Time Travel
Samantha stared out the window of the air flyer, at the landscape of the Southern Continent flew by. They were nearly there. And the closer they got, the more apprehensive she grew.
“Have you ever wished you could go back in time?” she asked her companion.
Carver shot her a quick glance before turning his attention back to his pilot’s readouts. Carver took his job very seriously.
“Time travel isn’t possible,” he told her, adjusting their course slightly.
“But what if it were?” she persisted. “What if you could go back and change one thing?”
Carver double-checked his readouts, and flipped the auto-pilot on, apparently satisfied for the moment. He turned his attention to her, his dark eyes intent.
“Just one thing, huh?” he said. “Sam, what’s this about?”
She sighed, sorry now that she’d brought it up. Carver might only be the pilot assigned to take her to her knew school, but he was also the closest thing she had to a friend since she’d gone to live with her father.
“I’d make my mother survive,” she said, turning her face away from him.
Carver watched her reflection in the window. He tapped on finger on the controls while he considered his response.
“There are a hundred things I’d like to change,” he said finally. “But I have no idea if the outcome would be any better.”
“The outcome would be better if my mother were still alive.”
“Still alive and still in pain?” Carver asked. “Even if you could go back, Sam, you couldn’t change that.”
“I wish I could make it so she’d never gotten sick in the first place.”
Carver dropped his gaze, automatically checking the controls. “Well, that’s a different thing entirely.”
Sam turned to glare at him. “Why? That’s no more impossible than wishing for time travel in the first place.”
“Your mother’s sickness was beyond your control, beyond all our control. We just have to make the best of it.”
“Yeah, the best of it. I get stuck going to boarding school, and you get stuck flying me down here.”
Carver smiled at that. “It’s no imposition, Sam. I like being a pilot. I like flying you around.”
“Well, I think you’re the only one who likes having me around. My father doesn’t seem to.”
Carver started to reply, but a chime from the console interrupted him. “Time to descend,” he sighed, adjusting his headset. “Wait til we’re on the ground.”
Sam sat quietly in the copilot’s seat as Carver expertly landed the flyer. The pilot never made her sit in the passenger compartment. He seemed to like the company.
When the flyer was safely on the ground, Carver shut down the engines and turned to her. His expression was stern, his brown eyes serious.
“I know this past year has been difficult for you,” he said. “But it’s been hard on a lot of other people, too.”
“You mean my father.”
Carver nodded. “Yes. It’s not easy finding out you have a daughter you knew nothing about.”
“Especially at his age.” There was a hint of dry humor in her tone now.
“Yes.” The pilot refused to be drawn. “But he does care about you.”
“I’d believe that if he acted like he wants to spend time with me.”
“I’m not saying he’s going about it the right way,” Carver said. “Yes, having a daughter makes him uncomfortable. Dealing with you makes him uncomfortable. He doesn’t have a clue how to relate to you.”
“Again, I don’t see how sending me to Milbyrne Academy
“He needs time. And so do you, Sam.” He hesitated. “Your mother is partly responsible for this mess,” he pointed out, gently. “It would have been better if she’d told him about you, instead of him finding out from an auto-send message after her death.”
“If he’d known, he would have sued her, or had her prosecuted!” Sam shot back defensively. She fumbled with her harness, eager to escape.
“Maybe, maybe not. Because of your mother’s choice, neither of you will ever know for sure.”
Same paused. “I know what she did was wrong,” she said softly, not looking up. “But I just can’t deal with it right now. I need time.”
“We know. That’s why you’re here. It will give you both time and a little distance to get used to things.”
She looked up, a hint of a smile on her lips. “Vid conferences before face to face, eh?”
“And old fashioned letters, too. I even volunteer to hand deliver any message you care to send, if you can find paper and pen to write it.”
Sam leaned forward to give him an impulsive hug. “You’re a good friend, Carver.”
He patted her back awkwardly. “Well, you make some new friends here before you compliment me too much.”
“You think I will make friends?”
“Of course you will.”
“How?”
Carver was silent for a moment. His eyes grew shadowed for a moment. “Someone once told me, ‘If you want to make a friend, start by being a friend.’”
Sam stared at him. “That’s good advice.”
“Of course it’s good advice. It’s from me, isn’t it?” he grinned at her. “Now let’s get moving. I’ll grab your bags.”
Sam helped him with the bags, and followed him up the walkway to the main building, straight to the Dean’s office.
An uncomfortable half hour interview followed. At least, it was uncomfortable for Sam. Carver seemed perfectly in his element, blandly introducing himself as her father’s agent, he provided copies of her application, and the letter of approval. The Dean’s secretary had apparently lost the originals. A similar argument about Sam arriving mid-term was forestalled when Carver handed over her test scores.
At long last, they made their way into the office of the Dean himself, the self-styled General Beaurgcheaup. The General was an aging man, slightly fussy in manner as well as appearance. He constantly stroked and twirled his impressive mustache—bright white with long curled ends. Sam quickly decided that this was a subconscious attempt to distract from the fact that the General knew very little about anything practical.
“I say,” he murmured anxiously, when confronted with Carver’s pile of documentation. “I say, this is most unusual.”
“Samantha’s father is aware of that. But her mother recently passed away, and that has thrown off everyone’s time table. I’m sure you understand.” Sam rather doubted that last bit.
“Her mother, yes . . .” Beaurgcheaup carefully avoided letting his watery blue eyes touch Sam’s person.
“Dr. Serena Throckmartin,” Carver went on smoothly. “Perhaps you’ve heard of her? She was a noted geneticist.”
“Throckmartin, yes. . . Never heard of her.”
Carver sat back a little, eyeing the General with just a hint of censure. “Hm. Well, it is a rather select field of study. Needless to say, Dr. Throckmartin took great care with her daughter’s education.”
That, at least, was true, Samantha reflected. Not that there had been much to do except study at the remote northern research base where she’d lived most of her life. Luckily, Sam enjoyed reading and study.
“Yes, yes,” the General whuffled through his mustache. “But the girl’s father . . .”
Sam caught the subtle emphasis he used, but she wasn’t sure what it meant. So did Carver, who clearly understood what the General was inferring.
“Yes, Samantha’s father is responsible for her care now. He wants nothing but the best for his daughter, and all our research led us to Milbyrne Academy
“Of course, of course,” the General nodded at this compliment to his school.
Sam thought Carver was laying it on a bit thick herself.
“But her father didn’t come to see her settled personally?” Beaurgcheaup asked with a hint of censure.
Carver stared at him for a long moment, his gaze slightly chilled. “Samantha’s father is a busy man, with many demands on his time.” He continued, talking over the General’s conciliatory mutter, “He is also rather well-known in certain circles, and prefers not to expose himself to unnecessary publicity.” He paused. “He also felt that the extra attention his presence would draw might make Samantha uncomfortable.”
Samantha knew the last sentence was for her benefit. She shifted a little in her chair, realizing that she had misjudged her father, at least a little. Picturing him here, in this office . . . she was suddenly grateful that Carver was her only escort.
“I see. I see,” Beaurgcheaup tended to repetition when he was nervous, Sam couldn’t help noticing. “But still . . . highly unusual.”
“Yes,” Carver countered patiently. “But all her paperwork is in order. Surely there is no reason she would not be able to start classes? Or are all of your dormitories filled to capacity?”
Sam knew this for a dig at the General’s finances. Carver knew very well that Milbyrne Academy
“No, no,” the General agreed. “We do have one or two spots open.” He rubbed his mustache for a long moment before giving in. “Very well,” he said, pulling the enrollment form closer to sign it. “What name will she be using?”
“Samantha Throckmartin,” She answered for herself this time.
“Samantha Throckmartin,” She answered for herself this time.
“Throckmartin?” Beaurgcheaup seemed surprised by that.
“Samantha’s father feels it’s in her best interest to use her mother’s surname,” Carver put in smoothly. “For privacy’s sake.”
“I see. I see. Very well.”
And with a flourish of his pen, General Beaurgcheaup signed the form, and Samantha was officially enrolled in Milbyrne Academy
The secretary provided her with a list of classes, a map of the campus, a dormitory room key and a voucher for school uniforms. Samantha shoved it all in her backpack and followed Carver across the school grounds. The pilot seemed to know his way around without the benefit of the poorly drawn map. Sam wasn’t surprised. Carver always seemed to know his way around.
“I’m glad you thought to bring the enrollment papers. And my test scores. I never thought they’d lose all my documentation.”
“We had a feeling it might happen. It’s not unusual for paperwork to go astray. So, better to be prepared, I was told.”
Sam frowned. “We? Did my father . . .?” she trailed off uncertainly.
Carver gave a little cough, a rare sign of discomfort. “It was the doctor, actually.”
“Oh. I suppose he would know.” Sam tried not to be disappointed.
Carver smiled sympathetically at her. “Your father means well,” he reminded her. “But he has absolutely no idea how to go on. He never had to worry about enrollment papers. Dr. Peters is an expert on paperwork, he assures us, so we listened.”
Dr. Peters was not merely a doctor. He was also the President of the Council of Continents, the ruling body of the entire planet. He would be well within his rights to claim unparalleled expertise in the matter of excessive paperwork.
Sam couldn’t suppress a sigh.
“No one can know everything,” Carver reminded her gently. “There’s no shame in listening to advice from an expert.”
“I know.” Sam preceded him up the steps to a side door labeled, ‘Uniforms’. “It’s just . . .” she hesitated on the top step. “My mother was very smart, but not what you’d call common sense. I never thought too much about my father, but it would be nice to have one normal parent.”
Carver smiled understandingly at her, but there was a hint of some deeper emotion that she couldn’t quite identify—pain, maybe, or sadness. “Samantha,” he said. “You have two parents who care very much about you. Neither of them might be quite what you hoped for, but they both care. I hope you realize how lucky you are in that. A lot of us don’t even have one parent, caring or not.”
Sam opened her mouth, but she wasn’t sure how to respond. She felt like apologizing, but she didn’t know for what. She just stared at him, until he caught her shoulder and turned her toward the uniform office.
“Go get your clothes. Then we can get you settled. Once you know your way around a bit, you’ll feel more like yourself.”
An hour later, Sam and Carver were unlocking the door to her room. The dormitory was larger than she’d expected, a two-room suite with a public room and separate bedroom. She and her roommate also had a private bathroom. The suite was empty, so she went through to the bedroom. One of the beds was neatly made up. The other was bare, just a mattress on a stand.
Carver went to work making the bed with the linens they’d picked up, while Sam hung up her clothing and put her other things away. There was a small desk at one side of the room, with a standard student computer. She and her unknown roommate apparently had to share. Sam shrugged off her apprehension at living with a complete stranger. Carver had been a stranger, too, not so long ago.
In too short a time, her things were all put away, her empty luggage stowed in an overhead storage compartment. She stared up at Carver, resisting the urge to beg him to take her with him when he left.
He met her gaze for a moment, then sighed, and pushed her gently down onto the stool at the computer desk.
“You are going to be okay.”
Sam just shook her head.
“I know it’s scary, being all alone in a strange place with strange people.”
“Again,” she couldn’t resist pointing out.
“Again,” he agreed. “I have been there, Sam. You will be all right.”
“Well, I’ll be able to call once a week,” she said, feigning cheer. “Every student gets five minutes on the public communicator for welfare verification.”
Carver muttered something under his breath, and searched the pockets of his flight suit. “Here,” he said, passing her a wide metallic bracelet. “This is for you. For emergencies only.”
She took it. The bracelet was actually a cleverly disguised private communications transmitter. She buckled it on. “Is this from the doctor?” she asked.
Carver shook his head. “From your father. ‘Be damned if I’ll let Sam be stranded with no means to contact us!’ Direct quote.”
He grinned at her. She smiled weakly back.
“Us, huh?” she said. “I know, I know. I should appreciate having so many people who care about me. It’s just hard, going from one parent to being raised by a committee.”
Carver sat on the edge of the bed. “Your father doesn’t have much family, either,” he pointed out. “His parents died when he was younger than you.”
Sam nodded, staring at the floor. She felt the familiar twinge of guilt. “I wish I didn’t feel like this,” she admitted. “But I can’t seem to help myself.”
“Feelings aren’t good or bad,” Carver told her. “Feelings are just feelings.”
Sam couldn’t help smiling at that. “Now that is definitely from the doctor.”
Carver shrugged. “Doc Petes is a wise man. And he pretty much raised me.”
“And he doesn’t have a family either,” Sam murmured.
“He does,” Carver said. “It’s just not a biological family.”
Same stared at him.
“We are Doc Petes’ family,” the pilot went on, a bit awkwardly. “He is like a father to me and your father. You’re like a niece, maybe. We are a family, just not the standard variety.”
Sam kept her eyes on his face. Carver looked at the floor, the walls, any where except at her. He was clearly uncomfortable with this topic.
“Just . . . think about it, okay?”
Sam nodded. Carver drew in a breath, looking more comfortable. He reached out to turn her wrist over.
“See this here?” he told her, touching a recessed button in her comm bracelet. “This is your emergency call. You hit this, and you get me, instantly. Any time day or night. Your father and Doc Petes might not always have comm access, but you can always reach me.”
“Because you have a comm transmitter in your brain?” Sam grinned.
Carver didn’t. “Something like that. And don’t think that we are abandoning you. I will be dropping in to check on you. And I can be here in a few hours, any time you need me. Understand?”
Sam nodded, feeling comforted. “Thanks, Carver.”
He shrugged. “It’s my job.”
Sam laughed, and hugged him. He froze for a moment, then patted her back awkwardly. Carver was not one for affectionate displays.
“I had better get going,” he said, pulling back.
“All right. I’ll stay here,” Sam replied. “If I go down to the launch field with you, I’ll just get sad again.”
Carver nodded.
“Let my father and Doc Petes know I’m okay. I’ll send them a message when I’m all settled in.”
Carver nodded again then offered her another slightly stiff hug in farewell. Then he was out the door, and Sam was alone.
Sam distracted herself by pulling out her e-journal and programming her class schedule into it. The device was part diary, part calendar and part research tool. It was also cutting edge technology she’d gotten thanks to her father’s influence. It wouldn’t even be available in stores for three more months.
She was contemplating adding a diary entry when the outer door opened. Drawing in a breath to calm her nerves she stepped forward to meet her new roommate. But it was not one person waiting in the public room, it was four. And they were deep in discussion.
“Time travel,” a blonde boy was saying, shaking his head. “I can’t believe old Prof. Winslow is sticking us with that old saw.”
“I don’t know, Jer,” another boy responded. He had a vaguely Asian look, but his hair was a vivid shade of purple. “The philosophical debate is fascinating.”
“Even if it’s not technically possible?” the only girl put in, flipping her reddish brown braid over her shoulder.
“Even if it’s not technically possible?” the only girl put in, flipping her reddish brown braid over her shoulder.
“It’s not possible yet,” the Asian boy retorted.
“It’s just a homework assignment,” the fourth newcomer soothed them, as he closed the door behind them. “It’s nothing to start a revolution over.”
“Please,” Jer rolled his eyes. “Skeets would start a revolution over breakfast cereal.”
Skeets was apparently the purple-haired boy, for he made a face back at Jer.
The girl was the first to notice Sam, still hovering in the doorway to the bedroom. She blinked, then her mouth tilted up in a friendly smile.
“Hello,” she said. “Are you my new roommate?”
Sam swallowed, and nodded. Skeets collapsed on the sofa with a groan. Jer and the fourth boy offered friendly, if puzzled smiles.
“I’m Samantha. Sam,” she gave an awkward little wave, not sure what the proper protocol should be.
“I’m Rebecca,” the cinnamon haired girl responded. “This is Jer, and Skeets and Drew. I’m afraid I wasn’t expecting you.”
Jer offered his hand, and Sam shook it. “Nice to meet you,” he said.
Drew mimicked the gesture. “I don’t know what Becca’s worried about. She never leaves dirty socks lying around.”
Skeets made no move to leave the couch. “Ah, man. We are going to lose our digs. Where are we going to hang out now?”
Becca shook her head. “Ignore Skeets. He’s never happy unless he’s complaining about something.”
“Travesty! Injustice! We require a private haven to complete our assigned work. This is not going to work out, Drew. I gotta have my space.”
“I think they lost my paperwork,” Sam offered apologetically. “General Beaurgcheaup certainly seemed surprised to see me.”
“Oh, Porkchop?” Skeets scoffed. “He’d forget his nose if it wasn’t stuck to his face. All his brains go into growing that mustache.”
“Which is not entirely a bad thing,” Drew pointed out. “We can get a lot more done without the General’s interference.”
“It’s not nice to make fun of Beaurgcheaup’s name,” Becca scolded him.
“Why not? I make fun of everyone. I even mock my own name. You don’t think my parents really named me Skeets, do you?” This last was directed at Sam, who shrugged uncertainly in response.
Jer shoved Skeets’ feet off the sofa and seated himself, dropping his backpack to the floor with an audible thump. “You have to tune Skeets out,” he advised Sam. “He talks a lot of nonsense.”
“Hey, once in a while I have a good idea,” Skeets protested, scooting over to make room for Becca on the center cushion.
“Yeah, but who can tell, when you bury them all in gibberish?”
Skeets opened his mouth to retort, but Drew stopped him with a raised hand. “Forgive us,” he said. “We have been a group for over a year now, and we sometimes forget how we must sound to outsiders.”
Sam smiled a little. “You sound like family to me.”
Skeets rolled his eyes at that.
Becca laughed. “Where are you from, Sam?”
“I grew up on one of the polar stations down south,” she answered. “My mother died last year, and my father didn’t know what to do with me, so he enrolled me here.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Drew murmured, and the others nodded sympathetically. Sam just shrugged. “It happens. What about you guys?”
“Oh, we’re just the poster for diversity,” Skeets answered, oddly serious for him. “Drew here is from the Afric Continent, Jer is from Euro. I’m Asia , and Becca’s from South Am.”
“Were you assigned this group?” Sam asked.
“It evolved organically,” Jer responded. “Which is kind of odd, since we all have such diverse interests.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I want to be a pilot,” Becca said. “And Jer is all about the sciences.”
“I’d like to get into management,” Drew put in, settling himself cross-legged on the floor. “And Skeets . . .”
“Skeets is all about the tunes,” the purple-haired boy finished, tucking a miniature transmitter into one ear. “And sketches. I want to be a cartoonist, a political cartoonist. Government gets too involved in everything these days.”
“Umm,” Sam was not quite sure how to respond to that.
“Don’t take Skeets too seriously,” Becca advised her. “He may be a paranoid conspiracy theorist, but at least he admits he’s a paranoid conspiracy theorist.”
Skeets shrugged acknowledgement. “Hey, someone’s got to do it. Can’t just let the man have his way all the time.”
“Skeets also spends his time researching every bit of Pre-Fallout trivia and popular entertainment he can find. Which comes in bits and pieces, so it doesn’t make sense half the time.”
“It’s culture, man . . . Culture,” Skeets protested. “Valuable bits of our planet’s history.”
“Which is why the notion of time travel is so fascinating?” Sam suggested.
“That’s just a class assignment,” Jer told her. “We’re supposed to come up with a proposal for a time we would visit, if we could—a person we would talk to or an event we would witness if we could.”
“Is this a group project?”
“Yes. We have to write a paper and make a presentation in front of the class tomorrow.”
“And because Jer and Skeets keep arguing back and forth about time paradoxes and the impossibility of time travel, we’ve wasted a week already.” Becca added.
“And none of us are very good writers,” Drew added.
Sam went to the bedroom to grab her e-journal and the desk stool. “Maybe I can help with the writing part,” she offered. “But what does the presentation entail?”
The other four exchanged glances.
“Prof Winslow didn’t really say,” Skeets answered finally.
“He likes to give really vague assignments, and then grade them based on very specific criteria,” Drew added, with a tone of thoughtful critique.
“It makes it difficult to complete the assignment,” Jer said glumly, “much less get a decent grade.”
“I see.” Sam opened a blank page in the e-journal and started making notes. “Well, why don’t we start with the pros and cons of time travel, then? Jer can cover the reasons why time travel is not currently feasible. Skeets can offer a summary on why time travel would be a useful tool, if it were feasible—cultural research and all that.”
“I’ve done some reading on time travel research,” Drew offered. “Theories, mostly, though a few people have actually attempted it.”
“Hey, I’ve got some awesome sketches here,” Skeets passed a pile of papers over to Drew. “Conceptual ideas of what a time machine might look like.”
Becca took the sketches. Sam looked over her shoulder. “Those are really good, Skeets,” the would-be pilot commented. “I could almost see these flying. What’s my assignment, Sam?” she added with a grin.
Sam flushed, but Becca just smiled at her expectantly. “Umm . . . why don’t you consider the ramifications for the people actually going back in time.’
Becca frowned thoughtfully. “Knowledge of the period they’re going to, to avoid culture shock, different value systems, primitive tools and the like. Clothing and gear so they could blend in. You definitely wouldn’t want anyone to know that you came from the future.”
Sam nodded. “Exactly. And if you could all give me one time you’d go back to, and why, then I can do the written portion of the assignment. Is that okay?”
They all stared at her thoughtfully. Finally Skeets nodded. “You know, I think I’m glad you’re Becca’s new roommate after all.”
They worked on the task late into the evening. The curfew reminder, transmitted over speakers set throughout the school’s buildings, was ignored.
“No one ever does curfew checks,” Becca explained, catching Sam’s confused look. “And the guys know how to sneak back to their room without getting caught.”
Sam nodded. Apparently this was standard for Milbyrne Academy
Sam spent time every day writing in her diary, so she was used to doing a lot of typing. Nevertheless, her fingers were sore and her eyes were stinging by the time they’d finished up. She passed the e-journal over to Drew and Becca, who looked over what she’d written.
“This is excellent, Sam,” Drew told her. “How did you know to do this?”
“My mother was a scientist,” she answered, rubbing her eyes. “She had to submit reports and publish her findings to verify her studies. I used to help her with it. This is a lot easier, honestly. At least I understand everything we wrote tonight. It sure beats micro-genetics.”
That silenced everyone for a minute. Then Drew herded the other two out the door.
“We all need our rest. We still have to get through the presentation tomorrow,” he said.
Becca waved farewell and disappeared into the bedroom. Sam stopped Drew before he could follow Jer and Skeets down the hall.
“Listen,” she said. “I shouldn’t be the one telling everyone what they need to do for this project.”
“Why not? You did great.”
Sam waved dismissively. “Only because I’ve heard a few groups of scientists panicking the night before a deadline. Think about it, Drew. You want to be a manager, right? Maybe command an air ship or a sea vessel someday? Own a business? If you want to do any of that, you need to be able to get people to work together. You have to be good at assessing people’s strong skills and making those skills work for you.”
Drew stared at her. “These people are my friends,” he said. “Not my employees or my subordinates.”
“It doesn’t matter. They’re part of the group, and you need to encourage them to do what’s good for the group. Because what’s good for the group is also what’s good for them.”
Drew’s frown deepened. “Not always. Becca could get her pilot’s credentials and be gone. Good for her, but not for the group. Or Skeets could publish one of his cartoon books. He has several all drawn, you know. He keeps them under the bed.”
“Okay, that’s a valid point,” Sam agreed. “A good leader pushes his people to do their best, and encourages them to follow their dreams. And he uses their abilities to the benefit of the group, while he can. Does that sound better?”
Drew took a breath to argue further. Stopped. Blinked and said, “Yes, actually.
That is very reasonable.”
That is very reasonable.”
“Just think about it okay? You don’t have to put your boot on their necks, just plan things a little better so you all don’t end up against a deadline like tonight.”
Drew nodded and went off, his frown thoughtful now.
Sam sighed and closed the door. Her temples were throbbing. She glanced at her comm bracelet, which also had a time readout. It would be morning in North Am. She had a sudden desire to speak with her father.
Becca came out of the bedroom in a set of long pajamas. “You got the boys out okay?” she said.
“Yeah.” Sam hesitated a moment. “Becca, I have a bit of a headache. I want to sit up for a bit before I try to sleep. Is there somewhere . . . private I could sit for a few minutes? I might keep you up if I stay here.”
“Oh, I sleep like a log,” Becca assured her. “But if you need privacy, there is a gable just upstairs. They use it to store old furniture, but it’s quiet up there. Just take a left in the hall and go up the stairs. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks.”
Becca just nodded and headed back to the bedroom. Sam followed her directions and found herself in a room full of faded couches and worn comfortable chairs. She settled on one old chair and sat for a moment, enjoying the quiet. She genuinely liked her roommate and the boys, but she wasn’t used to being around other young people. The noise would take some getting used to.
When a few minutes had passed, and the throbbing in her temples eased a bit, she raised the comm bracelet, and entered a comm code.
He answered quickly. Much sooner than she’d expected, so she was caught without words.
“Hello? Sam? Is everything okay?”
She swallowed nervously and responded, “No. Everything’s fine. I told Carver I’d call when I got settled, and I saw the time and figured you’d be up, so I thought I’d call now.”
“Oh. Good. So you’re settled in all right? No problems?”
“Well, nothing serious. They lost all my admissions paperwork, but Carver was prepared for that. According to Dr. Peters it’s not uncommon.”
“I see. Did you start classes then? All settled in your room?”
“Classes start tomorrow. I have a very nice room, and my roommate is nice as well. Her name is Becca.”
He let out a breath, and the tension in his voice eased. “So you’ve made a friend already?”
“Maybe. There are several possibilities. Becca has a group project due tomorrow, and I helped them finish it.”
He laughed at that. “Homework, already? And you haven’t even been to class yet. That has to be some kind of a record.”
“I didn’t mind. It was an interesting topic. Time travel, actually.”
“Ah.” His tone changed again, serious now. “Carver told me about your conversation during the flight.”
Sam made a face. But she knew Carver would report everything to her father, unless she specifically told him not to. She shouldn’t be surprised.
“I hope you know . . . I would give anything for you to have your mother back again.”
“Because then you wouldn’t have to deal with me?” Sam snapped before she could stop herself.
“No!” He paused. “Well, perhaps that’s part of it. I’m no good at this father thing yet, and if she was still here, she could maybe . . . help us over the bumps a little.”
“Maybe not. She wasn’t the world’s most tactful person.”
“I wish I knew how to make this easier for you . . . for both of us.”
“I don’t even know what to call you,” Sam confessed. “Father is out of the question, but I can’t call you by your first name, and Mr. McDanial is just . . . wrong.”
He let out a sigh. “It’s rough. I know. I’m sorry.”
“Carver said a little distance might be good for us. Let us get to know each other little by little.”
“That’s what we’re hoping,” he agreed. “Just . . . Sam, let’s just agree to be honest with each other, even if it’s hurtful. Maybe we can come to some understanding.”
Sam considered that, her face buried against her drawn-up knees. “I think,” she said carefully. “That the standard father-daughter relationship is not going to be possible—at least, not for a very long time.”
Another little sigh. “That’s probably true,” he admitted. “Perhaps we could work on . . . becoming friends? That will give us something to build on, later. When we’re ready.”
“Agreed.” Sam almost left it at that, but he wanted honesty. “I have to say this. I know it’s not logical, but I do resent the fact that you’re not a normal father. I know it’s not your fault,” she added, before he could protest. “But you are not what I dreamed of when I thought about my father. I am not sure how to deal with it.”
The comm bracelet was silent for a long moment, and she knew her words had hurt him. But his voice was steady when he responded. “That’s understandable. To be honest, I resent the fact that I have a daughter I never knew about. I had no input in your birth. Your mother never asked for my opinion or my permission. I’d like to say I don’t resent you, but I’m not sure that’s true. I’m trying to get past it, because I have an obligation to you.”
“I don’t want to be an obligation,” she protested softly.
“I know. I want you to be taken care of. And I do like you, Samantha. I am genuinely glad to have you in my life, it’s just . . .”
“Emotions are complicated,” Sam finished for him.
“Yes.” He drew in a breath, then changed the subject. “You’ll have to let me know how the project turns out,” he said. “I’d be interested to see the finished project.”
“Well, most of it is an oral presentation,” she answered, glad to be on a lighter subject. “But I did write up the report to turn in. I could send you a copy, if you’d like.”
“I would, Sam. I definitely would.”
There was a little silence then, that wasn’t awkward at all, for once. Then Sam heard the school clock tolling the hour, and winced at the time.
“Well, I’d better let you go. You must have a busy day planned.”
“Yes,” he answered, a bit dryly. “Lots of boring meetings ahead. But you should be in bed. You must be exhausted after the flight, and all.”
“I am tired,” Sam admitted. “But I couldn’t sleep earlier.”
“But now you can?”
“Now I can.”
“I’m glad.” And she could tell that he was.
They signed off on that high note, and Sam went back down the stairs, feeling a strange sense of relief. They might not have settled anything, but at least they’d felt out a starting point.
True to her word, Becca did not stir as Sam changed into her own pajamas and settled into bed. Her last thought before sleep overcame her was to hope that her roommate had thought to set an alarm for the morning.
Sam needn’t have worried about the alarm. Milbyrne Academy
By the time Becca emerged, Sam was dressed, and reviewing the footnotes on the paper she’d written.
Becca yawned. “How do you manage that?” she asked. “You couldn’t have gotten more than four hours’ sleep and you look totally refreshed.”
Sam shrugged, correcting a grammatical error. “When my mother was sick, she’d need meds every four hours. I got used to living on limited sleep.”
“Oh.” Becca cleared her throat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up painful memories.”
Sam smiled, tucking her e-journal into her pocket. “It’s not painful. I’m glad I got to take of her.”
Becca just nodded, not sure how to respond.
“What time does class start?” Sam asked. “I could use some coffee and breakfast, if we have time.”
“Oh, sure. Let me just grab my things and we’ll go.”
Becca led the way to the cafeteria, where they filled their plates with fruit, hot grain cereal and mugs of steaming coffee.
Sam sniffed her mug appreciatively as they sat down at an empty table. “I am glad they offer real coffee here. Some schools think it stunts student’s growth.”
Becca added cream and sugar to her coffee—and her cereal. “Well, we need coffee to stay awake in most of our classes here.”
Sam lifted her fork and began to eat. “What classes are you taking?” she asked. “I don’t remember if Milbyrne offers pilot’s training.”
Becca shrugged. “They have an instructor, and there is a basic pilot’s course. But you have to get specialized training if you want to be a professional. There’s specialized schools just for that. Unless I decide to join the Space Exploration Fleet. Space-Ex has their own training program.”
“They’d have to,” Sam agreed. “Space flight is totally different from Air flight. Or so I’d imagine.”
The girls had finished their breakfast and were sipping coffee refills when the boys arrived. Sleepy-eyed and damp-haired, Jer, Skeets and Drew filled their plates and joined them.
Becca watched them with barely concealed amusement. “Luckily, boys eat fast,” she observed.
“I’m trying not to watch,” Sam joked back, as Skeets shoveled eggs and cereal into his mouth at record speed.
Jer and Drew were more polite about it, but they wasted little time clearing their plates. The bells rang again, and Drew led the way out of the cafeteria. He reviewed the plan for their presentation, as they group made their way to the classroom.
Sam was a little nervous walking into the classroom. She’d been taught by her mother, so she’d literally never been in school with other students before. She was enormously grateful to be part of a group. They all sat together at one long table. She took her seat between Becca and Skeets, giving a little sigh of relief.
Professor Wilson was an older man with bushy eyebrows and a distinguished white beard was seated at the front of the room. When the students had mostly settled, he rose and took roll call. When he’d gone down his entire list, he frowned at Sam.
“I don’t know you, young lady,” he murmured, his brows pulling downward in a frown.
Skeets elbowed Sam and she rose. “I’m new, sir. Samantha Throckmartin.”
“I was not notified of a new student.” Prof. Wilson muttered.
“I think there was some mix-up with my paperwork,” she offered.
“Very well. I will check on that directly after class. But today there are presentations, and they are mandatory. I could perhaps allow a makeup presentation for you, but that seems a trifle unfair, when everyone else has been working in a group.”
Becca raised her hand. “Excuse me, professor,” she said. “But Samantha is my roommate. We invited her to join our group.”
“Is that so?” Prof. Wilson asked, staring suspiciously at them all.
“Yes, sir,” Drew offered. “Sam helped us out immensely with putting everything together.”
“I helped with the written portion of the assignment,” Sam offered.
“Very well,” he murmured. “Very well. You may be seated Miss Throckmartin. Your group is scheduled for the final presentation of the day. I expect to be impressed.”
“Naturally,” Skeets grinned at him, refusing to be intimidated.
Sam settled back in her chair surreptitiously checking the paper over as the other groups made their presentations. Finally it was their group’s turn.
They all rose and went to the front of the room. Drew gave a brief introduction. Then Jer presented his case for the impossibility of time travel. Skeets provided a rebuttal. Then Drew stepped forward again, describing several of the most popular time travel theories, occasionally referring to Skeets’ sketches, which Sam projected onto the wall using her e-journal. Then Becca went on to describe the ramifications of time travel, and how to prevent a paradox.
“Very good,” Professor Wilson said, nodding gravely. “Now when would each of you travel back to, and why?”
“I’d go back to the beginning of the industrial revolution,” Jer responded first. “It would and fascinating to witness the invention of all those new machines. And to see how people really were treated in those factories. Maybe use that knowledge to improve conditions here.”
“I’d go back to the 1970’s and 80’s,” Skeets chimed in next. “The politics of the time period were heavy. I’d like to study all the political cartoons and cartoonists. They could convey so much with just a simple ink drawing.”
“Interesting,” Prof. Wilson murmured.
“I’d go back to the early days of space exploration,” Becca took her turn. “Before everyone became complacent about it. It was such an exciting and dangerous time for aviation. We’ll never quite have that feeling of leaping into the unknown again.”
They all looked at Drew.
They all looked at Drew.
“I’d go back to see the pyramids being built in Egypt
“Dude,” Skeets said. “You want to go back and check out slave labor?”
Drew flushed. “No. It’s not for that. Just . . . imagine the logistics of building something like that, without power tools. Regardless of where the labor force came from, organizing that many people is a huge undertaking. Not to mention housing them and keeping them fed and treating injuries. I just think it would be fascinating to witness.”
“Excellent reasoning,” Professor Wilson said approvingly. They all relaxed. “Now, what about you, Ms. Throckmartin?”
“Me?” she squeaked.
“Yes. What time period would you choose to visit? Surely that’s not too difficult a question to answer, even with only one day’s notice?”
“I . . .” Sam paused, swallowing hard. She’d never spoken in front of a group this large before. “I would travel back to . . .”she hesitated. “To the fall of the Bionics Master Server.”
That earned her a blink from Professor Wilson. “And the reason?” he prompted.
“When the Master Server was sabotaged, all the Bionics . . . went off-line. Bionics made up most of our police forces, and emergency response teams, not to mention a good portion of our military. It’s like society collapsed in an instant. Almost like the Nuke Wars all over again. I’d love to see how Dr. Peters managed to bring order back out of chaos.”
“With a certain amount of ambition, I imagine,” Prof. Wilson answered dryly. “He didn’t become President of the Planetary Alliance by mere happenstance, Ms. Throckmartin.”
“Of course not,” she shot back impatiently. “But I don’t think world leadership was ever his goal. The Continental Councils had no leadership. All they did was argue back and forth. Nothing got accomplished. The main reason the Bionics were used so extensively is because the Councils could never agree on the means for humans to take those positions. Bionics came with their own pre-programming, so no expensive training necessary. They were all connected by the Master Server, so no communication system was needed. And they were genetic constructs . . . clones, so there was no guilt, no parents to notify if one died. And if they lost one or half a dozen or a hundred, they could just place another order and get more.”
Professor Wilson stroked one bushy brow thoughtfully. “You make some valid points, young lady. However, it was not so simply a matter to replace a Bionic. Each Bionic was created by Chet Abrams himself. And believe me, he did not take the loss of a single Bionic lightly. It required an effort, and a great deal of expense to convince him to create even a single Bionic. So not easy at all. The Councils did avoid many difficulties by using the constructs, though. I will give you that.”
The bells rang announcing the end of class. The professor glanced up, “And on that note, we will begin our study of recent history next class period, so everyone read up on the Continental Councils and the early biography of President Dr. Peters. We will continue studying your other preferred time periods as class allows.”
Sam typed in a command and beamed her carefully written paper to Prof. Wilson’s computer. “I will forward an addendum with my own time travel idea this evening, sir,” she said. “I didn’t think to type it up.”
Prof. Wilson nodded. “This is good work. All of you did good work. I look forward to seeing you next class period.”
Sam followed the others out the door, and across the courtyard to the cafeteria. Prof. Wilson’s class took up the entire morning and the lunch bell was ringing.
“Look at you, arguing with Wilson
Sam flushed. “Oh, I just talked about what I knew.”
“Well, you definitely impressed him,” Drew pointed out. “He’s using your topic next class.”
“Oh, that’s probably just because everyone else used a pre Nuke Wars reference, and that will take more time to research for lesson plans.”
“Better be wary,” Skeets warned her. “Wilson
Sam laughed at that.
“Skeets has a point,” Jer told her, holding the cafeteria door open and waving her in first. “Wilson
“And Wilson
“Everyone here must be smart, though,” Sam argued, as she followed them into line to get her meal. “I saw the entrance requirements. They are quite stringent.”
Drew shot her a warning glance. “Wait til we’re seated,” he murmured.
Sam frowned, but obeyed, talking only to ask about the food being served. When they all had their lunch and were seated at the same table where they’d breakfasted, she looked at him expectantly.
“Well?” she prompted, when he didn’t immediately explain.
“One moment,” he said softly, opening his drink bottle.
From the corner of her eye, Sam saw Becca glance over at a group of girls passing their tables. Sam lifted her own drink, pretending to read the label, so she could look them over without being obvious. Despite the mandatory school uniforms, it was obvious these girls had money. Their hair was carefully dyed, their fingers and ears and wrists glinted with jewelry. There was something about the way they moved that exuded an aura of wealth.
Sam set her bottle down and looked over at Drew. “Entrance requirements?” she prompted him.
“Eat,” Jer urged her, lifting his fork as if to provide a good example.
Sam followed suit. “I’m guessing the requirements are more . . . flexible for students with wealthy parents?” she hazarded.
“Oh, those girls are smart enough,” Becca said, biting into her sandwich a bit harder than she needed to. “But they’re more than mean enough.”
“Ah,” Sam took that in, as she took a spoonful of her soup.
“All of us are on government scholarship,” Skeets added, slipping several squares of flavored gelatin into his bag. “If you don’t want your gelatin,” he said. “I’ll take it.”
Sam passed him her dish. “What are you going to do with all that?” she asked as the others passed their gelatin, as well.
Skeets shrugged. “You’ll see.”
“He’s building a miniature cityscape on the bottom bunk,” Jer explained. “Our room is a quad, but there are only three of us. Skeets took over the empty bunk for his miniature gelatin city.”
“It must be . . . quite colorful,” Sam said, watching him tuck away the red, yellow and blue squares of gelatin.
“It’s the backdrop for my cartoons,” Skeets explained, showing a hint of defensiveness for the first time. “I like the color.”
Sam nodded agreeably. “Scholarships?” she prompted Drew.
“Yeah. We all got scholarships to come here. That’s supposed to be private info., but those girls got hold of it somehow, and they use it to mock everyone who couldn’t afford this place without help.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Sam snapped, but took care to keep her voice down. “If anything, it takes more work to get approval for a scholarship than to gain admittance here. The Continental Councils are notoriously tight-fisted.”
“You don’t have to tell any of us that,” Becca growled. “But those snobs act like we’re all inferior to them.” She gave a delicate snort.
“What about you, Sam?” Jer asked. “I reckon your father is paying your tuition out of pocket, eh?”
“I’m not sure,” she admitted turning her attention back to her soup. It was getting cold. “I filled out a lot of scholarship applications, but all the correspondence was routed through my father’s offices after she died, so I’m not sure what the results were.”
“I’m not sure,” she admitted turning her attention back to her soup. It was getting cold. “I filled out a lot of scholarship applications, but all the correspondence was routed through my father’s offices after she died, so I’m not sure what the results were.”
She glanced up. They were all staring at her.
“You don’t know if you’re on scholarship or not?” Drew repeated. He seemed completely baffled.
Sam set her spoon down. Suddenly she wasn’t hungry. “I imagine my father is paying my tuition,” she said. “But no one really told me. I should have asked, I suppose, but I’m still a little off balance.”
“Losing a parent is tough,” Becca said sympathetically.
“Everything changed,” Sam murmured, toying with her soup spoon. “I never knew my father before. I went from living on a polar science station to living in the city with my father. I used to know all about my mother’s finances. I used to pay the bills. My father has people to deal with all of that.”
The table was silent for a moment, as the others took that in. “Well, either way,” Skeets said finally, “I like you. I hope you stick with our group. We’ll understand if you’d rather hang with those girls,” he added. “But we’d rather you stayed with us. Because you’re nice. And we’re nice. And those girls are snobby.”
Sam laughed out loud at that. One of the rich girls glanced her way, before turning away with a sniff. That made Sam laugh again. “I definitely like you guys better than them,” she said firmly.
“Good. I knew you were a sensible girl,” Skeets responded with a nod.
“What’s your next class, Sam?” Becca asked, piling the remains of her lunch to go in the recycling bin.
Sam punched it up. “Mechanics,” she answered.
“That’s my next class,” Jer said. “We can walk together.”
“And after that?” Skeets asked, as they all rose to dispose of their trays.
Sam tucked away the e-journal and followed them. “After that is art,” she said.
“Swell! I’m in that one.” Skeets grinned. “I’ll pick you up after mechanics,” he said.
“Thanks,” Sam answered.
“Can’t let you spend too much time with Jer. He’ll turn your brain to mush.”
“Hah! You have the mush brain, not me.”
And so Sam was laughing again as they filed out of the cafeteria.
“Drew and I are off to the library. We have a free period today, so we’re using it to do some research. We’ll see you after Art. That’s the last class of the day. Good luck,” Becca added.
“Thanks.”
The Mechanics class was held in a large workshop at the far end of campus. The room was full of various tools and machines—saws and drills and welding equipment. The air smelled of ozone, metal and sawdust. The class was taught, not by a professor, but by Mr. Anderson. Mr. Anderson was a lean middle-aged man, in battered overalls. He made no showy entrance; he just slipped quietly in through a door at the back of the workshop. Despite this, the students went quiet the minute he appeared.
“Good morning,” he said, walking over to an area where a group of chairs sat before a large comm.. screen. “If you’ll take your seats, I have something interesting to show you.”
The students, a group of about twelve, sat down and gave Mr. Anderson their full attention. Sam pulled out her e-journal and prepared to take notes. None of the others—who were mostly boys, did so. But Sam figured she could use all the help she could get.
Mr. Anderson hit a button on a remote transmitter he pulled from his pocket. A complicated schematic appeared on the comm. screen. Sam punched a code of her own, and the image transferred to her e-journal. Mr. Anderson was staring at the screen with his hand in his pockets, apparently fascinated by the schematic.
“Does anyone know what this is?” he asked.
A red-headed boy with glasses squinted at the image. “It looks like a flyer of some sort,” he hazarded.
Mr. Anderson nodded. “Air flyer or Space?” he asked.
The boy squinted harder. “I can’t tell, sir.”
“Would you care to step forward for a closer look?” Mr. Anderson offered. “The writing is rather small.”
Immediately a swarm of students rushed the comm. screen.
Sam stayed in her seat, enlarging the image on her e-journal to read the details of the schematic. The notes seemed to be mostly measurements and equations, but nothing she knew how to understand. There was no title on the schematic. She scrolled left and right, up and down, looking at the shape of the flyer and trying to decide if it was shaped more like an air flyer or a space flyer.
Mr. Anderson, seemingly casual, wandered to look over her shoulder. “What do you think, Miss—”
“Samantha Throckmartin, sir,” she responded, starting to her feet.
Mr. Anderson held her down with a gentle hand on her shoulder. “That’s an interesting device you have there.”
“It’s my e-journal, sir,” Sam explained hesitantly, hoping she was not about to get in trouble.
“Yes, so it is. That’s the Sunflare 17, if I’m not mistaken. It’s not due out for another 6 months, though.”
Same looked down at her e-journal. There was no maker’s mark or model number visible on it. “It’s an advanced copy, Mr. Anderson,” she explained.
“I see. Well, I’ll be interested to hear your feedback, when you have the time.”
She blinked at him. “Sir?”
“I see you’ve taken advantage of the image-grab function. Useful, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, sir. But I am careful not to take copy written images. I wouldn’t want to violate any rules.”
Mr. Anderson nodded thoughtfully. “Just so.”
“Sir,” she nerved herself to ask the question. “Did . . . you design my e-journal?”
“I had some input,” he admitted, watching the boys by the comm. screen.
Sam stared down at the e-journal, picturing for the first time the people who had actually worked to create it. “Sir, I don’t mean to sound ignorant,” she said. “But I didn’t realize mechanics was part of making an e-journal.”
“Hmm?” he glanced down, as if surprised to see her there. “Of course there’s mechanics involved,” he said. “The Sunflare 17 is just a machine, after all. It’s just a very complex machine.”
“I never thought of it that way,” Sam admitted. “I don’t know much about mechanics.”
“Really?” Mr. Anderson seemed surprised. “Then why are you in this class?”
“I’m not really sure,” she confessed. “I just arrived yesterday, and it seems most of my assigned classes are a bit . . . random.”
“Starting mid-term, eh? I’m not surprised then. Well, if you’re not interested in this class, I’m sure we can find something else for you.”
“Oh, no, sir! I’m interested. I just don’t know very much.”
“Well, that’s what school is for, isn’t it? To teach you what you don’t know. If you only study the things you already know, then what’s the point?”
“Exactly.”
Mr. Anderson smiled approvingly at her, then went forward to join the students by the large screen. “So, what do you make of it?” he asked.
“It’s hard to tell, sir,” Jer said, his face inches from the screen. “The wings seem to more designed for and air flyer, but if I’m reading these notations correctly, then the thrusters are set for space flight. I’ve never seen anything like this.”
A spirited discussion followed, as the students argued back and forth about space versus air flyer design aspects. Sam listened while she examined the schematic on her e-journal. She was hoping the image would somehow start to make sense, if she paid enough attention. Then she spotted a small notation on the bottom corner of the page, and enlarged it for a closer look.
She thought she muffled her shocked gasp, but Mr. Anderson heard it. He turned from the group and came back to her side.
“What have you found, Miss Throckmartin?” he asked.
Sam tried to speak, but couldn’t get the words out, so she just handed over the e-journal. Mr. Anderson took a look, and his brows went up in surprise.
“Well, well,” he murmured. “Good eye, Miss Throckmartin. I didn’t even see that notation.”
“What notation?” the red-headed boy asked.
Mr. Anderson pulled out his remote control again, and enlarged the bottom corner of the schematic.
Jer was standing close enough to read it. “C. Abrams,” he breathed. “Chet Abrams? Is that even possible?”
“It has to be a fake,” the redhead argued. “Chet Abrams designed Bionics, not flyers.”
“We will have to get that signature verified,” Mr. Anderson agreed.
“It’s real,” Sam whispered.
“Yeah?” the redhead demanded. “How would you know?”
“Charles,” Mr. Anderson chided him.
“A friend of mine has been studying Chet Abrams. He has a very distinctive signature.” Sam rose and went up the comm. screen. “See how the letter C has that loop here? I’m no expert, but it matches other known signatures I’ve seen.”
Jer frowned thoughtfully. “Where did this schematic come from, Mr. Anderson?”
“It was found in an old file. Someone was running a search and it popped up. A friend in Space-Ex sent it over. She thought I might be able to make heads and tails of it.” He handed Sam back her e-journal.
“But why would Chet Abrams design a flyer? And is it an air flyer or space flyer?”
“To be honest, Charles, we don’t know. The experts have been having the same discussion we’re having since they found this.” Mr. Anderson reduced the image again, so they could look at the whole design again. “Perhaps Mr. Abrams wanted a special flyer to transport his bionic constructs,” he added.
“Or maybe a flyer designed for the bionics,” Jer said. “To be flown by them, I mean.”
“But the bionics weren’t permitted to pilot flyers,” Charles protested. “They weren’t capable of independent thought. They were controlled by the Master Server.”
“That’s not entirely true,” Mr. Anderson said mildly.
“Then why did they all die when the server was sabotaged?” Charles argued. “If ‘died’ is even the right word.”
“Death is a universal concept, Charles,” Mr. Anderson told him. “The Bionics were constructed primarily from human tissue, so they were living beings, and therefore subject to death. And the concept of death is applied to machines that stop working, not just human beings.”
“Do you think Jer’s right?” one of the two other girls in the class asked. “Could this flyer be designed to be flown by a bionic?”
“Perhaps.” Mr. Anderson responded, His eyes flicking back and forth as he read the equations. “Perhaps. We will have to make an extensive study of Chet Abrams and the bionics, to see if we can prove or disprove the theory. We’d all best be prepared for a lot of research.”
A chorus of groans filled the workshop. Mr. Anderson turned from the comm. screen with a grin. “Now, let’s set this aside, for the moment and work on more practical concepts.”
The rest of the class time was spent working with the tools, learning to craft bit of metal and wood into useful shapes.
“Well, at least this research should tie in with our history class,” Jer mused as they walked out of the workshop. “Dr. Peters knew Chet Abrams personally. We can use the overlap to our advantage.”
“Yeah,” Sam agreed absently.
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