He also learned that it made them feel bad inside when he did that. So he continued to live in the shadows.

When they were six years old, the seven remaining boys of the cohort were taken to Houston where they joined other cohorts their age from other orphanages throughout the American continents. The mess hall and dormitory had more seats and beds than boys, and the boy no longer had to sleep with another boy. On the first night, he realized that he missed cuddling with someone else. He wondered why, and determined for himself that the only companionship he ever had was the unknowing, unconscious reflex of a boy who put his arms around the warm body with the beating heart and whispering breath who shared his bed.

On the third day, the boys had a visitor. The person at the front of the auditorium wore a uniform so dark it sucked light from the room and projected it from the silver trim at the collar and on the shoulders. “I am Captain Davis, Commandant of Fleet School Edmonton,” he said. “You boys will spend the next few days being tested. Those with the right aptitude will attend Fleet School Edmonton. Those with the right aptitude will remain here and attend Fleet Technical School Houston.

“I want you all to understand what I meant by the right aptitude. United Earth Space Fleet has a place for each of you. You will receive schooling, training, and opportunities commensurate—”

The captain seemed to remember he was speaking to six-year-olds. He interrupted himself and chuckled. “You will all go to school and you will learn things that you will like. I know that starting school is a big step, and I can only ask you to trust me.”

Perhaps it was what the captain said. Perhaps it was how he said it or his chuckle. Perhaps it was the boy’s own feelings about what the captain said, but all the boys in the auditorium seemed to relax.

The tests were taken at computer terminals and lasted for three days. Beginning on the fourth day, boys were called one-by-one into an office where Captain Davis sat. It was just after lunch when the boy was summoned.

“Paul, please take a seat,” Captain Davis said. The boy sat on the edge of a hard chair across the desk from the man.

The captain glanced at the screen of his tablet computer, and then frowned. “Your father was Fleet,” he said.

“Is that a bad thing?” Paul asked.

“What? No,” Davis said. “I just don’t understand why you weren’t adopted by a Fleet member, and why you weren’t tested earlier. No matter,” he seemed to brush the thought aside.

“You are here. You have been tested. Your test results suggest you would do well in Fleet School. Unless you know of a reason you shouldn’t attend school at Edmonton, you will leave for there tonight.”

“Sir, I have a choice?” Paul asked. “This is the first time anyone’s asked me if I wanted to do something or not.”

“This is probably the first time anyone’s given you a choice in anything,” Davis said. “Except maybe what you wanted for your birthday.”

No one ever asked me that, and I never got anything, either, Paul thought, but nodded. “I’d like that, sir,” he said.

The Fleet people didn’t ignore Paul, nor lose track of him like the staff of the orphanage had. There were rosters, assigned seats, and checklists. However, the Fleet people were often surprise to see his name on one of the rosters, diagrams, or lists.

“Cadet Junior Grade Paul Stewart?” A man in uniform, this one with silver stripes on the sleeve of his dark jumpsuit, called.

“Here, Chief,” Paul replied. He was in a waiting room at the Houston Fleetport with nearly a hundred other six-year-olds. The boys wore robin’s-egg blue jump suits with the insignia of a Cadet j.g. on their collars. They had taken an oath earlier that morning, but had been told they would not be required to take a final oath until they were older and had a complete understanding of what was being asked of them.

The man looked at Paul as if seeing him for the first time, although he had taken Paul’s duffle bag when he’d arrived at the port, and had seen him at supper.

“Seat 4A. You lucked out and got a window seat.” He gestured to the doorway. Paul hurried onto the shuttlecraft.

The window was a porthole about six inches in diameter. Its outer diameter was smaller than the inner diameter. Something to do with air pressure, Paul thought. I’ll not see much from here. Bet I could see more from the co-pilot’s seat.

Moments later a youngster, perhaps eighteen years old and with the insignia of an Ensign (j.g.) on the collars of his sky blue jumpsuit, came into the passenger compartment from the bridge. He looked around, and spotted Paul. “You, Cadet in 4A,” he gestured. “Come with me.”

Minutes later, Paul was on the bridge of the shuttle, strapped in the right-hand seat. The ensign sat in a jump seat behind Paul and hung over his shoulder, explaining the controls and instruments.

“Houston tower, Shuttlecraft Raymond Dart requests straight up and hot for Edmonton,” the pilot, a Lieutenant j.g., called.

“Cool your jets, Dart, this is a controlled port. Standby … Okay, I have your flight plan. Straight up to ten thousand feet at subsonic approved. Then to Edmonton per flight plan. Safe flight, Dart. Cleared for takeoff.”

“Put your hands on the yoke,” the lieutenant instructed after replying to the tower. “Don’t apply any pressure, just follow my movements.” Paul obeyed.

When they reached cruising altitude, the door from the passenger compartment opened. “Permission to enter the bridge?” It was Captain Davis’s voice.

“Permission granted, sir. Do you want the left seat?”

“Not while you’ve got a Junior Cadet in the right seat,” Davis said. “How did he get…”

Paul was afraid. The captain’s voice stilled. Paul felt Davis’s puzzlement, and calmed himself.

The co-pilot was a little puzzled by Davis’s question but was smart enough to answer. “Thought it wouldn’t hurt for one of them to get a taste of what he was in for, sir.”

Davis um-hummed, and strapped himself in the jump seat behind the pilot.

“Well, Cadet Stewart, what do you think?”

Startled that the Captain had remembered his name, Paul hesitated for a moment before answering. “Sir, I understand why Houston told us to remain subsonic until ten thousand feet, but we’re at seventy thousand feet, now, and only at Mach zero point eight five. Why are we not going faster? The shuttle is capable of Mach seven point five, and at this altitude we should be high enough that a sonic boom wouldn’t rattle anything on the ground.”

“Good question,” Captain Davis said, and then asked the pilot. “Lieutenant, do you have an answer for him?”

“You answered your own question, Cadet Stewart. Think about exactly what you said, please,” the pilot asked.

Paul thought for only a second. “I said on the ground. Our speed could conflict with other craft in the atmosphere.”

Without thinking, Paul adjusted the controls on the co-pilot’s nav screen, and whistled when he saw just how much air traffic was displayed. “What’s going on, sir? This is unusual.”

“It’s September 4,” Davis said. “Every Fleet school is rotating some of their cadets and faculty; other cadets and faculty are on their way to vacations. A quarter of the ships in the fleet are rotating crews; the Fleet Olympiad is gearing up in Toronto; and, the Fleet Council is meeting in Chicago. Almost every shuttle on Earth is in the air this night, and most are over North America. You are right. This traffic is unusual.”

It didn’t occur to Davis to wonder how the boy knew the level of traffic was unusual, or how he knew how to operate the nav screen. It did occur to Paul, but he couldn’t find the answer.

Fleet School Edmonton was about 50 miles west of that city, but closely linked to it by both a maglev train and tradition. The school had grown from a Royal Canadian Air Cadet League camp into its present campus. The crown and wings of the League were preserved as part of the school’s flag. The cadet corps was much more than Canadian, though. The 10,000 students came from every country in Fleet. Paul Stewart’s roommates were from Germany, Russia, and Ireland. It didn’t escape his notice that they remembered who he was from day to day, or that his professors and the other cadets in his element seemed not to be puzzled when he came to classes or formations. Something’s changed, he thought. I wonder what it is. It did not occur, then, that the change might have been in himself.

Paul didn’t have much time to think about that. School was intense. And the subjects were complex. Perhaps the most complex was the course in philosophy. The instructor was a young man who wore the grade of a Lieutenant, but who was addressed as “Herr Doctor Professor Schmidt.”

He began the class by telling the boys something they all knew. “You are six years old. You have been taught to read and write, and you have some knowledge of arithmetic. That was once known as the three Rs: ‘readin, ‘riting, and ‘rithmetic. At one time, that is all children were taught.”

Then, he threw the boys a curve ball. “Today is your first lesson in not what you should know, but how you should know. And it will probably be a few years before you understand all of what you will experience in this class. Do not be concerned about that. Today, you are going to meet Peter Abelard.”

Peter Abelard became the first of my heroes for how he thought. He was quickly followed by Ayn Rand and Thomas Jefferson. Each cadet was issued an iPad and given unlimited access to the Fleet library. I read Plato, Mill, Hobbs, Voltaire, and dozens of others, but the only books I kept on my iPad were Atlas Shrugged and Thomas Jefferson’s autobiography.

My roommates were not unfriendly, but I could not get as close to them as they were to one another. Was it because I was the only orphan? They shared stories of their families; they shared the “care packages” they get from home; they planned visits to each other’s homes for festivals. I was never invited. If I said something, they would offer me a cookie from one of the care packages, but only if I said something. Hans and Colin sometimes slept together; Dmitri once let me cuddle with him when I pushed a little, but it wasn’t comfortable for him, so I didn’t do it again. I was lonely.

Classes were boring. I knew what the instructors were going to say. I saw it in my mind before they said it. I spent most of my time in class reading on my iPad. The instructors didn’t seem to care that I wasn’t paying attention to them and they didn’t call on me to recite.

We played the sports we played in the orphanage; however, we played according to rules, rather than pell-mell. In the more rigid structure of the school’s athletics, I found that I was faster, stronger, and more accurate than the others. When I consistently beat the others, especially by wide margins, they and the coaches were puzzled, sometimes to the point of being upset. I learned to restrain myself, and not to win too often.

The Fleet pure science research laboratory lies a hundred miles west of the school, buried deep under the Alberta prairie. There is a maglev between the laboratory and the school. It is easy for me to get past security. Some guards do not see me; others open doors and shut off surveillance when I push. They are not happy to do it, and I feel bad about that, but I really need to talk to somebody about me.

I find the physiology section, and push them to examine me. My reflexes are faster than ever recorded. The electrical signals that pass through my nerves are faster then normal. The chemicals that pass the signal from one nerve to another at the synapses are created faster than they have ever seen. My phosphogen, glycolytic, and aerobic systems are more efficient; my blood has more hemoglobin than normal. Nothing is really abnormal. I’m human; I’m just at the far edge of the standard-normal distribution—in everything. The test results are wiped from the computer files and the doctors’ memories as fast as they appear.

The most telling information comes from QMEG: quantum magneto-encephalography. I am strapped to a table that rolls into the machine, not unlike the MRI that had been done earlier. I can feel the cold: my head is surrounded by S-SQUIDs—superconductive and supersensitive quantum interference devices—that measure minute electrical activity in the brain.

I wear earbuds and VR goggles. The computer flashes images and sounds while the S-SQUIDs measure neural activity. At first, the images and sounds seem random. Then, as the test progress, I begin to see patterns in the images and sounds.

I recognize a famous picture from the French-Indochina Wars of a young girl, wearing nothing but burns from napalm, running toward the camera. I see another famous photo of a French officer executing a suspected enemy by putting a bullet into his right temple. The photo is clear enough that I can see brain-matter squirting from the other side of the man’s head. Fleet had ended that war, but not before hundreds of thousands of people had been killed. France had refused to surrender its sovereignty to Fleet, and is still pretty much a pariah nation. The only French participation in Fleet is the Province of Quebec, and the École Militaire Royal de Saint-Jean, located in Quebec.

I see photos of bodies swollen with corruption, lying in a jungle, and I remember Jonesville, the so-called utopia in a South American country created by someone who hadn’t accepted the enlightenment, but who had built a small empire based on one of the old revealed religions. When representatives of the government of the USA, concerned about their citizens, had visited, they had been killed. Afraid of retaliation, the entire population of the colony had drunk a poisoned drink. The pictures had been taken after the bodies had lain in the equatorial sun for a few days.

Next is a sequence of pictures showing the development of a human fetus from conception to birth. These pictures are replaced by stark images of both aborted fetuses and women dying of septicemia after botched abortions. I am horrified, but I am also confused. I understand human reproduction, and I know that Fleet mandates sex education and the unrestricted availability of birth control materials and devices.

I see pictures of child soldiers from the Blood Diamond Wars in Africa before Fleet put an end to those. I see children raped by adults—men and women. I see men with stumps of rotting fingers in Soviet gulags nearly a century ago. I see images of the Russian Battleship Potemkin, the crew of which in 1907 rebelled against the Czarist regime and in 1925 rebelled against the communist regime, bringing more than half of the Soviet Navy with them, to join Fleet in wiping out the communists.

There are other images: boys in Fleet uniforms marching in parades, children in playgrounds, families at festival meals, and carnage too gruesome to describe.

Before I can determine what the patterns mean, the test ends. I am looking at an image of the constellation Orion, and listening to an instrumental version of “Ode to Joy” from Beethoven’s 9^th Symphony.

I sense what the researchers are thinking, and push the knowledge from all of them except the chief researcher. I push them to wipe the computer record, as well.

The chief researcher is the only one waiting when the table rolls from the machine. I push hard to make him open with me.

“Paul,” he begins, “At first, I wondered why you were being tested, why you were not in class, and how you got into the most secure laboratory in Fleet. When I watched the results of your test being displayed, I found the answer. You are something we have been looking for. You are a genuine telepath. You use more of your brain than anyone we’ve ever measured, before. And you have a powerful sense of self-preservation.”

He gestures to the laboratory, now empty save for him and me. “The results of your test, even the fact that the test was run, seem to have been erased from our computers. The staff members who participated looked half-asleep when they left. I assume that you wiped their memories, just as they wiped the memory of the computer.”

I sense the man’s fear, and feel my tummy heaving. Can I kill him? Did I hurt the others? I’m a freak!

Somehow, while I am feeling sorry for myself, the doctor pulls me into a hug.

“I heard that, Paul. You are a projective telepath, too, but you’re not a freak. You are a very special little boy. And yes, you probably could kill me, but I don’t think you will.”

I had relaxed into his hug, but now, I struggle a little, and he releases me.

“Why not?” I demand.

“Even that super brain of yours—” He tousles my hair, and I feel genuine warmth. “Even that brain didn’t follow all that the computer was doing. You are the first telepath we’ve discovered; however, we were prepared for you. We used research by the Rhine Institute from more than fifty years ago, by Fleet Intelligence, even by people we believe to be crackpots. We used the results to build tests into MEG’s programming. As soon as MEG determined you were telepathic, those tests were run.”

He pauses, and I feel a different fear. “Paul, MEG tested your humanity, your morals, your ethics. She tested your loyalty to Fleet and to humanity. Had you failed the tests, you would not have survived them. MEG would have killed you. When she played ‘Ode to Joy’ for you, she also played it over the speakers in the lab. We were just as happy as she.”

He turns his eyes away from me for a moment. “We were happy, but we also knew that we had opened Pandora’s box. The staff began erasing the results of the test even before you ordered them to do that. You did order that, didn’t you?”

I nod, and then ask, “Is MEG self-aware?”

The doctor doesn’t answer immediately. “I really don’t know,” he says. “Sometimes, it seems that she is. I always deal with her as if she were, just in case.” There is a chuckle in his mind, but I know he is serious.

“Paul? I’m going to run some of MEG’s diagnostic programmes to make sure everything about today’s tests was truly wiped. Then, you’re going to make me forget like you made the others forget. I would like to remember, not only because you are something I’ve been looking for all my career, but so that you would have an ally, an adult you might turn to for help without having to force obedience—that’s what you do, isn’t it?”

I nod.

“But what I know can be taken from me, by force, by coercion, or by orders from my superiors whom I am oath-bound to obey. I have been in Fleet since I was your age; I trust Fleet. However, I cannot trust every individual in Fleet. Therefore, I must not know. Do you understand?”

I nod, again, and then watch while he runs the diagnostics. Then I push him to forget me and everything about me.

It not until years later that I learn of the link between MEG and the fleet mainframe, and that the test results and my identity had been sent over that link before they could be wiped. So my selection to visit the United Space Fleet Enterprise was a surprise.

Chapter 2: Sheriff’s Boys Ranch
Southwestern USA, Earth Analogue II

The mantra of the Ranch was spelled out in rustic letters over the gate, although few of the boys could read. Cooperate and Graduate had become simply, Survive. None of the boys had ever heard Arbeit Macht Frei, which welcomed others to a different kind of camp. The Third Reich had not existed in their world. The early National Socialist Party of Germany had been recognized as a threat and its key figures assassinated. This meant that there was in this world no Holocaust. It also meant that there was no Jewish homeland, no Eretz Yisrael.

Hamish groaned as he sat up and pulled on the straps of the overalls that had slipped over his shoulders, and stepped into the brogans next to the bed. It was important that he wake quickly. Sloth was a mortal sin. He went from bed to bed, shaking awake the ones who were too tired to feel the morning heat, the ones who were too deep in despair to care. They’ve got to pretend they’re alive! Hamish thought.

Something pierced his mind. He didn’t know whence the thought came, but he wondered. Do they? Do they really need to try? Will it make any difference? And why do I care? Do I really think I’ll ever get out of here? Will any of us? Hamish knew the chances were remote that he would survive until he was eighteen years old. If he did, and had a clean record, he might be sent to the army rather than to another work camp. They said that the army ate well. They said that the army wore warm clothes in the winter. They said that the army—

“7-3-9-8-3-6-2 report to the toolshed. 7-5-6-6-4-4-1 report to the tool shed.” The voice over the Tannoy was scratchy and distorted, but Hamish recognized it: the voice of the Deputy called Captain. Hamish’s stomach knotted. He knew what the early morning summons meant: someone had died during the night. He and 7566441 would dig a grave. If they were fast enough, they’d get breakfast. If they were fast enough.

Hamish also knew what his number meant: he was the 98,362nd boy born in the 73^rd Year of the Founding to be registered and sent to a Youth Rehabilitation Camp. That year, the year of his birth, was also 1995 Anno Dominobut “in the Year of our Lord” was a phrase and a blessing left behind with Hamish’s family and his childhood. It was reserved for others who were worthier than Hamish.

Wondering who 7566441 was and why the two of them had been selected, and hoping that the boy, who would be only seven years old, was strong and fit, Hamish ran to the tool shed.

Captain was there, and had already taken two shovels and two picks from the tool shed and then re-secured the lock. Tools could become weapons; tools could aid in an escape attempt. They were watched as closely as were the boys. Tools and boys were both inventoried at the end of every day.

7566441 was only seconds behind Hamish. That was a good sign, Hamish thought. The other boy hadn’t been abed when the summons came, and he had the energy to run quickly. Perhaps they’d get the grave dug in time to have breakfast. Perhaps.

Hamish reached for a shovel and pick, but Captain stepped back. He was in no hurry; he would have breakfast regardless of how long the boys took to dig.

“Hold your horses, boy,” Captain said.

Hamish knew what a horse was. The Deputies rode them in the fields and to chase boys who tried to run away. He remembered being brought from the train depot to the Ranch in a horse-drawn wagon with a dozen other boys. He didn’t know what “hold your horses” meant, but guessed it meant to slow down. Hamish and 7566441 ducked their heads in obedience, but said nothing. They would not speak until told to do so.

Captain said nothing more, but handed the boys the tools. He stepped back, quickly and rested his hand on his revolver. It was just three weeks since a careless deputy had been struck in the head with a shovel wielded by one of the boys he’d gotten too close to. The boy was killed before he could reach the fence—shot in the back. The rest of the story came from the boy who emptied bedpans in the Infirmary. The deputy had lain unconscious for a week before he was allowed to die. That story was whispered among the work details and through the barracks.

Captain gestured to the boys. They picked up the tools, and moved at a fast walk toward the cemetery. Hamish barely controlled himself when they reached two bodies. Neither boy was recognizable. They were naked. Their faces had been pulverized. Marks from the whip with metal tips—the one called Gabriel’s Hand—covered their bodies. Their genitals—it was prohibited to look at another boy’s genitals, but Hamish could not help himself—the boys’ genitals had been reduced to a mass of charred flesh. Hamish knew what that meant: they’d been caught doing something that was proscribed. Beside him, 7566441 retched, trying to empty an empty stomach. Hamish laid his shovel on the ground and attacked the stony soil with the pick. Perhaps Captain would let them bury the boys in a single grave. Perhaps the boy beside him would recover and help, and they would finish in time for breakfast. Perhaps an angel would come and rescue them from this place. Perhaps.

7566441 did recover, and began to shovel away the rocks and dirt that Hamish loosened with his pick. Captain watched from perhaps 50 yards away under the paltry shade of a tamarack tree.

“What’s your name?” the younger boy whispered.

“73-98-362 Hamish.”

“I’m Matthew, Barracks 45,” the boy said, and grunted as he lifted a shovel full of dirt.”

“Switch off,” Hamish said. “You use the pick; I’ll shovel for a while.”

“Thank you,” Matthew said. “Not many boys would have cared that I wasn’t strong enough to lift the shovel full of dirt and rocks.”

Hamish thought about that for a while as he shoveled. “Not sure I care or just want to get finished in time for breakfast.” He looked at Matthew.

“Either way,” the younger boy said. “Thank you.” He smiled.

There was a spot in the chest, just above the tummy, which if hit just right, would knock the breath out of a boy. A blow there was a quick way to end a fight. It was a favorite spot for the Deputies to hit boys who showed any sign of rebelliousness. When Matthew smiled, Hamish felt as if he’d been struck there with the end of a Deputy’s billy club. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. Darkness swept inward from the edges of his eyes until all he saw was Matthew’s face illuminated in the center of his vision. Then, reality called. Matthew’s pick struck a rock, and rang loudly.

Hamish shook his head to dispel the image, and continued shoveling.

As if it were an echo of Matthew’s pick, the breakfast bell rang. Both boys doubled their efforts, but the ground was hard and this spot was especially rocky. Hamish grimaced. They would not get breakfast.

They saw boys leaving the mess hall and forming in the ranks of work details. Captain waved them away from the hole, looked in, and then nodded. “Big enough. Put them in.”

Matthew’s face grew pale. Hamish saw the boy’s stomach heaving. “I’ll do it,” he whispered, and stooped to gather the first body. He tumbled it into the hole, and turned to take up the second.

Matthew was holding the boy’s feet; Hamish took the boy’s arms. Together, they tossed the body into the pit and then took up their shovels.

Captain had returned to the shade of the tree. Matthew muttered, “Not even a prayer.”

He squinted at Hamish. “May I say one?”

It was a dangerous question: prayers were to be recited, only in unison, only at Service, and only when repeating the words spoken from the pulpit.

Hamish tossed a shovelful of dirt onto the bodies. “I won’t tell,” he said.

Matthew kept shoveling, but Hamish heard his whispers, broken by the sound of shovels digging into dirt and of dirt being dropped into the grave.

“… Angels… thy rest… warm…” If there were an Amen, Hamish didn’t hear it. It didn’t matter. A lot of good that will do, Hamish thought.

When the grave was filled, the boys stood silently, holding their shovels and picks, waiting for Captain. He waved to them from his place by the tree, and began walking back to the tool shed.

By the time the tools were stored, ranks of boys were marching out the gate to the fields. Captain gestured, and Hamish and Matthew ran to join them.

The boys picked cotton today, dragging huge canvas bags behind them as they crawled down the rows. Too slow, and they would be whipped. Too fast, and they would miss bolls that were ready to be picked, and they would be whipped. They got water at the end of each row. At noon, they got a hunk of bread and a few minutes to eat it.

Hamish knew better than to allow himself to become distracted while working, so it was not until after supper, when he lay on his bed, that he thought again about Matthew. Why did I feel that way when he smiled at me? Did I recognize him from before? Hamish had been at the Ranch since he was seven. He remembered his home, his family, and their small farm. He remembered attending Service and Market with other families. He remembered the faces of some of the children. He searched his memories, but did not find Matthew. 7566441, he thought. He’s just 7566441. He put the boy from his mind, and fell asleep.

Despite his resolve to forget Matthew, Hamish found himself looking for him—scanning the ranks of boys marching to the fields, staring at work details, looking for Matthew’s face. Against his own rules, Hamish was distracted, and his indolence caught the attention of one of the Deputies. Hamish saw the man raise his whip. He put his hands over his eyes to protect them. He did not see a second Deputy put his hand on the first man’s arm. He did not see the second Deputy shake his head. He did hear the crack of the whip but it did not strike him. He did hear the first Deputy yell, “Back to work, boy! No time for daydreaming.”

Weeks later, Hamish was using a hoe in the cornfield, chopping weeds. He looked up before turning to the next row and saw Matthew. The boy was facing away from him and looking at the ground but Hamish was sure it was Matthew. Hamish’s tummy tightened. He felt a tingle somewhere deep inside himself. Oh, Matthew, I wish I could call to you. Hamish turned the corner and started weeding the next row. He felt good the rest of the day, and slept soundly that night.

The next day was Sabbath Eve. At noon, Deputies began calling the work details from the fields. When he’d first arrived, Hamish thought they were called in no particular order; however, the Deputies made it clear that the order was determined by each group’s productivity during the previous week. Those groups called earlier had more free time than those called later.

The boys were marched to the bathhouse. Inside the bathhouse, shoulder-high walls separated the cubicles. Each cubicle held a large tub of water, a bin for dirty clothes, and stacks of clean overalls. When Hamish reached the head of the line, a Deputy standing on a platform above the baths gestured to him. Hamish walked into the designated cubicle, kicked off his brogans, took off his overalls and put them in the bin, stepped into the tub, and ducked his head under the water.

The first time Hamish had bathed, the Deputy shouted at him, “Clean your privates, boy, and your arse!”

Hamish had looked around for a brush. The Deputy yelled, again. “With your hands, boy, rub them with your hands.”

Hamish was shocked by the order to touch his genitals. That’s proscribed, he thought.

The Deputy laughed, and called out. “New boy, rub yourself clean!” Hamish obeyed, although he shivered with fear.

Afterwards, he stood in ranks with the other boys from his barracks waiting for others to finish. He heard a whisper from behind himself. “Somebody should have told you. Rub your privates and your arse. When you’re older, you’ll rub your armpits, too. Just don’t get—” The voice broke off when the Barracks Leader called them to attention. Hamish wondered what he wasn’t supposed to get.

After two years, Hamish knew what to do, and how best to use his time in the tub. If a boy spent too long in the tub, the Deputies would yell, and later, whip the boy. If a boy didn’t spend enough time in the tub, the Deputies would yell, and later, whip the boy. He also knew what he wasn’t supposed to get—a stiff penis. He’d been leaving the bath, his skin still wet under the overalls and his feet still wet inside the brogans. A Deputy was dragging a naked boy from the next cubicle. The boy’s penis was erect, pointing away from his body. The Deputy smacked it with his billy club, and then punched the boy in the gut with the end of the club. The boy folded in half and fell to the ground.

If there were time between baths and supper, the boys were free to do whatever they wanted as long as they didn’t wander beyond the immediate area of their barracks. Most of the boys slept. Hamish sat on the steps of the barracks on the shaded side and watched others being marched from the fields to the baths, and from the baths to their barracks. He refused to admit to himself that he was looking for Matthew. But he was. His eyes scanned each rank and file of boys as they marched by. He focused on those in the rear, knowing that the shorter boys would be in the back of the formation.

There! Hamish’s eyes locked onto a single figure. It’s Matthew! Hamish wanted so much to call out, to make Matthew turn his head and see him, but he knew better. If Hamish called out, another boy would report him; if Matthew turned his head, another boy would report him. Hamish felt empty.

Sabbath Eve supper was a bigger meal than usual since the boys would fast on the next day. It was also the only meal at which meat was ever—but not always—served. Evening Service was shorter than usual, too, since the boys would spend almost all the Sabbath in Service. Hamish lay on his bed, thinking of Matthew, before falling asleep.

For the first time in months, Hamish dreamed. In the dream, he was using a hoe to chop weeds in the cornfield. He looked up and saw Matthew standing in front of him.

“Matthew! I’m so happy to see you,” Hamish whispered.

“Why are you whispering? There’s no one around,” Matthew said.

Hamish looked up and down the row, and then from side to side. Matthew was right. They were alone in the cornfield. Matthew stepped toward Hamish until they were only inches apart and took Hamish’s hand. “I’m glad to see you, too.” He stood on his toes and pressed his lips against Hamish’s.

Hamish woke with a stiff penis, which subsided instantly from his fear. A hundred yards away, in Barracks 45, Matthew woke. His penis was stiff, too, but he did not know why.

Sabbath Service lasted from just after dawn until noon. The form was always the same: litany of questions and answers, hymns, and a sermon. The only thing that was different from week to week was the sermon.

“Who created you?” The Sheriff asked.

“God created me.” The chorus of boys answered.

“What else did God create?”

“God created all things.”

“Why did God create you and all things?”

“To glorify Him and the Scudder, forever.”

“How can you glorify God?”

“By loving Him and the Scudder, and by doing what they command.”

The litany continued. Questions were asked about the nature of God (a spirit), and, importantly, did God know all things. The answer was that nothing could be hidden from God. Hamish shivered at that. Does God know how I feel about Matthew? What is it I feel about Matthew? What does it mean—how I feel about Matthew? Hamish’s confusion, his questions, were not answered.

The hymns were sung a cappella to simple tunes.

At first, Hamish had been confused. The words were different. At home, it had been “For the Reverends tell me so.”

The rest of the day was spent in contemplation and confession. Contemplation meant standing in line. Confession meant speaking through a hole in a wall, covered with cloth, to one of the Deputies on the other side.

The boys who survived learned quickly they should confess only venial sins—those that could be forgiven if one did sufficient penance. The Deputies were well versed in penance.

Hamish remembered the list of venial sins: impurity, idleness, enmity, strife, jealousy, selfishness, and dissention. The mortal sins were disobedience, wrath, greed, sloth, pride, lust, envy, and gluttony. At the Ranch, he had learned new sins and new definitions for some of the old ones. Impurity was touching yourself, or getting a stiff penis in the baths; touching another boy was a mortal sin. Slowness to obey was a venial sin; disobedience, a mortal sin. The line between the two was ill defined, as was the line between idleness and sloth. At least, Hamish thought, they protect us from gluttony. There’s never enough food.

Venial sins were punished with whips. If a boy committed a mortal sin, he was usually beaten to death. Hamish had learned quickly, and had escaped the whip.

It had been two weeks since Hamish’s dream. Although he thought of Matthew every night before going to sleep, he could not recapture the dream. He wanted badly to do so, but was also afraid—afraid that someone would see his erection and report him. He also so wanted to see Matthew again. Why? he wondered, but found no answer.

Hamish had left the Sabbath Service and joined his cohort in the line for Confession when a Deputy grabbed his arm.

“Stand there,” the Deputy pointed toward a corner of the building. “Wait.”

Hamish was puzzled, He did not show that to the deputy, but hurried to obey.

After what seemed like hours, Hamish saw Matthew coming from the meetinghouse. His throat tightened. Then, when a Deputy grabbed Matthew’s arm, Hamish nearly passed out. They’ve found out! Somehow, they’ve found out. God and the Reverends know what’s in my heart! I’ve put Matthew in danger!

Hamish watched as Matthew ran to join him. They exchanged the briefest of glances before Matthew stood beside Hamish. The Deputy strolled over.

“You two, report to Captain’s office.” The boys ran to obey.

The guard who stood at the door to the Administration Building was expecting them. “7566441,” Matthew said. “7398362,” Hamish added. “Reporting as ordered, sir.” The guard told them to enter.

“Hamish? Matthew? Please sit,” Captain said, and gestured to two wooden chairs that faced his desk. The boys were startled at Captain’s use of their name, but not to startled to obey instantly. Still, what’s happening? Hamish wondered. Why—

“It was no accident that you two were chosen for this task,” Captain said. “It is said that God and the Scudder work in mysterious ways, their wonders to perform. I hope you will remember that in the future, for you are about to see mysteries and wonders. You will not rejoin your cohorts; tonight, you will sleep in a cell, here. Tomorrow, you will journey away from the Ranch to a bright and glorious future.”

Hamish stared at Captain, and then without thinking looked to see what Matthew’s reaction had been. Matthew was staring at Hamish. The expression on his face—amazement? fear? uncertainty? Hamish saw all that, and more. They turned to look at Captain. He surprised them.

“You turned to one another. That is good. For this journey you will each need the other’s strength. Do not confuse cooperation with friendship! Remember the camp’s motto: cooperate and graduate. Remember what that means.

“Hamish, you are the elder. The greater burden will be upon you.”

Captain paused, and then asked, “Is there anything you would like to ask me?”

Hamish didn’t hesitate. “Yes, Captain sir. What about the Army? I wanted to—”

Captain’s laugh cut off whatever else Hamish would have said. “The Army? You are going to a much brighter and more glorious future than that!”

Matthew had no questions and after what Captain said, neither did Hamish.

The boys were put in individual cells separated by a section of hallway. There were pallets on the floor, and blankets. Hamish lay on a pallet, closed his eyes, and thought. Where are we to be taken? Why? Why did Captain say we would be together? That seems obvious. Why—

“Hamish!” a whisper broke his thoughts. He opened his eyes and sat up.

“What?”

“Hamish, don’t you remember me?”

“Of course I do. You’re 7566441 Matthew. We dug a grave; I saw you in the fields and marching in your work detail.”

“I saw you too,” Matthew said. He hesitated, and then said, “I saw you in a dream.”

“You mustn’t say that!” Hamish whispered. “You mustn’t ever say that!”

Matthew was silent for a long time. Hamish lay down, again, only to jerk upright when Matthew spoke again.

“Hamish? I’m afraid. I’m afraid of being alone. Will you be my friend?”

Friend? thought Hamish. He thinks boys in the camp can be friends? Captain warned us. However, Matthew’s plea struck something in Hamish.

“I’ll be your friend as long as I can,” Hamish said, “but you must never let the Deputies know. You must never let anyone know!”

“Thank you, Hamish,” Matthew whispered. Hamish watched as the boy lay on his pallet and pulled a blanket over himself. Hamish grabbed his blanket. It was getting cold, and it was well past time to sleep.

Matthew and Hamish woke to the sound of Reveille on the Tannoy, but no one came to release them for breakfast. It was not until after the call to assemble for work detail that a Deputy unlocked the cells.

“Go to the mess hall,” the Deputy said. “They will feed you. Then go to Captain’s office.”

The boys ran to obey. The Deputy had told them true: they were fed. The usual oatmeal came with an apple—and not a bruised and wormy one, but one worthy of the Deputy’s mess, perhaps even of the Sheriff’s table. Hamish bit into the apple, and sweet juice ran down his chin. He wiped it up with a finger and licked the finger, reluctant to let even a drop escape. Across the table, Matthew rolled his eyes in exaggerated pleasure, and smiled.

Again, Hamish felt his breath taken away. What is it about Matthew’s smile? Why do I feel this way? And why did I agree to be his friend? It’s not like that means anything.

Although they were alone in the mess hall, Hamish whispered when he asked, “Are you finished?” Matthew, nodded. They put their trays into the slot, and ran to Captain’s office. Outside the building, a group of Deputies on horseback had formed. A posse, Hamish thought. Someone’s run, and they’re going to chase him down. He had no time to think about this before Captain stepped onto the porch.

“Hamish? You’ve been here for two years. You have learned certain things including obedience. Where you are going, you will be judged, and your behavior will reflect on this ranch. Make us proud of you.”

Captain turned to Matthew. “Matthew, you are new but you also come from this ranch. Do what you are told. Learn from Hamish. Make us proud of you.”

Captain turned and re-entered the building. A Deputy beckoned Hamish to him, and then lifted the boy onto a horse and adjusted the stirrups to the length of his legs. Close by, a second Deputy did the same for Matthew. Hamish was puzzled. The Deputies never touched a boy except to beat him; however today their touch was not brutal. It was not gentle, either. It seemed as if they were simply doing a job.

Lush fields, watered by artesian wells—though the boys did not know that word or what it meant—surrounded the ranch. Little of the water found its way to the camp, itself, nor was there much that grew inside the fence. The soil between the buildings had been beaten to hardpan by generations of boys. Water was piped to the baths, and for a small kitchen garden in which grew red tomatoes, green cucumbers, purple eggplant, and other things that found their way only to the Deputies and Sheriff’s tables.

Past the fields, the terrain became flat and dry. Hours of riding showed Hamish how isolated the Ranch was. Even if one of the boys were able to get through or over the fence, he would never reach safety. The miles and miles of waterless desert would kill him. Hamish and Matthew would have died had not water and food been provided by their escorts.

It was dusk on the second day when they reached a town. The boys were led to a building where they were fed, given blankets, and locked in an empty room. The windows were closed only by iron bars. The night air was cold. A shivering Matthew begged Hamish, “If we share the blankets, we’ll be warmer.”

Hamish agreed, reluctantly, and let Matthew crawl into his blanket before covering them both with the second blanket. Some awkward moments later, they lay spooned together. Hamish felt the smaller boy’s shivers and wrapped his arms around Matthew. If they see us like this in the morning, he thought. They will kill us. I must wake before dawn.

Hamish had not survived as long as he had without developing keen senses and quick reflexes. The sound of boots approaching the room woke him, instantly. He took his arms from around Matthew and rolled away from the boy, pulling one of the blankets with him. He heard Matthew stir as a key skritched in the door.

A deputy they didn’t recognize led them to a latrine, and then into a mess hall. The men who had brought them this far were sitting at one table; another held men unfamiliar to them. The Deputy gestured, and the boys took trays and stepped to the counter. The serf behind the counter didn’t hesitate, but filled bowls with oatmeal and cooked, spiced apples; handed them plates with toasted bread and bacon; and pointed to glasses already filled with… orange juice! Hamish thought.

Hamish remembered. There had been an orange grove behind his house. The serfs were forbidden to pick oranges for themselves, but sometimes one would fall just before it ripened and Hamish would steal it for his family.

Chapter 3: Paul Stewart—Fleet School Edmonton

Word was passed that the Enterprise VIII would visit the Edmonton School after her diplomatic mission to Salt Lake City. The excitement the announcement stirred was overwhelmed by the news that a group of students would be assigned to Enterprise for two weeks. Selection was to be made by computer. I couldn’t figure a way to push anyone into making sure the computer would select me, so I was surprised when I was named. With 10,000 students, the odds were long, to say the least, that I’d be included in the 20. But I was. I probably should have suspected something, but I was far too excited.

As soon as the selections were announced, Dmitry cornered me. “You must get ship’s patches. Wait.”

He removed a shoebox from his locker and opened it.

“Come, sit.” He patted the bed.

“Here, see? This one is from the Jefferson. My father served there. This one is from the Lorentz. I had an uncle who served there.” He continued, listing ships from throughout Fleet on which his relatives had served.

“The only way to get patches is to serve on the ship or to trade with someone who has served. You can’t just buy them. Your short duty probably won’t count as serving, so you’ll have to trade.”

He gave me five Fleet School Edmonton patches. “They should trade even for these—one for one.”

“No more than five?” I asked.

“No, that’s kind of an unwritten rule,” Dmitry said. Then, he handed me a glassine envelope containing a patch. I recognized the Cyrillic letters, but didn’t know what they meant.

“But, you should get at least twenty Enterprise patches for this one,” he said handing me the envelope. “This is the Prince Potempkin of Tauris patch. They were issued for the 75^th anniversary of the First Revolution, and are very rare. You’ll have to find a collector, though, who knows its value.”

“Are you sure you want to give this one up?” I asked.

Dmitri grinned. “I have nine more at home. My mother’s uncle’s boyfriend served on her.”

I realized that I had learned more about Dmitri in those few minutes than I had since we were first assigned as roommates two months ago. I had no time to think about that because the door opened. I looked up to see not only my other roommates, but all of the boys in the element crowding into the room. They all had Edmonton school patches in their hands. “I must have a list!” I said, and grabbed my iPad.

The USF Enterprise VIII was the most recent in a line of distinguished ships to bear that name. The first was a British sailing ship, captured by Colonial forces in 1775 and renamed Enterprise. Her original name has been lost in history. The second, another sailing ship, was a privateer commissioned by the State of Maryland in 1776, later purchased by the Continental Congress, and which saw service during the Colonials’ war for independence from England.

Enterprise III was the first true Fleet ship, a twelve-gun schooner that saw service during the Battle of Derna in 1805 (the “shores of Tripoli” war) and in the War of 1812, when President Jefferson sent Fleet to kick British butt. Enterprise VI was a steam-powered aircraft carrier. The most recent sea-going Enterprise, number VII, was a nuclear-powered aircraft carrier, kept in commission long after Fleet’s military aircraft had been replaced by anti-gravity shuttles. Now decommissioned, the carrier was a museum to Fleet Aviation, permanently berthed in Charleston.

The newest Enterprise was a battleship-class warship, with a crew of 4,500 including what was still called an “aviation wing”—the pilots and crew of AG-powered craft, some of which were capable of trans-lunar flight. Flight crews, besides pilots, included loadmasters for the transports, jumpmasters for the troop carriers, weapons operators, sensor operators for reconnaissance craft, and more.

Everyone assembled at the school’s spaceport—the only place large enough to accommodate a battleship—to wait for the arrival of Enterprise.

“How big is she?” one of the kids in the element asked. We were at ease, and chattering among ourselves.

“Ginormous!” Another answered.

“One million, three hundred fifty thousand tons,” Dmetri said. “And 4,026 feet long when the ensign is extended. She’s the biggest thing Fleet has ever built.”

The Enterprise VIII didn’t land—she hovered about ten feet off the ground—all 1,350,000 tons of her. That was impressive. Near the keel, two flight decks were open to display various AG craft.

“Look! Fighters,” someone said. “And Guns-a-Go-Go!”

There were also troop transports and air ambulances nicknamed “Baby Huey.” The air ambulances and Guns-a-Go-Go gunships were both named after helicopters that saw service in the South American Wars of Liberation and the termination of the French-Indochina wars. The basic airframe was the same: chassis with power supply and propulsion, stretched, narrowed, or widened to fit a mission-specific body.

As we watched, gun ports above the flight deck opened and half a dozen different kinds of guns were rolled out. Above the gun ports, crewmembers lined the railing of the deck and waved to us.

It looked like everybody in the school came to see us off, but of course it was really to see Enterprise. On command, we designees broke ranks from our elements and gathered at a landing pad. It was the first time I’d seen the others. There was one other Cadet j.g., a dozen Cadets, and six Ensigns. We looked at one another, and I sensed some nervousness. Understandable. We’d not been told what our duties would be, just that we’d be gone ten days and that we’d need duty and dress uniforms. Each of us carried a duffle bag. Mine held my dress uniform, neatly rolled up; three jump suits; handkerchiefs, underwear, and socks; and my iPad and charger; a toothbrush; and a stock of school patches. I kept the Potemkin patch, safely in its envelope, in my pocket.

A gangplank extended from a hatch to the landing pad, and we rode its escalator into the ship. At the top of the escalator, each of us turned toward the Fleet ensign that flew on the stern—nearly a quarter of a mile away—and saluted, then turned to the Lieutenant Commander who stood at the hatch. We saluted him and asked, “Permission to come aboard, sir?”

He returned our salute, and surprised us all by shaking our hands and welcoming us aboard.

Meanwhile, gangplanks extended from the flight deck, and students and faculty swarmed aboard. How is she going to deal with nearly 12,000 visitors? I wondered, but didn’t have time to explore that thought. A Lt. j.g. asked us to follow him to the Junior Mess.

“You’ll be eating, sleeping, and training with a group of boys ages six through eighteen, and grades cadet j.g. through ensign,” he said as we walked. “The senior member of the mess is Ensign Polk. You will consider him to be your Element Commander with the same responsibilities and authority, even though the Junior Mess is not technically an element. He will assign your duties, set your schedules, administer non-judicial punishment if required, and will send an evaluation to your element at Edmonton upon completion of this tour of duty. If you have any questions that can’t be answered from the computer files or others your age and grade, ask him. Any questions?”

He had stopped outside a door labeled, “Junior Mess.”

No one spoke; I think we’d all gotten his message: take our questions to a computer terminal, to one of our mates, or to the commander of the mess.

The Lieutenant smiled. “Good. You passed your first test.” Then, his demeanor changed. “There will be others, and they won’t be as straightforward or as easy.”

Enterprise normally would be the heart of a Fleet Battle Group that included cruisers, corvettes, destroyers, hospital ships, troop transports, and other ships, depending on the mission. Her current role was described as diplomatic missions, although it was apparent to me—and probably anyone else with more than two brain cells—that Fleet was showing the flag and the power of Fleet.

I had never questioned Fleet’s role as world government—most of the world, that is. France, I knew about. There was some trade and tourism between France and the rest of the world, but her old colonial empire was no more. Her nuclear powered submarines with nuclear-armed missiles had been turned to scrap. The French Foreign Legion, once one of the world’s most elite fighting forces, had been disarmed and disbanded, although some of their descendants made a pretty show in the annual Bastille Day Parade.

There were others than the French who refused to relinquish their autonomy to Fleet: the religious, the survivalists, and the Luddites.

Ensign Polk was an eighteen-year-old with pale white skin and red hair. He was waiting when we came into the Junior Mess. A couple of us snapped to attention and started the “reporting as ordered” routine, but he waved us off.

“Save that for when the adults are around,” he said. “You’re going to have enough pressure, enough work, and enough to worry about without a lot of formality in the Junior Mess.”

He held up his hand, again, and added, “That doesn’t mean ‘anything goes.’ I expect you to behave yourselves as young gentlemen, to do your assigned tasks swiftly and cheerfully, to get along with one another, and to leave the Enterprise with an understanding of what teamwork and cooperation mean.

“You were selected by computer so it’s not likely, but I have to ask. Are there any boyfriend pairs?”

Seeing only shaken heads, he added, “You will each be assigned a sponsor of your grade and age. He will take you in hand, show you the ropes, and be your roommate for the time you’ll be with us. Normally, you get to select your roommate; we don’t have time to establish those relationships. I hope you understand.

“I have spoken with your school’s Provost. We will not be conducting your usual classes. Too complicated given the wide variety of ages and grades. You will, however, be attending class and standing watch with your sponsor. He and his watch-mates will be responsible for your training. We do rotate watch hours and positions frequently. It’s part of our training; it will become part of yours.

“Any questions?”

Hearing none, he gestured and a cadet with an iPad began reading off pairs of names.

I was paired with an eight-year-old Cadet j.g. His name was Phillip Moore, and he was nice enough, especially since I was only six. His father was a Lt. Commander and a senior weapons officer, which was why Phillip was serving aboard a warship. My father had been Fleet—a commander and ship’s captain—but I didn’t mention that. It didn’t matter—Phillip wouldn’t have remembered, anyway. If my father had lived, he’d probably be an Admiral, and I’d be living in space with him. The thought was painful, but I managed to wipe away my tears before Phillip saw them.

Phillip didn’t have a roommate, although his room held two pairs of bunk beds. “The Junior Mess is not up to TO&E,” he said. The Tables of Organization and Equipment described just that, for every element in Fleet, from a group of schoolboys to the largest ships—battleships like Enterprise. Phillip showed me where to stow my stuff, and helped me get towels and bed linens from the supply system.

The next stops on the Enterprise tour were to be London, Stuttgart, Pamplona, Odessa, and Cape Town. That would be the last port on our short visit, and we’d be taken back to Edmonton by shuttle. At least, that was the plan. But, as someone once said, “no battle plan survives contact with the enemy.” It was an aphorism, not a law of nature, but it did give us something to think about.

Ensign Polk wasn’t kidding about having different watch positions. Between Edmonton and London, a flight of less than four hours, Phillip and I were assigned watch in the engine room. During the three days we were in London, we stood watch in the infirmary, armory, and on one of the flight deck with a fire-fighting crew. The last one was a lot of fun, since the crew put on a demonstration for distinguished visitors—including the Queen and her great-grandson, the Crown Prince—and we got to put on protective gear and run through flames with them. The crew that is, not the Queen or the Prince.

It was fun, but exhausting, running around wearing 30 pounds of gear. Phillip and I barely made it through our showers and supper before crashing on our bunks. It was about three hours later when General Quarters sounded. We woke quickly—the GQ alarm would wake anyone. Within seconds and despite the gravity compensators, we felt the ship turn and accelerate in what had to be a combat maneuver.

The boys from Edmonton hadn’t been assigned GQ duties, but we were smart enough to follow our hosts to theirs. Phillip and I shinnied into our jump suits and boots. Then he grabbed my hand. “My GQ station is with my dad,” he said. “Come on!”

We ran to the bridge where a guy I saw was Phillip’s dad gestured to two secondary weapon consoles. “Each of you take one console, and buckle in. Mr. Moore,” he addressed his son formally, “activate your console and report weapons status.”

He looked at me. I had vacuumed his mind, and Phillip’s, of all they knew about the consoles, and tried to project I know what I’m doing, too. It must have worked.

“Mr. Stewart, activate your console and report status.”

I powered up the console and watched as it linked to the ship’s computer. Then I whistled. The Enterprise was no Quaker Cannon. My console monitored and controlled the portside weapons. Nova Sol! I thought. There’s enough firepower here to wipe out a small country! No, make that a large country! I had control of Gatling guns that fired 1.00-caliber slugs at the rate of 600 a minute; cannons that fired explosives, incendiaries, and anti-personnel rounds; self-propelled rockets—ditto; and 32-inch guns that could fire a slug the weight of a small elephant. All reported ready and with lots and lots of projectiles. The Junior Mess may not have been up to TO&E, but the ammunition bunkers sure were.

“Port systems all go and ammunition at 100%, sir,” I said.

Phillip was seconds behind me reporting starboard batteries “go.”

“We don’t yet know our mission or our targets,” Lt. Commander Moore said. “What initial weapons and loading do you recommend?”

I felt Phillip’s hesitation and uncertainty. Our chairs were on rails; I unlocked mine and slid to him. We whispered together for a few seconds. Then, I slid back to my position.

“Cannons with pyrotechnics, HE, and anti-personnel rounds; one battery of 32-inchers with pyrotechnics and one battery of 32-inchers with HE,” Phillip said. “Gatlings with 5% tracers.”

“What do you know about pyrotechnic rounds,” his dad asked. “And why do you recommend them? No,” he gestured to Phillip, “You answer, Mr. Stewart.”

“They’re fireworks, sir, and since the current mission of the Enterprise is to show the flag, they would be used for that purpose. Until we know more about what our mission is, I’m going to assume it’s similar. Fireworks for show, with anti-personnel and HE in reserve.”

“Mr. Moore? What is your opinion?”

“He’s right, sir. It’s show and tell. I didn’t know about the fireworks, and suggested the tracer rounds, and then HE. Same principle: show and then force.”

Phillip’s dad nodded. “Make it so,” he said, and turned back to his own console.

Phillip and I sent orders to the gun crews. While loading under combat conditions was mostly by robotic arms, Enterprise still carried gun crews who normally did the initial loading, stood around looking useful during tours of the ship, and kept tabs on the robots. They would take the places of the robots should that be necessary. If that happened, they would face more danger perhaps than anyone else on the ship.

A few minutes later, the Captain came on the Tannoy.

“Gentlemen, this is the captain. Our mission has changed. We are proceeding at flank speed toward the Gulf of Kutch. We will arrive in 54 minutes. Large numbers of Mujahedeen, traveling in what appear to be fishing vessels, have landed at several locations on the coast, and are massing in the direction of major cities, including Jamnagar. Our mission is to stop and capture or destroy those forces. Civilian casualties are to be avoided where possible. The Mujahedeen forces are to be assumed to be fanatical and suicidal.”

“Uh, oh,” I whispered to Phillip. “Don’t think fireworks are going to do it!”

Phillip’s father heard, grinned, and then touched his finger to his lips in a shush gesture.

The Captain continued. “On the other hand, I’m willing to try a little psychological operations where appropriate. If we encounter bands of Mujahedeen in open country, we’ll try pyrotechnics—from the 32-inchers—and make offers to surrender from psyops speaker-equipped shuttles. You guys in the Mujahedeen studies group, get on it—you’ve got 45 minutes. And kudos to our two cadets on the weapons consoles.”

Phillip and I grinned at one another. It was only then that I realized: I’m on the bridge of the Enterprise! The Captain is only a few meters behind me! Way, way cool! I resisted the impulse to turn around and grin at the captain.

The psyops plan had mixed success. One group, about 100 mujahedeen, surrendered after seeing the explosions 500 feet above their heads and the Enterprise hovering 500 feet above that. In a second group, a couple of fanatics opened fire on their fellows who offered to surrender. They returned fire, and the entire group of 200 managed to kill or wound each other. We waited until the shooting stopped, then sent in Marines followed by medics. They saved a dozen or so. At least there were no civilian casualties.

The real battles took place on the ground. Fleet Marines, with close air support from Guns-a-Go-Go, fighters, and a few rounds of 32-inch HE, took only three days to mop up the remaining forces.

The “Battle of Jamnagar” would have not been of any consequence except that the Mujahedeen had gotten possession of several antique Mirage fighters and a nuclear weapon. The fighting was almost over and the marines had signaled for pickup when sensors signaled incoming. The crew, including Phillip and me, were working 12-hours-on, 12-off. We’d just come back on duty when the signal came in. Something was approaching, hot, from the port side. I didn’t have time to consult with either Phillip or his father before I triggered two of the Gatling guns to take it out.

“No IFF, sir,” I said. “He was an unknown.” I knew there was more, but I couldn’t tell him.

“By the book,” he said. “If you were a certified weapons officer there would be no question. Since you’re a cadet, there will be an inquiry. I hope you understand.”

I nodded. “Yes, sir.”

The marines secured the wreckage, and a forensic team found the unexploded nuclear weapon. By this time everyone had forgotten that I’d been involved, and the report of the incident was sent as “routine.”

We didn’t get to our next scheduled destination because the government of India insisted the entire crew take shore leave at one of the resort cities on the eastern shore. They made it clear through diplomatic channels that they would be terribly offended if we didn’t accept their offer. It wasn’t hard for them to convince the captain. To show the flag, he crossed India slowly during daylight. When we reached the coast, he sent us down a few hundred at a time. I hadn’t packed a bathing suit. I could have bought one from ship’s stores, but it turned out we were going to a clothing-optional beach. Phillip and I and his mates from the Junior Mess had a grand time.

The night after our shore leave, Phillip asked me into his bed. It was an adult-sized bunk, so we both fit. We cuddled. Phillip whispered to me. “I like you, Paul. You thought of the pyrotechnic loads, and made my daddy proud of me. Thank you.” He kissed me.

“I know we’re too little to be boyfriends, and maybe after tomorrow we’ll never see each other again, but I want to cuddle with you. I want to remember you as a friend. Maybe someday—”

I stopped what he might have said with my own kiss. I knew if there were to be a someday, I would have to create it.

I was right. After the shuttle ride from India back to Edmonton—via the Pacific Ocean and a stop at Kilauea, Hawaii to get up close and personal with an active volcano at the Fleet Vulcan Research Center—I called him. He shook his head when I asked if he knew me.

Webmasters Note:

This story originally appeared as three books called “0300”. If you have read this, you will know what is going on. However, David has consolidated the individual books by rearranging the chapters in chronological order, and to eliminate some duplication (and some anachronisms). So in a way, it will be a new read, in as much as how the material is presented.

If you haven’t had the good fortune of reading this beforehand, you are in for a treat.

As always, please let David know what you think of his story: david.mcleod@castleroland.net