0300 Book 1 - 2. Chapter 2:Florence Nightingale Orphanage

Chapter 2

El Paso, Texas
Florence Nightingale Orphanage
Earth Analogue

An infant opened his eyes. He did not cry, yet a nurse came immediately to his crib. “You’re dirty,” she whispered to avoid waking any of the forty other babies. “Let’s take you to the nurse’s station to change you, what do you say?”

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

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

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

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

Houston, Texas
Marie Sklodowska Fleet Technical School

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The captain frowned. “Your father was Fleet,” he said.

“Is that a bad thing?” Paul asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The window was a porthole about six inches in diameter. I’ll not see much from here, Paul thought. Bet I could see more from the co-pilot’s seat!

Moments later a youngster, perhaps eighteen and with the insignia of an ensign on the collars of his sky blue jumpsuit, came into the passenger compartment from the bridge. He looked around, and spotted Paul. “You,” he gestured. “Come with me.”

Minutes later, Paul was on the bridge of the shuttle, strapped into the right hand seat. The co-pilot, a senior cadet, sat in a jump seat behind him and hung over Paul’s shoulder, explaining the controls and instruments.

“Houston tower, Shuttlecraft Raymond Dart requests straight up and hot for Edmonton,” the ensign called.

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

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

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

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

“Not while you’ve got a Junior Cadet in the right seat,” Davis said. “How did he get . . . .” Paul was afraid. The captain’s voice was stilled. Then, Paul felt Davis’s puzzlement. Paul calmed himself.

The ensign, unaware, knew what Davis was asking. He was a little puzzled, himself but was smart enough to answer. “Thought it wouldn’t hurt for one of them to get a taste of what they were in for, sir.”

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

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

Startled that the Captain had remembered his name, Paul hesitated for a moment before answering. “Sir, I understand why Houston told us to remain subsonic until ten thousand feet, but we’re at seventy thousand feet, now, and only at Mach 0.85. Why are we not going faster? The shuttle is capable of Mach 7.5, and at this altitude we should be high enough that a sonic boom wouldn’t rattle anything on the ground.”

“Good question,” Captain Davis said. “Ensign Carter? Do you have an answer for him?”

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

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

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

“It’s September 4,” Davis said. “Every school is rotating some of their cadets and faculty; other cadets and faculty are on their way to vacations. A quarter of the ships in the fleet are rotating crews; the Fleet Olympiad is gearing up in Toronto; and, the Fleet Council is meeting in Chicago. Almost every shuttle on Earth is in the air this night, and most are over North America. You are right. This amount of traffic is unusual.” It didn’t occur to Davis to wonder how the boy knew the level of traffic was unusual, or how he knew how to operate the nav screen. It did occur to Paul, but he couldn’t find the answer.

Fleet School Edmonton

Fleet School Edmonton was about 50 miles west of that city, but strongly connected to it by both a maglev and tradition. The school had grown from a Royal Canadian Air Cadet League camp into its present campus. The crown and wings of the League were preserved as part of the school’s flag. The cadet corps was, however, much more than Canadian: the 10,000 students came from every country in Fleet. Paul Stewart’s roommates were from Germany, Russia, and Ireland. It didn’t escape his notice that they remembered from day to day who he was, or that his professors and the remaining 16 cadets in his element seemed not to be puzzled when he came to classes or formations. Something’s changed, he thought. I wonder what it is.

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

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

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

Paul’s Journal Age 6

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

My roommates are not unfriendly, but I can’t seem to get as close to them as they are to one another. Is it because I am the only orphan? They share stories of their families; they share the “care packages” they get from home; they plan visits to each other’s home for festivals. I am never invited. If I say something, they may offer me a cookie from one of the care packages, but only if I say something. Hans and Colin sometimes sleep together; Dmitri let me cuddle with him when I pushed a little, but it wasn’t comfortable for him, so I don’t do it anymore. I am lonely.

Classes are boring. I know what the instructor is going to say. I see it in my mind before he says it. I spend most of my time in class reading on my iPad. The instructors don’t seem to care that I’m not paying attention to them, and they don’t call on me to recite.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why not?” I demand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I nod.

“But what I know can be taken from me, by force, by coercion, or by orders from my superiors whom I am oath-bound to obey. I have been in Fleet since I was your age; I trust Fleet. However, I cannot trust some individuals in Fleet. Therefore, I must not know. Does that make sense?”

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

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