Cripple-Mode: Electric Touche (Book Two)

By J.L. Dobias

Travis Lucia Hamilton-McQueen is a teen caught up in a strange circumstance. She has awakened from a coma to find everything out of control; her memories have been overwritten with another person's and she's battling to get her life back. It is no help that her Grandfather is a suspected mass murderer; her father is a convicted killer; and she is a clone who has apparently been bouncing illegally in and out of JumpSpace, which makes her a suspected terrorist. She suspects she is fitting into the family just fine. However there are more urgent issues because she's brought along a rider and eventually she'll discover she has three parasites sharing her body. Several agencies, including those responsible for engineering her existence, are interested in what she hosts. No one wants to share and everyone is willing to sacrifice the host if it comes down to that.

Travis will have to fight in order to live long enough to attempt to figure out who she is in a universe that will not allow time for someone to find herself.

Now someone expects her to do their dirty work and won't take no for an answer.

The parasitic children of the JumpSpace Entities, are the cause of half her problems and she'd love to be rid of them; except that there's a fine line between them and what makes her what she is. They brought her father's memories into her mind and without those memories she has nothing and she might return to a mindless coma.

The three agencies that claim responsibility for her creation are expecting her to tow the line with them and several other organizations would use her or kill her if she won't work with them. Some of those have raised the bar by threatening anyone near her. Everyone thinks they own her.

She will question what constitutes property and what defines sentient and sapient and if she is both then how can she be anyone's property; and then she'll have to decide if she intends on freeing herself alone or all the other cloned life-forms created by man.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.L. Dobias
• Release date: Sep 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301746194

J.L. Dobias

J.L. Dobias is a Science Fiction and Fantasy Author and the author of the Cripple-Mode series. He lives in Michigan in the USA and has spent most of his time in the Great Lake State.When he first learned to read, his father introduced him and his siblings to Science Fiction. In a short time he became an avid reader of Science Fiction and has spent over 50 years enjoying some of the best.Having worked in the Hotel, Restaurant, and Retail management while paying for college to obtain a degree in English, he was promptly hijacked for some time into Hotel Restaurant Management. He eventually landed for a short time at MSU as Engineering support and the head of the electronic drafting and documentation department of the National Superconducting Cyclotron Laboratory. He now works as Lead CAD Engineer and Technical and Engineering Support for Instrumented Sensor Technology; an impact data recorder instrument maker; supplying needs of a variety of industries including the shipping industry, race cars, accident reconstruction, aerospace, amusement parks and many more.He spends his free time honing his writing skills and continuing to read at least one novel a week in his favorite genre.CRIPPLE-MODE: HOT ELECTRIC is the first of a planned series.

Book preview

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Cripple-Mode: Electric Touché

Book Two of the Cripple-Mode Series

By J.L. Dobias

Copyright 2013 J.L. Dobias

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this e-book. Please respect this book and its author, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to obtain their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

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Cripple-Mode:

Electric Touché

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Book Two of the Cripple-Mode Series

Special Smashwords Edition

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By J.L. Dobias

Table of Contents

Chapter _1

Chapter _2

Chapter _3

Chapter _4

Chapter _5

Chapter _6

Chapter _7

Chapter _8

Chapter _9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Cover

Dedication

This book as always is dedicated to my wife and first line editor, Virginia, with a special dedication to my father, Ed, and two friends Carl and Jack, all of whom were lost to this world in 2012.

Acknowledgments

Once again thanks to the fans who kept asking when this book would be finished. Special thanks to all the others who helped research and offer suggestions along the way. As always, I take full responsibility for having somehow misplaced it all.

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1

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With an enormous sense of vulnerability, I stand at the end of my rope. Beneath me looms the precipice at the edge of my little world, in this vast universe. All around is the pitch black of space with no stars. In the middle of nowhere, the only lights are the twinkling of an array of beacons that act like buoys marking out the jump points for incoming ships. It seems endlessly quiet. All I can hear is my breath inside the headgear of my Extra Vehicular Activity Containment suit. There’s almost one hundred and eighty degrees of visibility through a faceplate that adds to the darkness, its tint designed for regions of space where there are bright solar objects that need to be muted. The oxygen-puffed suit wrapped around me insulates, protects, and isolates.

I almost feel as though I’m all alone.

"Travis, how are you doing out there?" My EVAC partner’s voice dissipates all the illusions my mind has created. She’s been patient with me today.

"I’m fine, just taking a look at the work. Give me a couple minutes." I should probably turn around when I address her. She’s at the other end of my rope. No one’s allowed to be outside alone. Any walks out on the skin tiles require a minimum of two people.

We’re on the outer edge of the ring that runs all around the station. Below us is the axial section we call the Atrium. I’m leaning against the rope, and just within my sight I can make out CCMS00101, the call letters for the Medical Space Station Perl. Beyond that there’s a break, in the running lights, that begins the marker for the gaping hole in the outer hull of the station. Every time I look at the darkness of that cavity, it reminds me of my responsibility in the whole affair.

Two people I hardly knew caused that damage while trying to kill me. They used an incendiary device to blow that hole out of the station. The intent was to trap me in the main center corridor on the first level of the atrium and possibly throw me out into the cold vacuum of space without a suit.

I pitch forward a small amount as the line holding me slackens. I turn to see if my partner is walking my way. As I come around, I’m surprised by a looming shape standing next to me. This is not my partner.

She’s standing large against the darkness, in the encounter suit, with an incendiary torch sputtering hot and glowing against the black like a festive sparkler. It could easily melt this suit like butter. I squat and reach for the control that will cut the gravetics on my boots and try to give myself a push away from her. It’s a weak and futile attempt. The powerful suit she’s wearing has a lot more leverage, and the arc of her arm collides with me to launch me away. I’m alight in a cascade of dangerous molten fireflies.

Spinning outward away from the faint glow of the station, I see the severed rope trailing in my path. I have a brief moment of panicky worry about what may have become of my partner. The urgency of that thought dwindles as I float away, spiraling into the darkness. A sound, almost like a hiss, draws my attention to my suit, which is folding in upon me. The display in front of me on my visor goes red as it begins a rapid tick on the oxygen pressure indicator.

My breath sucks out in a torturous stream that gags me.

The last thing I hear is a cruel and malevolent voice that says, Gotcha!

~*~

Sweating, trembling, and gasping, I make a gurgling noise as I wake up. I sit up quickly and push my back against the head of the bed. The room is a soft ambient gray, and I can see my pajamas in a lump, as usual, in the center of the deck. As I cool down, I pull the sheet up to cover myself, and I look at the faint light of the chronometer.

Another stupid dream fueled by the memories of the real nightmarish event. When will I be able to let it all go? Stinking of my own fear, I swing my legs off the bed. Taking the sheet with me, I head toward the bathroom for a shower. It’s almost time to get up anyway.

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Standing in the shallow tub with one hand supporting me, I wait for the initial soapy antibiotic steam that will never come until I activate the shower. It’s a simple act that might take some time, because I’m distracted. Thinking about a dream that’s never quite the same each time and never exactly the way it happened. I wonder how many times I can let Judy kill me before I run out of new ways to imagine it. That thought makes me smile a grim smile, and I look across to see myself in the reflective glass of the door, which I’ve left partway open.

Drawing the purple-and-white flowery curtain across the edge of the tub, I let my hand search for the knob and push it hard. My left foot is kicked back, resting in the head rest of the tub. These tubs are molded to fit an average person’s body and conserve water. With the headrest, it’s almost impossible to drown without trying. The first time I ever used this tub, I needed a bath badly, and I almost put that drowning theory to the test. It’s a good thing that it really is difficult.

The first pulse of steam hits me, and there’s almost enough to lather. Both my feet are down into the tub, and I’m holding my long blond locks up above my shoulder. I wait, only letting my hair drop when I’m sure the first phase of the shower finishes. It’s on a timer, and I have a moment to lather. I move my hands pushing up from my hips to just under my breasts, and then I do the same up my back. I reach down and use both hands to grasp my ankles, and I massage my left leg upward. I switch to my right and do the same. Next with one hand cupped, I start at my wrist and move up to my shoulder and swap for the other arm. I’m combining my lathering with a massage to bring the blood from my extremities to my heart. David Cho, my physical therapist, says I should do this because on a low g station in space the body often needs help with circulation.

To be honest, David suggested I have a professional masseuse do this.

I finish with my hands starting at my forehead and working their way down the sides of my face and neck to push all the blood down. Just in time, I pull my hair back out of the way as the steam rinse starts. I hear a slight sound of water hitting the tub as droplets trickle down my legs.

Dropping my hair, I let the warm air circulate across me as I continue with my massage once more starting from my hips. I do all my extremities and my head and start again until I’m dry. As my hands come up under my breasts, I have a self-conscious moment when I start to agree with David about having someone else do the massage. It’s not that I can’t afford it, and I could probably get my friend Samantha Jones to make it a prescription. Sam’s a nurse, and she was the first person I met when I woke up from a coma on this station so long ago. The real problem with the massage is that I have enough difficulty touching myself let alone thinking about someone else touching me.

My body’s a lot different from my self-image.

Once more I’m leaning against the wall of the tub enclosure. I’m thinking of the possibility of there being more people on this station who want me dead. Over time I’ve uncovered several varied reasons for this animosity. One is just a plain prejudice against clones. Well, to be honest, I had a slight prejudice to them myself until I discovered I was one. The biggest reason, though, is that my grandfather Daniel Dane McQueen is a wanted man. Had any of the planetary governments and Greater Terra Galactic Property agencies ever caught him, he’d have been convicted for the murder of thousands of innocent people. Most of those agencies were led to believe that he’d died. So finding out that he had children and grandchildren and was possibly still alive served to revive old grudges.

With all that going for me, I could have been a basket case if Doc, Grant Tinker, hadn’t been helping me. Doc was my therapist. He was much more than that to me. At the time, he was my only friend.

I tremble, and my body is wracked with several small shuddering convulsions as I recall those days. There were four League Jump Guild crew I know of who were out to get me. The first two were a couple of brutes who attempted to kidnap me and to beat Doc’s CENA, Sheila Kerry, to death. I was still wearing a range of motion suit used to keep coma patients from atrophying. The model I had was a special premier model, and it had some interesting features built in. I used those ROM capabilities to fight back, and I accidentally killed the two men and nearly killed myself.

I was able to save Sheila. But that day Doc and a maintenance worker named Michael ended up outside with no suits. They were either shoved out an airlock or were illegally pushed out with portable jump gear. It’s a horrible way to die.

Pushing those memories aside, I draw back the curtain and step out. Closing the door, I look into the mirror. I have to say I like what I see. I’m not a narcissist. I like myself, that’s all. Is that a bad thing? I don’t think so, and it’s been a bit of a struggle to get this comfortable with myself. I’m certainly not perfect. One more look in the mirror. There is the nose. Tina had mentioned something she’d noticed. I think she’d said it looks like someone shoved a marble up my nose. Unable to restrain myself, I touch the end. It is round and bulbous in a small way, not unattractive.

It’s genetic. I can trace it directly to my father. I used to have his eyes; they were hazel. I lean into the mirror and use my forefinger to hold the skin beneath my eye. It’s blue with shades of blue speckling where the brown used to be. That’s not all that’s changed. Moving my finger, I touch the extra flap, in the corner of the eye. It’s an extension of the nictitating membrane that sometimes makes my eyes look crossed. The bridge of my nose looks wider than it really is. Some people call it an atavism. I’m not sure if it’s really a throwback. When it covers my eyes, it gives me a strange new perspective.

Through it, I see light that’s outside the normal human range.

Many of these changes took place after I woke up here on the station. When I first woke here, I was just a normal girl. I don’t feel any different now. I don’t consider myself to be superior to others. I’ve never sought to wield power over others. The world doesn’t revolve around me.

I’m not a bad person.

Reaching over to the shelf next to the sink, I grab my underwear. After pulling my panties on, I put on the bra. It’s a front closure because I’m not used to hooking these things in the back. I run my hands through my hair. I need to put it in a ponytail or something, but that can wait. I take a moment to be sure I apply plenty of deodorant.

I’m not bad looking as young women go. I speak from the vantage of having once been a man. I could use more muscle in some places. I could be considered attractive, sometimes too much so to my own dismay. It’s still difficult to wrap my mind around the fact that my memories belong to someone else. It’s disorienting having the memories of a young man.

It’s the result of a strange cursed affectation of JumpSpace.

I’ve suffered indignant chiding about this. Some claim my condition is the result of abusing the technology used to travel through JumpSpace. I try to stay out of that argument. I’ve no recollection of using or misusing JumpSpace technology prior to my condition. Still, these memories serve as the legacy of what happened. I can disclaim but can’t deny. I’ve seen strong evidence supporting the notion that this happened to me while in JumpSpace.

I’ve been in JumpSpace many more times than pleases me since this happened. Usually a person tries to go into JumpSpace aboard a ship. The ship is inserted into a weird bit of space where there’s a lot of white noise. I’ve always found the sound to be an annoying and unpleasant feature. Running the jump engines out of tune in a sort of cripple mode causes this noise. Maybe I should say it amplifies it. But the noise and the out-of-tune engine shield everyone from the very effect that has caused me this grief. I wouldn’t have these troubles had I been aboard a proper vessel.

It’s not my fault that something’s been pulling me unshielded into JumpSpace. Perhaps it’s more concise to suggest someone has been doing this. It seems that there really is a JumpSpace entity and it has taken unsolicited interest in me. It would seem there is more than one of these curious beings in JumpSpace. I believe they’re the reason I lost my memories and had them overwritten with someone else’s. JumpSpace can do that if you’re not careful.

In the beginning, this memory confusion contributed to my being unaware that I’m a clone. Although in saying that I take license with the notion that clones tell new clones what they are. I have a disadvantage of not knowing any of what I might have once been told because I don’t have any memories of that life.

Looking in the mirror is no help in trying to determine what I might be. I don’t look or feel like a clone. Some say clones don’t possess a soul. What would that feel like? How would I know? Drawing from memories of my past life, I’d have to say I don’t feel any different than I did then. I was certain then that I had a soul and I wasn’t a clone.

To be honest, I don’t feel exactly the same for some obvious reasons that have nothing whatsoever to do with having or not having a soul. What I’m saying is that I feel normal.

This reminds me of another thing Tina had suggested. My body is not bad, but it’s not perfect. Being genetically engineered, it would seem that there could be a better chance for someone to make it perfect. Maybe years of experience in cloning have made a strong case for imperfections. Maybe they left flaws in because they grew me differently from their norm.

Clones usually are grown in vats. I try not to envision myself starting in a Petri dish and then filling out in some primordial soup in a growing pool. If they still do things the old way, the normal clone is raised up to a physical appearance of about eighteen to twenty years before being pulled out and introduced into society. Their real age might still depend on the age of the material used. I don’t know if they have or have not conquered the age problem. From the little I know of clones, they may have chosen not to fix it.

It affords me some peace of mind to know that I’m not their kind of normal. I was born in my mother’s womb. Clones find the concept of live birthing to be archaic, repulsive, and messy. Yet I’m thankful for it. With my memories the scrambled mess that they are, such a chaotic entrance into life helps keep me well rounded.

The purpose for this deviation in my creation is laid out in an e-wafer that my friend Angelina Forbes obtained from the Clone Colony Collective. They were attempting to make their own group of people who could use JumpSpace technologies. Something in the normal cloning process seems to dampen or block the necessary capabilities. There’s not enough information in that document to confirm or deny that I was born of somatic cell nuclear transfer and inserted into some donor’s egg. It’s a high likelihood since the document names a donor for cloned non-reproductive material.

I knew of this donor prior to reading about it. Sam and the staff of the hospital here have gone to great trouble to help determine who my father is.

The identity of the person has been a major source of confusion and embarrassment.

There are genetic markers that were deliberately left in my DNA to leave no doubts about my origin. After identifying those, the hospital staff started looking for direct matches. I’m not an exact copy, and because indications were that I was born and not grown, they split out the DNA to determine parents. Their cross reference established the identity of my father immediately. Evidence was that at the time of my conception, he was only eight years old at the very most. That’s neither troubling nor a surprise since we’d put clones into this equation.

One thing that confused everyone is that I arrived, unconscious, on the station through JumpSpace without a ship and in the company of another person. The other person was badly injured and was swept back into JumpSpace by whatever dropped us there. He left only his blood, and it was that blood that made it so easy to find a DNA match to me.

It turns out my father is a young man named Travis McQueen a.k.a. Travis Hamilton. Because of Granddad’s notoriety, the family traveled under the alias of McQueen. None of that is the issue. What is important is that I’ve no recollections of the life of the person mentioned in the Clone Colony document. Everything I remember is from someone else’s life. To compound the confusion, those memories that play back in my mind every day are my father’s memories.

I’ve no personal memories of how this young lady, standing before the mirror, came to exist. There’s no recollection of her childhood from which I conclude that my father didn’t know me until sometime before we arrive on the station. I only have the stale clinical document embedded in that e-wafer. Since arriving on the station, my chosen name is Travis McQueen—that’s all I remembered. On a base level, I knew that was all wrong. Knowing what I know now makes me question what defines identity. Is a person the sum of all their life experience and events stored in their mind, or must we consider the whole? What makes me who I am? I’ve a borrowed life. I’ve a whole twenty years and more to draw upon that’s helped keep me alive since I woke out of the coma.

I feel I’ve lived life vicariously through my father. The last several days of Dad’s memories were not that pleasant. Many of the events of the last of his days that I do remember are a haze of confusion, and there are some parts I think I’ve chosen to forget.

I only have to look at myself to see that I’m not my father. Not many would argue against his having a soul. Some speak of the psyche and the soul as being one. Others say that the psyche is the mind, the conscious and the unconscious. I still hold the conviction that I have or am a soul, although I’d be put to the task if asked whose soul it is. I’m certain I’d have to say that it’s mine and no one else can have it. Still, I would have once said that about the life of my memories.

These memories are a blessing and a curse.

At times like this, while looking in the mirror, my eyes and mind impart mistaken and misplaced recriminations over leering at my own daughter. Turning away from the mirror, I pull my regular service blues from their hook on the door.

I need more coverage right now.

Gus Genera, my present psychotherapist, suggests that I’m integrating fine. Doc thought so too—before he was murdered. Maybe I was. I had to pull myself together fast because there were people trying to kill me. On a certain level, I want to know who I am beyond these memories. But I’m afraid if I try too hard, I could forget who I am now. I don’t want to lose myself. I can’t afford that.

My hands shake, and I can’t button up my tunic. Goose bumps are up and down my arms.

I’m certain there are still people somewhere close by who want me dead. I have to be at the top of my game all the time. Don’t have time to go off and find myself.

I let my hands trace the creases and brush the stripe on my tunic. My stripe is scarlet and blue. Those are the colors of League Jump Guild, LJG, people who control JumpSpace technology. In another life I’d never aspire to wear this outfit. A residue of that resistance still haunts me. I take my hand and brush above my left breast. There’s an unnecessary long embroidered name: Hamilton-McQueen.

It could just as well say McQueen. But Carmino Cassavettes, Angel’s dressmaker, made this outfit for me, and he has a certain pride he takes in being exact. The longest version of my name is Travis Lucia Hamilton-McQueen. I should be grateful he didn’t go in that direction. I’d have to stuff the front of the tunic to keep the letters from heading around back.

Lucia was the name on the e-wafer from the Clone Colony Collective. The document also said Lucia is dead and has been disposed of. I feel pretty good for the walking dead.

On my shoulders are the insignia for technical specialist fifth rank. They have one stripe, and under that is the five-pointed star. Because of the religion most associated with the LJG, they call it a pentagram. A bit of odd trivia is that the five-sided figure inscribed, the pentagon, is supposed to signify CORE material. Curiously it’s missing a side since most CORE tiles are cut into hexes. CORE is Cybernetic Organic Reactor Engine. It’s a cloned life-form. We have that in common.

I pull my hair back and reach down to pluck the large barrette that will clip it all into place. After closing it, I smooth my hair out and let it fall. It’s almost to my waist. Early on in this life, I was sure I’d wanted it cropped short, so I won’t have to mess with it. David Cho taught me how to braid it. Now that I can do that myself; I find braiding it to be relaxing, and that probably keeps me from having to take up basket weaving.

I’m ready for the next little touch: my beret. It helps me remember to salute.

Taking the beret off the hook, I spin it under my fingers until I see that pin. I need to ask if there comes a time I should take that off the beret. Maybe I could find that information on the COM NET. The pin is the Exceptional Bravery Award from the station business association. I saved two station maintenance lives and helped seal a massive leak before any more damage could be done.

This medal doesn’t tell the whole story, though.

The station has incendiary devices that are designed to melt anything. They are to be used to gut the station by melting things to slag and prevent technology theft in the event of invasion. Someone had stolen several to use to threaten me and the people who were helping protect me. When we couldn’t locate the missing incendiaries, someone had a bright idea to use me as bait to lure the people who stole them. Ensign Judy Reinhold and First Lieutenant Mark Learner, both of LJG, took that bait and nearly blew a chunk of the atrium away. That was when those heroics happened. I wasn’t in this alone. Tina Bronson and Dana Falcortt had tagged along. That took care of the rule that no one goes outside alone. I would have gone alone because it was an emergency. We three were out there space walking on the skin with no clear plan as to how we were going to help anyone. Judy was already out there waiting to snag me and to slice my suit off me.

That’s the only time I was happy to be drawn into JumpSpace.

It was also my worst experience in that place.

I’d already met one entity in JumpSpace. What grabbed us that day was something evil and crazy. Thankfully it only took Judy and me.

The intent my assailants had was to force me to use black tech to escape death. Black tech is any jump tech that isn’t approved and regulated by the LJG. I didn’t have black tech then, and I don’t have it now. I don’t think Judy cared if I had a way to escape or if I died. Neither of these people had a clue about my strange relationship with the entities. Taking Judy along with me was a surprise and an added bonus.

We were lucky to escape, although Judy did not come out unscathed, and she tried to make me pay for taking her there. Katrina reached us in an encounter suit and was able to stop her.

Judy and Mark were thrown in the brig. They’re still here in lockup, and no one is letting me see either of them. I suspect someone thinks I’ll try to kill them. Before I’d do that, I’d like to ask Mr. Learner what he thought they were doing and if he knew about the insane entity. I don’t expect it would help much to talk to Judy. She’s so far over the edge that no one believes even half of what she’s told them.

I’ve not yet explained to those who need to know what happened to us, partly because I think no one will believe me.

It’s a wonder I’m not more of a mess, considering everything my father went through before I ended up on the station. Add what’s happened since and I should be a basket case. I suspect I’m suppressing things beyond the entire early life of a young girl named Lucia.

Travis, aren’t you finished yet? Angel’s anxious voice comes at me from the other side of the door. She states, You have classes, and I’ve got to get to work. I’m expected to set an example.

Angel’s a League Jump Guild commander, the highest-ranking LJG officer assigned to this station. I’d say that she’s my mentor, but I think that’s Karma Roe’s duty. Angel’s more like an overqualified baby-sitter. I don’t even know how to address the fact I’m at least five years younger than I remember. In some cultures, I’m not yet at the age of majority. I believe sometime in the near future we’re supposed to work out a different living arrangement for me. These quarters are not a bad fit for two, and we didn’t have this problem until I started getting up early.

To the door leading into the hallway, I shout, I’m almost finished.

I hear more strain in Angel’s voice. Are you at least dressed? What have you been doing in there all this time?

I’m certain Angel knows I shower every morning. It’s likely not going to be helpful to try to explain I spend some of the time reliving old memories, even if that seems to be the case. I’m not about to tell her everything else I do in here. It’s not all that shameful, although in my mind it could seem borderline. Knowing better and nearly biting my tongue, I say, We need two bathrooms. With her rank, we could have a room on the outer rim of the station facing the darkness of space with a porthole from which to look out at all the dark. A room with a view—that’s one of my major goals in life. It won’t be much of a view, but I just need the constant reminder and ability to confirm that there’s something out there.

Angel’s louder and stronger voice says, There are no suites with more than one bath. In fact, most of the common areas don’t have private baths. Perhaps you would get finished more quickly if you use the public restrooms down the hall with the rest of the regular troops.

Being fully apprised of the station’s various accommodations already, I put my nose in the air, half close my eyes, and pop the door lock. Angel barely gives me room to get past. I have to duck back in to get my service boots and socks.

Angel’s eyes catch mine for a moment, and she asks, Did you have a bad dream again?

Looking down, I answer, I’m okay. I try to watch her out of the corner of my eye.

Angel’s eyes dart up and down, assessing my uniform. This causes me to straighten my back while attempting to find an impartial reflective surface to reexamine things. In that distinct command voice, she says, It’s not necessary to wear the stripe at school. You need those when you report to work.

So I haven’t told her about the before school work I’ve taken up.

~*~

Pamela, my partner for the day, is asking a question. I’m not ignoring her. I’m preoccupied with wondering what Angel was driving at about the clothing. She’s the commander of all the LJG aboard the station and works in C&C COM, so she or someone else who works for her must know that my name shows up a lot for hatch access. If she doesn’t want me going out on the skin so much, she could easily make that an order. I was assuming she knew about this. If she’s concerned about my burning the candle at both ends, we could have problems. We should be able to talk about this. Perhaps a communication gap is the side effect to trying to force me to make my own decisions. Not that I don’t appreciate having that freedom, I only hope no one finds out that I wouldn’t trust me so much with it.

I let Pamela have less-than-hazy eyes while I focus on what she just said. I offer, Well, I think we have thirty days before the next delivery is shipped, so we have almost that much time to tag as many of the defective tile as we can and turn in a count.

Pamela Federliner is one of many new friends I’ve recently acquired. I haven’t known her that long, although she loaned me some of her clothes before we’d met. Considering the trouble I got into wearing them while her name was still on them, it’s a wonder she isn’t upset with me. I have a niggling suspicion about this. Technically Pam works for Mr. Craig Waddel Calhoun. Waddel, as he prefers being addressed, is the supervisor of tile maintenance. He answers to Angel. So it’s not a stretch to think Pam might have been ordered to keep an eye on me.

Oddly, having her spy on me is something I can live with. On the other hand, Pam is in tile maintenance, and that’s what we’re doing now. So that might be why she’s here with me.

After putting our headgear on, we finish checking each other’s suit one more time before entering the air lock. We verify that C&C COM are listening in on the suit-to-suit channel, which means that they’ll answer if we address them directly.

~*~

Pitch black greets our eyes when first we step out of the hatch onto the skin. Even turning the lights down in the hatch is of little help to acclimate to the darkness. The running lights help some. If I stand for a moment, looking up, I’ll eventually start to see the flicker of the beacon array. By that time, my partner usually has adjusted to the dark. It’s less than pitch black for me because I’m extra sensitive to a glow coming from the tiles. This has something to do with those changes in my eyes.

The changes came about after I absorbed some material from a JumpSpace entity. There’s more to it than that, but it’s the stuff I call eggs from an entity that I was exposed to that did this to me.

Most LJG deny the existence of a JumpSpace entity. The apparent denial could be ignorance or the party line on the issue. Those who know the truth tend to make light of any references. It seems motivated by a desire to obfuscate the relationship between our current technologies and what the entity seems to do naturally. Since I’m reluctantly acquainted with two such entities, I find them difficult to deny, more so because most of my trouble with JumpSpace is closely linked to them. That’s to say nothing of the instability of one of them.

The COM opens with a small sound. It’s Pam. We’re local right now; if we address the station direct we call for, C&C COM and whoever is listening in will relay our message. I’ve watched Pam spin around to face me. It’s polite and not always something I think to do before I speak while outside. She asks, So how’s this work? How do you know which tiles have gone bad?

Remaining quite silent, I point one of my fat fingers at the device she’s holding. I swear I can hear her giggle.

Pam says, I know what this does. I want to know what you do. This thing is only verifying what you already know.

I shouldn’t be surprised. These people are sharp enough to catch onto things like this. Muting my mic, I take a moment to think about this. There are always people listening into these channels. They hear everything but only speak when spoken to or in the case of emergency. Except for that time when the first cut off all communication while Judy was trying to kill me. He was able to take liberty to block all COM because he was the highest-ranking officer at the time.

Pam may not have come up with this question. She seems to have drawn the short straw. Someone listening in might have initiated it and would be waiting for the answer. Sometimes I wish they’d just come to me and ask the questions straight to my face. Asking in a more discreet way that’s not broadcasting across equipment would be helpful.

Gathering my thoughts before huffing once, I say, Look at the tiles. If you look closely, and long enough, you will see just a tiny bit of a glow. This is almost a wild guess. I’m not sure everyone sees this, although I’ve always seen a tiny glow, and after the change, I could see it almost like a beacon.

There’s a long pregnant pause. I’ve held my breath long enough to believe my face might have gone blue. Pam scoffs, Well, yeah. If I strain my eyes, there’s something. I don’t think I could use that for any sensible judgment about the tiles.

I start to walk away from Pam, although it might seem rude; I’m in a hurry. We need to get started, and I won’t get too far away since we’re tied together with a ten-meter line. The process of getting suited up, getting ready and packed, takes half our time, so we only get thirty to forty minutes of actual work no matter how close the hatch is to the next section to check. I feel like telling her if she’d look hard and long enough, she’d notice the ones that have no glow at all. Instead I add, It’s not much, but it’s enough for me, although I think it would be easier for me if they’d just let me take off my boots and walk on the tiles barefoot.

Pamela laughs at that.

There really are some truths that can be revealed at just the right time. People will think you’re being absurd and never believe you. I first detected this problem with the tiles by touch while inside the intra-hull on the other side of the tiles. The problem about that was that to confirm my feeling I needed to take the equipment into that spot, and I was lucky to be able to squeeze into that spot to touch it. So I ended up dragging someone out to test my theory. That’s when I noticed that the tile was not glowing like the ones around it. And there were many more, almost in a line, that were similarly afflicted.

That’s why we’re out here where it’s much more fun. It’s how I justify permission to take my morning walks outside. I’d do it every day, but they won’t let me. It has something to do with overexposing myself to decompression issues. It was a serious debate to get them to concede to an occasional two days in a row. But someone has to map these out in order to increase the order for replacement tiles. I’ve a couple of days prior to the shipping date to submit my numbers. After that any more I find might have to wait for another three to six months. This next shipment should fill the need for that hole left by the explosion and then some. The first shipment was a partial on replacement tiles and all the metal necessary for structural repair.

Pam follows in relative silence before she finally says, Specialist Somerfield says these particular tiles seem to all be in the alleys created by portions kept disconnected from the station’s central CORE. He says they don’t get used on the station because the only reason to connect them to the neural network would be for a jump.

And so there it is. Pam either slipped up just now, or she decided she needed the name of someone I know to back up her statements. There are several people listening in, and anyone might answer when addressing C&C. The designation of C&C is assigned to only one. With some slight mirth, I call out, C&C actual, if that’s you today, Todd. You must be aware that even though they are dead to the rest of the network, they have vital functions, which will eventually show up as deficiencies in our air supply.

Todd’s voice graces us confirming that he is the one holding external COM traffic today. He says, I roger that. I wasn’t suggesting we not replace them. It’s curious they burned at all. They are not actively connected to anything, even each other.

My only response to that is Yes, it is curious.

I’ve a notion about it, but there’s no sense in upsetting everyone’s sense of balance. I chose to remain silent. Had someone like Karma asked, I might be inclined to explain a bit more. If she asked, I’d be more tempted to explain how the station’s CORE is able to reach me while I’m out here despite its supposed limited access to the station’s neural network. I believe it uses these alleys. It’s really better if everyone thinks they have these things under control. Karma seems aware of the idiosyncrasies of the station’s central CORE, and anything I reveal, though troubling, would not be such a surprise to her. Of course, for that reason, Karma would be less likely to push the issue. Todd’s question has less to do with efficiency or security than it does his inordinately curious nature.

~*~

Back inside, we thankfully have gotten most the way out of our suits and have readjusted anything that’s out of kilter. Unfortunately I’m being led to contemplate another shower. So I’m not thrilled that we have a welcoming committee. Well, it’s just one person. That person is Steven.

Steven Garret is a friend. I’m pretty sure he’d like to be more than that. I don’t want to tell him I just want to be friends. Based on my borrowed knowledge, I could lose a friend that way. If I wanted to lose a friend right now, I think I could do it just by letting him come close. This is the third deodorant I’ve tried. It’s proving to be one more major failure.

I’m trying to keep him at arm’s length without holding my arms up very far. I’m not sure how he’s interpreting my expression. He stops and looks quickly at Pam before he asks, What?

Responding perhaps to unspoken messages, Pam moves as far away as she can while she cleans her equipment. At least I hope it’s that. I almost do the armpit sniff just to be certain. There’s no real reason to do that because I know I stink.

Looking at Steven, my voice and brain out of sync, I quaver a bit as I ask, Is there something wrong? If he gets a whiff of me, that question could become moot.

Taking a quick look toward Pam, Steven tries to step closer and backs me into a corner. In a lowered voice, he says, You’ve been busy, and I haven’t even had time to talk to you at school. I’d like for us to do something together.

I try not to look too startled. Half closing my eyes, I hear myself say, Day after tomorrow at this time I’ll be free. No. Wait. I know. We could meet here tomorrow and go outside. Pam is supposed to accompany me. But I’m sure she can find something else to do. We could go out together. It’s dark, quiet, and it’ll be just you and me. Despite my own inner turmoil about having relationships with men, this all sounds so good I can’t help but smile.

We’ll be out in the darkness together, the suits will keep us apart, and it’ll be just the two of us. Someone will be listening to everything we say. We’ll have at least forty minutes of quality time together. It will be all work. Knowing how a young man’s mind works, I know where this whole relationship is heading. There’s no reason to make it easy for him because I don’t have the heart to explain that it’s not going to happen.

I’m standing with my elbows down tight against my side and forearms crossing under my chest.

Steven has a sour look, making me suspicious that the air circulators might have kicked in and are pushing my fragrance his way. His hands slap at the air as he turns and says, Ah, never mind. I’ll talk to you later.

He leaves me standing barefoot and huddled in the corner. I feel a vibration in my feet. This is a signal that something has docked at the station. I look quickly at Pam, who is also barefoot. She seems oblivious to any indicators. I’m not surprised. This seems to be a unique ability of mine often accompanied by the dizzying feeling of the station as it spins. I make a grab for my boots to help dampen the spin.

When Pam looks up, I ask, So we’re still on for tomorrow?

Pam’s gaze goes from the back of the departed and around to me. She says, Sure. I’m sorry that didn’t work out for you.

I shrug and try a smile. Everything is good.

My thoughts differ from my words. Maybe I am a bad person.

~*~

It’s the fortune of someone else’s convoluted schedule that my first class is my physical therapy with David Cho. He claims I don’t really need therapy. The Range of Motion, ROM, suit I was wearing when I arrived so unconventionally on the station had been able to keep my body in shape while I was unconscious. He’s been monitoring my progress for a longer time than these classes. Evaluating is what he and Angel call it. I’m not sure we need to continue these sessions, or that it’s required. But there are benefits, and I can take advantage of some of David’s unusual skills.

David is so much more capable at making my hair behave. I had to look this one up on the COM NET after he’d explained that in his planet’s culture, the men wear braids as emblems of their rank. Some of those braids are pretty intricate, and David’s are pretty good examples. It doesn’t hurt to have him mess with my hair. This wouldn’t be an issue if I’d had the courage to have my hair cut. From experience, I know it will make things easier for me. I need to stop listening to people who tell me I don’t want to cut my pretty hair. Sadly, I’ve heard it often enough it might be too late.

Another good thing to take advantage of here is the showers. Sometimes the forty-five minute excursion on the hull results in something akin to having had a skunk trapped inside the EVAC with me. I’m surprised David doesn’t make me shower before we work out.

We’ve finished our forms. They all have names. Some are named after animals while others seem to be insects. I queried a few of the names. The Mantis does look a bit like its namesake as did most others. They still all seem like yoga or calisthenics. Although I’ve learned the names, I’m reluctant to acknowledge that with any amount of verbal affirmation. If I were getting a grade for this, David would be justified in lowering my grade.

Coming out of the shower, I have to get dressed before I head down the long row of lockers to where David is patiently waiting. I’ve taken a chance in loosening my hair. I’ve not yet convinced David that he has time to do this. Looking at him while I make my approach, he’s half a head taller than me, and I can easily see his dark brown eyes as they follow me. I ask, When we first met, were you already evaluating me? His face takes on a stern look, and he nods, his short wavy hair moves forward a fraction.

He’d intercepted me that day in the corridors after I’d thought I was successfully hiding from everyone. Pretending he’d mistaken me for someone else, he’d stopped me and started a conversation. His well-muscled body and military bearing were enough to keep me from bolting. There were also two other LJG following behind me at the time. I say, Those two men were with you then. David nods again. I ask, So physically, would you say I’ve improved a lot since then?

After smiling, he turns me around so he can work on my hair. While he’s brushing through the hair, he addresses the inevitable. He says, I believe it’s time we move from form to substance.

I have to think about form and substance. It’s one of those familiar phrases, which often go unexplored until a moment like this when someone drops it in your lap. Sensing that David is serious, I say, What do you mean by form to substance?

His hands work quickly, and this time he seems to be attempting to pull at the roots. At one point, I let my head move back with the motion, and he has to use his hands to steady me. After that, he resumes his work more carefully. He says, That’s a good question. Considering the variants of subject matter in which the term might be used. I like to think that my understanding should be applicable universally. But then I discover someone who has a firm belief in a variant, which is way off in some other direction entirely.

So, he continues, for us, it means that what you’ve learned so far is the form or forms. We have even gone so far as to mix several forms. They are like a schema used to train the body. Using the forms as we have so far is similar to rote learning for mind and body. The next step is to exploit this by interacting with the outside, specifically with other students.

As I feared, this is going to involve dancing. I knew this was too much like ballet. Good thing I’m going to be too busy.

When I feel the long knot of hair pat my back firmly, I tease, Do you do this for all your students?

David sighs and explains, Only those who are too busy to do for themselves.

Turning me back around, David winks and says, You made all the right decisions that day. As far as improvement, there really wasn’t a lot that needed improvement beyond discipline.

He doesn’t need to tell me that we’re still working on that one.

~*~

Most of my classes are boring. It’s never the teacher’s fault. Maybe I should blame it on my old tutors. That would be my grandparents. Keeping in mind that they were teaching my father and not me, I still have all the knowledge that was absorbed by his gray sponge. There are some subjects that were deficient. Knowing this to be true quelled my despair at the beginning, making me believe those subjects would have to be stimulating. I wasn’t factoring in all that time my father filled our minds full by incessant COM NET searches. I’m well past my currently assigned grade level. For a backwater station, CeCiTyeS had far-reaching data access.

That’s the space station CCTS0701, which hangs like a fragile glowing ornament above the planet NewTerra. We called it CeCiTyeS, emphasis on the capitals. I suppose our name for it might be considered a colloquialism.

Granddad was a repair tech there. Based on what I know now of his past, he was working well below his skill level. My father and my uncle Alex were unaware of much of Granddad’s past. Coming from the colony planet of King Martin, they were farmers, and that’s all they knew. I, in fact, only learned of Granddad’s true past after I arrived here at Perl. The boys helped Granddad do maintenance around the station. Dad had more aptitude for maintenance than Uncle Alex, and that’s why I know so much about maintenance of a station. In the off hours, Granddad tutored the boys on all the other subjects. The rest of the time Dad spent on the COM NET. It’s possible Dad had access to much more than he should have.

I’m still trying to work all that out. The gift that was passed on to me somehow involves an affinity to CORE material. Add to that the little-known fact that at least some of these CORE such as Perl, the Medical Space Station’s CORE, are self-aware and aware of the gifted people. My father might have had a link to CeCiTyeS CORE that allowed him illicit access to restricted data.

CORE, the substance that allows us to travel through JumpSpace, is a manufactured pseudo-life-form with remarkable properties. Though common knowledge assumes it is man-made, I’ve enough evidence to suggest it’s a cloned form of a living entity. I’ve tried to keep any mention of the entity out of my daily conversation with most teachers. The exceptions to that are the few individuals who helped me when I first arrived aboard the station.

I come out of history class a bit more energized than usual. History is one of my previous tutor’s weak subjects. It’s not a lack of knowledge that’s piqued my interest. What grabs my attention is the very notion that history contains a sort of fluid subjective element. When Angel first took me under her wing, she gave me a brief history lesson. She warned me that the material would be covered later in history class, although she failed to explain that her views and judgments added to the material might not match those of the history books. Further examination of the teacher’s syllabus and required book list has reinforced the possibility of the involvement of view and opinion to color the usual facts.

While pondering the fresh new paradigm of an ancient subject matter, I’m oblivious to the two girls rushing in my direction. Until I register Tina’s voice.

Tina shouts, Hey, freak, what’re you up to?

My eclectic bubble bursts as I look furtively around to see if anyone else is paying attention. When I first met Tina and Dana, they were much less than friendly. The trauma of my near death brought all of us closer. I’m never sure what it means that Tina addressed me this way. I’m afraid I’ve let it go too long. She seems to think that it’s acceptable, even in public situations.

Since no one is paying attention to us, I shrug and say, Just the same ole stuff.

Tina offers, Hmm, well, we just ran into Steven.

She waits with scornful eyes expecting a reaction as if Steven’s name is a keyword. It’s almost ironic that she would be interested in Steven and me. I first met Tina when she instructed me to stay away from him. The trouble with all this now is that she was right. I should have stayed away from him.

Tina eventually adds, He seemed a bit off. What did you do to him?

I feel like asking, what does it matter to you? Instead I say, He mentioned something about wanting to do something together and that I’ve been busy lately. I suggested he could go outside on the skin with me tomorrow to check the tiles.

Tina’s tongue makes a small noise. She says, Oh. That sounds—fun. You go outside the station a lot, doncha’? You know, some people don’t care to go out there that much.

My turn to say oh, but I’m not playing the game. I grit my teeth and say, It’s possible Steven and I may not have the same interests. If Steven has some issue, he should talk to me.

Tina almost grunts out, Sure.

Dana looks on the verge of saying something but remains quiet. She does that a lot.

~*~

The highlight of my day is an ironic nightmare involving my least favorite person. Karma Roe, my JumpSpace theory mentor, conducts my meditation exercises on the days we have these special meetings. Today she promised that she would take me out on a jump shuttle. It seems that, although there’s a proscription against jumping close to a station, we’ll be able to warm up the jump engines and open a point to a place just prior to fully engaging the engines. Then, we’ll have to throttle it down quickly so as not to set off all the alarms.

I’m supposed to listen to noise generated by the ship’s computer. The actual wave generated may make specific sounds, but they are beyond normal human range. What this wave does is resonate with white matter surrounding dark matter.

This coupled pair resides in the heart of the CORE. When the wave is held at one of its resonant frequencies for a period, this begins a reaction. White matter is stripped away from the dark revealing the true mass of the CORE material.

Up to this point, the mass is masked by the presence of the white matter that is