0300 Book 1 - 10. Chapter 10: Strike Out

Chapter 10: Strike Out

Paul stepped from the shower and then turned back to shut off the water. He heard a sharp report and felt a sting on his left buttock. He knew instantly what it was and who had caused it. He spun around to see Mark re-furling the towel with which he’d snapped Paul. Mark grinned, a grin that turned into a rictus of horror when Paul snapped back with his mind. Mark lost control of his urethral sphincters. Urine dribbled and then poured from his penis. His eyes closed; he fell back, and slid down the tiled wall to sit in a growing yellow puddle.

“Nova sol!” Scott said. “What happened to Mark?” He looked at Paul. Paul looked back, but Paul didn’t see accusation in Scott’s mind, only curiosity, and concern for Mark.

The element leader, a cadet a year older than Paul, Scott, and Mark, stepped from his shower and growled, “What’s going on. Who hit whom?”

“Nobody hit anybody, sir,” Scott said. “Mark—”

“He snapped me with his towel,” Paul said. “I turned around. I think I frightened him, sir.”

“Not likely,” the element leader said. By this time, two other cadets had brought a folding stretcher into the shower room. The element leader ignored Paul’s inchoate protest to address the boys with the stretcher. “Get him on the stretcher and cover him. A couple of towels. No need to carry him through the halls naked.”

Paul pulled on his jumpsuit while he was still wet, but he had to dry his feet before he could put on socks and boots. By this time, the stretcher team was far ahead. Paul hurried to catch up, but they had already entered the infirmary when he arrived.

“Where is he?” Paul demanded of the triage nurse on the desk. “Where did they take Mark?”

The nurse wasn’t sure why she answered rather than telling the cadet to cool his jets, show respect, and then to leave the infirmary. But she did. “Through that door; Room E3.” She had enough volition to add, “Don’t get in the doctor’s way.”

There was barely enough room in the cubicle for Paul. A doctor and three nurses hovered over the still-unconscious Mark. One nurse had inserted a breathing tube down the boy’s throat and hooked it to a respirator. Its lub-dub-hiss was almost lost as the doctor issued orders. “Get the EKG going, and then bring in the echocardiogram cart. Vitals every three minutes. On the screen, please.”

Several minutes passed before Paul felt he could interject himself. “What’s wrong with him?” he asked.

The doctor looked at Paul, frowned, shivered as if someone had walked on his grave, and then answered, “We don’t know. He passed out. May have hit his head when he fell, but there’s no swelling, yet. We’re monitoring inter-cranial pressure. Heart appears good, but I won’t know for sure until we do the echocardiogram. Blood pressure is low, but that is consistent with syncope.”

The doctor frowned again. “You’re to report that to your element?”

Paul nodded. I’d better get out of here, at least for a few minutes. He’s starting to suspect. This was not the first time someone had seemed to penetrate what Paul called the veil. Usually, it happened when he had pushed someone too far, or when he had depended too much on the veil to protect him. He gave the doctor a Yes, sir, and went into the hallway.

Before Paul could decide what to do next, the element leader entered the hallway. Paul immediately reported. “Sir, Cadet Mark Shipman is being treated. He is stable, and they’re waiting for equipment to do a more thorough examination of his heart. Sir, may I stay with him?” Paul pushed hard when he said that.

“What? Why? Oh, of course. Report any change, no matter what time of day.”

“Shouldn’t you mark me on approved absence?” Paul suggested, pushing, again.

The element leader touched the screen of his PDA several times, and then nodded.

“Thank you, sir,” Paul said. The commander nodded, and left.

One of the nurses rolled a cart toward the door. He looked at Paul, and then asked, “Why are you here?”

“My element leader ordered me to watch Mark’s progress, and report it to him,” Paul said.

The nurse nodded. “Follow me, but keep out of the way, please.”

The echocardiogram was normal; Mark’s vitals were good. An EEG was hooked up, and showed normal brain activity for a person in deep sleep.

He’s in a coma, Paul thought. I’ve put him in a coma. He’s got to come out!

As Paul thought this, the doctor turned and spoke to him. “It will be impossible to say when or if he will come out of what appears to be a coma. He could slip into natural sleep, and wake up at any time. Unfortunately, we cannot predict when this might be, and we have no way of making it happen. I’m sorry about your friend.”

My friend? Paul thought. I have no friends. But, I know I am responsible.

It was nearly 2300 hours before Mark was moved from the emergency suite to a regular hospital room. Paul sat beside him, watching the monitors, and thinking.

What did I do, and how did I do it? It was all in my mind. Was it all in Mark’s mind, too? The doctors don’t see anything physically wrong with him. They said they’d do a CAT scan of his brain, tomorrow. What will they find? Can I wake him?

Paul looked at the boy, and thought, Mark? Mark? It’s Paul. Wake up. You’re okay. I’m not angry. Please wake up!

Nothing happened. Paul sat back in the chair. The nurse who came in at midnight found Paul asleep—half in the chair, and half slumped over the bed. Paul was holding Mark’s hand. The nurse smiled, and tiptoed from the room.

“Paul? Paul? Where are we? Why are you here?” Mark’s voice woke Paul.

Paul’s eyes snapped open. He realized that it was morning, and that Mark was squeezing his hand. Mark projected puzzlement and curiosity, but no animosity. “Do you not remember?” Paul asked.

Mark shook his head. “We’d come in from the soccer field . . . the showers . . . .” He shook his head, again. “You got out of the shower, and then turned away.” Mark giggled. “You have a really cute butt! I popped you with my towel. Harder than I meant to, I think. I must have slipped? Hit my head? We’re in the infirmary, right?”

* * * * *

I knew what Mark was going to say next, but it still surprised me.

“I’m gay, and you’re beautiful. Um, I don’t suppose?”

I didn’t have to look to know that Mark meant more than tummy rubs. I had an academic understanding of sex—that mind-vacuum thing—but it never occurred to me that I would have a serious physical experience this soon. (The tummy rubs with Andre, and fellatio with Pavl didn’t really count, I don’t think.) A nine-year-old was a little boy by any standard. I realized that by making people think I was old enough to be a Cadet, Senior Grade, I made them think I was old enough for other things, as well. And Mark was cute.

I remembered something I’d seen in an old movie.

“Mark, I don’t even kiss on the first date,” I said. Then, my own baser instincts and impulses took over. “But I do like to cuddle. Would you be my roommate, and can you keep your dick in your pajamas until we get to know each other a little better?”

Mark pouted, but I could tell it was a fake pout. “Guess I’m going to have to get some pajamas,” he said.

At nine, I couldn’t make sperms and I knew my penis would be too small to satisfy Mark if he bottomed. Nor was I ready to bottom for a boy so much bigger than I was. I read that I needn’t worry. Mark was strictly into fellatio—and cuddles. When we got to know each other a little better, he was actually happier that I didn’t make sperms but just whimpered with pleasure while he sucked me. It took me a while to become accustomed to him, but I learned.

One of my duties as a Senior Cadet was to inspect—and instruct—the junior cadets. I was on an inspection visit when I passed a door through which I felt something familiar. I looked at the name card and discovered that Dmitri had been transferred from Edmonton to Nazca. This was his room. I knocked before entering. I was disappointed: not only did Dmitri not recognize me, he didn’t remember me!

I’ll never have friends, I thought, if they can’t remember me! How long apart, do you suppose, before people forget they know me?

Peter Abelard and the scientific method came to mind, and I set up an experiment using Mark and Dmitri, and two boys from another element as controls. The results were disheartening. Mark remembered me for a week or less of absence, as did Dmitri. The boys who were controls remembered me for less time than it took for me to leave their room.

I was right. I’ll never have friends.

The night I concluded the experiment, I stole one of the school’s shuttlecraft. I wasn’t sure where I was going. I thought, at first, to go to the biomedical research facility in Alberta, maybe refresh the memory of that doctor, and ask his help. I headed that way before I realized that he was right. I couldn’t let anyone know about me. If he knew about me, he’d have to tell his superiors. If he told his superiors, I would probably become an experimental freak—and maybe killed. I looked at the maps, and picked a spot: Denali. “The High One.” The third highest peak in the world, perhaps the highest, depending on how one wanted to measure. I took the shuttle there.

The instruments recorded wind gusts of 120 knots, so I clipped on a safety line before I left the shuttle. I knew about wind chill from my winter in Alberta—so I stood on the ice, in the wind, only long enough to ask Denali for a friend. It was a foolish request, but one that I was to make again and again, whether on Denali or elsewhere.

When I got back, I pushed the armorer to issue me an MK-7 and a case of ammunition. I had been trained at Edmonton, but quickly scanned the armorer before taking the weapon to the range. There was something primitive and stress-relieving about blasting targets by firing an entire sixty-round magazine in less than a second.

The third time I did that, the Range Safety Officer came over and ordered me to stand-down before I damaged the weapon. “If you overheat your weapon, it may jam; it may blow up in your hands; and it will certainly ruin the weapon.”

I was so surprised, I nearly drooled on the front of my jumpsuit. He was able to see past the veil! His training, his concern for the weapon—and for my safety—were so strong, he got past my unconscious command to ignore me.

That was a valuable lesson. Actually, two lessons. It was only later that I realized that while I might have vacuumed the armorer’s brain for his knowledge of the weapon, I had not integrated that knowledge well enough to know that what I’d been doing might damage the weapon—and kill me.

I wanted to go into space, but I didn’t want to go as a cadet. I looked at the tables of organization and equipment for various ships, and decided that an engineering position would give me better opportunity to conceal myself than something on the bridge. So, I pushed for a promotion to Ensign and a transfer to Shemya, home of the Fleet Engineering School. Once I got there, I pushed people to think I was old enough to be an ensign—that’s at least sixteen years old. Sometimes, it was hard for me to remember that I was still only ten.

I was checking out the room where my assigned roommate was waiting. The instant he saw me, I felt his desire.

“Hey, I’m Paul,” I said. “Just got here from Nazca. They said your name was Jorie. I’m from Texas, USA. Where are you from?” I hoped the routine of meeting, and perhaps exchanging some life stories would distract Jorie.

“Yeah, Jorie,” he said. “It’s short for Jordon. I’m from New South Wales. That’s in Australia.”

Jorie really was sixteen. I had altered my personnel records to show that I was homosexual, so naturally, I was assigned a gay roommate. The rules allowed that if we were not compatible, we could change roommates. Jorie and I were compatible, despite our striking different appearances—he was a Nordic blond, as in almost pure, white hair and blue eyes. He loved my black hair.

The first time Jorie and I had sex, the veil failed. I knew what he wanted, and was prepared to give it to him, but was smart enough to make sure he was slow and that we used a lot of lubricant. We were kissing and cuddling—foreplay—when he jerked back. “Nova sol! Paul, how old are you?”

I realized what had happened: our lust had overcome the veil. Either I was distracted, or he was—or both. “Ten. But I know exactly what I’m doing.”

“Ten? But . . . are you really an Ensign? And why to you look older, except you don’t, now?”

There were three ways to answer that question. I could tell him about me or I could push him into forgetting he saw me as a ten-year-old. I wasn’t ready to tell someone I was different, and I didn’t want to push him, so I reached for his penis and wrapped my hand around it. “Does it matter?” I asked.

As it turned out, it didn’t matter. We had been roommates for four weeks, had classes together, and stood watch together. I had assured Jorie that I knew what I was doing, so clearly the issue of “informed consent” didn’t stand in our way. The only legitimate barrier was my size. Jorie understood without my having to tell him. He made sure I was prepared, and he was gentle. And absolutely awesome. He made sure I enjoyed his penetration. And he made me have my first real orgasm.

Jorie and I were together a lot after that—not just class and watch, but during our free time, at meals, and during sports. The others in our element called us “salt and pepper.” The nickname seemed to help them remember me, but only for a bit longer than without. As I expected, Jorie forgot that I was ten, and I learned to reinforce the veil when we had sex so he thought he was doing it with another sixteen-year-old.

I thought for a while that the bond Jorie and I formed would last, but when I returned from a two-week assignment at the arctic materials test laboratory at Prudhoe Bay, on the Barents Sea, he had forgotten me. It wasn’t difficult to help him remember me, though.

I was a student at the Shemya School until June after my eleventh birthday when I was promoted to Lt. (j.g.), and received orders to report to the USF Robert Millikan as Third Engineering Officer. The promotion and the orders came as no surprise: I’d been pushing the school commandant—gently—for nearly two months. I’d learned that the push was more effective if I planted an idea in someone’s mind, and nurtured it, rather than pushing an order at them. That way didn’t make them feel confused, either.

The Millikan’s mission was to study solar winds and CMEs—coronal mass ejections—from the sun. She had special electronic shielding, the first operational force fields, that required constant monitoring when we were within the orbit of Mercury. It took me only two months to figure out the math behind the fields (a variation of Maxwell’s equations, actually) and then how to make the force fields perfectly stable, as in once established, they were self-sustaining unless significant energy was applied in just the right way

I made sure that the data were sent to Fleet as a routine report, without my name mentioned. Within six months, nearly every ship in the fleet had been equipped with defensive force fields and had augmented, or replaced, air locks on flight decks with force fields. Someone the nanotech lab in Cardiff came up with a way to integrate the force fields with a space suit. The Jefferson Prize Committee awarded the annual prize for physics to the crew of the Millikan. After we returned to Earth, the medal was affixed to one wall of the bridge and, by unanimous vote, the money that accompanied the prize was donated to the Fleet Widows and Orphans Fund.

I never questioned why no one at Fleet wondered why I was aging so fast and getting promoted so often. I guess I thought that as long as the people around me were fooled by the veil, the Fleet records would withstand scrutiny. I should have thought it through. But I didn’t.