Benjamin Keeling and Peter Raiford hustled their luggage through a milling crowd on Cislunar Transfer Alpha's main departure promenade. They hustled through the masses with a deftness normally associated with frequent fliers making connections in Atlanta. Peter complicated the exercise by being the only person stopping to stare starstruck at local interplanetary space. Like the boys, most of their fellow travelers were bipedal. Others wore bodies more alien to the average Terran. But it was just another Tuesday for the Whateley kids. Also, much like a Whateley locker room, the crowd trailed its sad array of emotional pheromones, toiletry scents, and hygiene failures.
Benjamin helpfully pointed out that the "Tickets say we're looking for Docking Bay 9 3/4."
Peter stopped short, narrowly avoiding a blue-skinned alien dragging either their two children or two parents along.
"Say what?"
"Bay 9, Sub-bay 3 of 4. Nine and three-quarters. Duh."
Three years at Whateley Academy, and Benjamin's pop cultural literacy was still this close to nonexistent.
"Fine," Peter sighed. "And that's where exactly?"
"Anywhere but here."
Benjamin ducked a half-hearted swat to call up a gridded holo-map on his personal digital assistant.
"Fine! Two levels cheaper. A quarter turn more out of the way. What? Did you expect an exchange program to book first class?"
"Of course not. Even Whateley's travel arrangements are as inexpensive as they can make them."
"Then why the Hell did I have to take a suborbital jump last September?"
"You can take that up with your boss when we get back."
As if that weren't just as expensive and/or explosive as any of the other options that came to mind.
# # #
The trip to Nexus Double Prime was as uneventful as it could be with two young men on their own recognizance. In their defense, no unexpected explosions were logged during the trip. Peter had to be physically dragged out of the ship's comms shack. Twice. Benjamin simply happened to sit in on a couple of friendly games of skill and chance. It was standard human stuff, data to be passed on to the station's security detachment once the ship was too far away to send the humans back where they came from.
"Please step through the scanner, sir," an overworked security technician said.
"Do we need to empty our pockets, remove our clothes, et cetera?" Benjamin asked from behind Peter.
"No. This isn't Earth. Our equipment can handle more than one thing at a time."
"Can't blame a guy for trying!"
"Yes, we can," Peter grumbled, holding his amusement in check.
The alien-tech scanner was, apparently, less amused than Peter about Peter. Bright mauve warning lights lit up the space. An alarm klaxon screamed out a message in time with the blinking lights.
"Warning! APEX Predator! IA! IA! Beware of stellar alignments in improbable geometries!"
Benjamin crossed his arms.
"No one told us the Whateley Alumni Association was meeting here today."
"WARNING! Dark Spawn detected. Run!"
"Well. That's not the usual existential meltdown for Terrans," the technician commented. "Usually, it's Precursor this, royal lineage that, or some such nonsense. Please wait here. Once my boss gets here, it's all his headache."
Peter's blush edged into the infrared. The less he had to explain his family's deep ancestry, the happier they'd all be.
At least Huntsman hadn't broken out the crucifixes this year, so far.
Security Chief Athnamas's six legs carried her efficiently to the scanning station. Humans. Of course. She keyed in the manual override code she'd demanded after the fourth or fifth fiasco. The warnings subsided.
"Officer Chen, pass the next one through. He looks harmless enough. Let's see what happens."
The scanner shrieked like a strangled Russian.
Chen read through pages of electronic flags before reporting.
"Ma'am, this human's DNA matches, well, several others who are wanted for various crimes, misdemeanors, and moving violations. Most are human, though I'm not placing bets either way."
Benjamin adjusted a tie that was entirely absent from his collar.
"Just a DNA match? According to Commonwealth of Massachusetts vs. Engels, Ingalls, Evangelion, et al., clones cannot be held post hoc ergo propter hoc guilty of their sibling clones', their progenitors', nor their derivatives' activities. The Hague arrived at a similar conclusion when a NATO member nation decided to retry a certain, entirely meritless, case."
"Why would you have that memorized?" Peter asked. The security folks were too busy with their own problems to ask something so obvious.
"My company has excellent lawyers."
"I can see that."
Athnamas's shriek echoed, "How can this human be so closely linked to the Baba Yaga?"
"B-B-b," Benjamin tried asking, but settled on, "Um, who? Isn't she a myth?"
Worst. Innocent act. Ever. Peter stared. He'd seen geasa in action before. In this case, he approved. The Iron Hag, even if she only resembled the old stories, was an A-Lister. Nobody needed to accidentally butt-dial her contact info.
The Security Chief's tablet pinged with a new notification. She stared for a long minute, her scales going white.
"Let the nice boychik through, Officer."
"Ma'am?"
"Just do it. This never happened."
"Very good, Ma'am. Gentlemen, you are free to go. Enjoy your stay on Nexus Double Prime Station!"
Benjamin's jaw muscles stopped spasming.
"Thank you. We'll try!"
Peter grabbed his arm. Time to escape whatever just happened.
* * *
Instructor Elian Zexthar had dealt with what EarthGov loosely called "exchange programs" for years. That was surely long enough to have seen everything. "Dimensional-variants of uncertain ancestry" could be said of the entire race of chaotic murder monkeys. Perhaps the tag was a rare case of truth in advertising? At least Terra hadn't sent all their students on today's shuttle. The fact that the shuttle arrived in the same shape as when it left on its last run suggested no humans had been given a chance to "improve" it.
The two male teens looked much like any other two male human youths. Their motion reflected martial training in Earth's mildly greater gravity. However, Terrans had made a habit of that. Their transcripts and records were wildly incomplete. And, that too was something of a Terran habit.
* * *
The dark-haired human introduced himself as Peter Raiford. The light-haired human, scanning the area for threats and security equipment, was Benjamin Keeling. Their response to the news that the Academy would be requiring a thorough medical examination for intake was... unusual.
"Oh, right. Did the EarthGov folks mention the need for blood banking?" asked Keeling.
Zexthar assured them that "We've hosted human students for decades. We're aware of your species's disturbing quirks."
So they thought.
According to the Galactic Academy's medical clinic, Keeling's blood had more in common with slimy deep-sea creatures than a primate circulatory system. His secondary heart was unusual for Terrans. Moreover, the clinic's doctors hadn't expected to find a nephrite orb in place of his left eye. Their offer to replace it with a functioning prosthetic was both genuine and culturally sensitive. The young man's counteroffer involved doing untranslatable things to redacted organs and hypothetical ancestors in ways that would violate physics and causality.
The first contact surveys had already listed humans as poorly contained walking biological disasters with disturbing dietary habits. Thus, Raiford's hooves and digitigrade legs (except when he didn't have them) came across as a relatively reasonable variation on the bipedal body plan. Zexthar chose to sign off on the humans' enrollment, provided they settled in without causing further disruptions.
# # #
The Academy's facilities sprawled as dormitories, dining halls, annexes, and ecological sanctuaries accreted to its structure with each new FTL-capable civilization discovered. Many such had been discovered over the millennia. The school offered a variety of eating places for omnivores like humans to choose from. However, individual students were left responsible for scanning dishes for toxins, parasites, or other hazards. Dining Hall #47 was semi-officially designated as the most Earth-compatible facility. Most meat-based recipes were heat-treated to the point of peptide denaturing. Vegetables were steamed or boiled to break down starches. A student could even open a bottle of capsicum sauce without triggering chemical warfare alarms.
All that work put into the food, and Benjamin still carefully dissected it using too many knives.
"Well, at least we know mutant abilities work here," Peter remarked.
Benjamin nodded, "That had to be one of the factors behind our abduction. Not much point in expending the resources otherwise."
"I guess so. It's almost sad that this place doesn't hold a candle to the school cafeteria back home. You'd think that multi-thousand-year-old alien civilizations would be more impressive."
"Are you talking about the food, the facilities, or the tragically-designed surveillance infrastructure?"
"All of the above."
<< ahem >>
Benjamin looked over Peter's shoulder at the alien student whose noise translated to 'an impatient clearing of the throat'. The Academy's environmental controls struggled to counteract a coincidental drop in ambient air temperature. The burly purple-skinned alien hardly noticed. Their lackey had the good sense to look uncomfortable by human standards. For all anyone knew, that could be that species'sversion of horniness.
"You two must be the new charity cases sent by Earth."
The line was translated with a posh sneer and a side order of entitlement.
Benjamin put his fork down to say, "I like to think of it as an extended experiment in social malware engineering. Volunteering to step in as my Professor Henry Higgins? Or, are you more of a fairy godmother?"
"Hardly. I'm merely letting you know that your kind isn't welcome here, regardless of any polite lies you've been told."
Some things never changed, did they? Mindless bigotry, bullies, and shower drains that back up at the worst possible time. Benjamin yawned, giving a free window into his dentition.
"What kind does that make you?"
"I am Zephyri. That means more than your primitive mind would understand."
Peter finally stopped eating and turned his head to face the Zephyri, much as a Terran owl might.
He said, "You're from Zephyr IIIb, approximately one quarter galactic radian spinward and three thousand light-years coreward from Earth. Your species is known for providing shock troops to galactic defense forces. Hierarchy and loyalty flow through clan bloodlines from a central Emperor chosen via a mix of primogeniture and electoral veto."
"An over-simplification, but not as bad as I'd expect." The purple one turned to the smaller one and said, "Come. Let's not pollute our lungs further with the reek of humans."
As the ponces left, Benjamin mumbled something about showering already.
"Much appreciated. Did you notice that he didn't give a name?" Peter asked. He added, "Zephyri custom is to withhold names from strangers lest they turn out to be the equivalent of Fae."
"I thought your gadgeteering trait was limited to electronics."
"Nope. Libraries have multiple stacks. Always have."
"I wonder if the school library here has a restricted section like ours?"
"God, I hope not. Rumor has it that the Beck Library holds things that even Misk U wouldn't touch under an Elder Sign. And no, Benjamin. That's not a challenge."
"Do you seriously think Grimes would believe me if I claimed to let well enough alone?"
"You two need to bury the hatchet in someone else's skull."
"Sounds like something my..."
Benjamin turned red with the effort to avoid finishing that sentence. The choking passed, but he wouldn't soon forget. The Zephyri were correct to worry about speaking names; they just didn't know that some names are more dangerous than theirs.
# # #
Xenobiology 101 at the Galactic Academy was considered something of a rite of passage for all students. Professor Yendroth firmly believed in grabbing a class's attention from the jump. What could work better for that purpose than the galaxy's most notorious generalist species? As if humans weren't already a curiosity, this term his class included "dimensional variants," whatever that meant. Keeling and Raiford looked like perfectly average specimens for their age, displaying individual distinctions that most people found too human to care about.
The perfect volunteers!
"Good morning and welcome to xenobiology! Everyone, seat yourself in a classroom sector designated for your species. There are seats in the back that can accommodate those of you in environmental exosuits."
The humans headed for seats where they could keep an eye on the exits without getting blocked or trampled in an emergency. Humans being just that kind of paranoid, the school's administrators had long ago set up designated human sections accordingly.
"We'll be starting with the dominant species in one of the newest systems to join the Federation. Humans. Earth. Deathworlders."
Two confused humans looked at each other, mouthing "Deathworlders?"
With a multi-jointed gesture, the main display showed two average human students. School medical records were so useful for adding a personal touch to a lesson.
"Terran-style life, from pathogens to invasive species, is horrifically aggressive at taking over new ecological niches. Earth has so many differing niches that the biosphere encourages rapid speciation. As a result, traditional expectations regarding predator-prey and symbiote-host relations fall apart."
A Tauran student raised a hoofed appendage. That was unsurprising, as they traded extensively with humans. And human mannerisms tended to be as contagious as the cat videos infesting their social media.
"Professor, if Earth is so dangerous, why is it so beautiful?"
"Because some parts are literally paradise," the yellow-haired human interjected. "Others, eh, not so much. Your mileage may vary."
Yendroth's scales turned a pleased green. He'd always thought visiting the many hot springs would make a wonderful vacation if it weren't for the rest of the planet.
"Not even all humans can agree which parts of the planet are which. With so many genetic stew pots boiling over, it's extremely improbable that any single species would become the apex predators across the planet," he said. "Yet, here we all are. Cadet Keeling, you mentioned 'paradise' just now. How exactly would you describe your home biome?"
Benjamin brightened, then proceeded to describe an atoll grown from coral on top of an active volcano. Seasonal weather alternated between dry winds lofting volcanic ash and monsoonal downpours. Both seasons were wrapped in equatorial tropical heat and humidity. He described trees that defied gravity to support rainforest canopy. Others produced massive amounts of delicious fruit (unless you're allergic). Even then, mango fruit skin doesn't play well with human skin and the oils of orange peels were used as disinfectants and engine degreasers. The fauna included orangutans, elephants, sun bears, clouded leopards, pit vipers, sea snakes, eagles, hawks, sharks...
"We usually don't tell the tourists where the really good spear-fishing spots are."
A student asked, "Spear-fishing? Do you spear the fish, or is it the other way around?"
"It's really uncommon for a swordfish to shank a swimmer!"
"How is that 'paradise'?"
Benjamin had to think about that.
"The fish are still tasty?"
A massive canyon of cognitive dissonance yawned between the documented unstable environment and the soft-skinned bipedal omnivore with a crunchy endoskeleton describing it as a ready-made cornucopia of food and potential pets. It wasn't even the most extreme show-and-tell from Earth, but it shut the usual know-it-alls up.
Another student, whose teal skin glittered in the light, asked Keeling, "How do you keep safe from all the environmental hazards?"
"Um... Actually? My adoptive parents and I live in a shack located just inside the foreigners' graveyard. Life gets interesting when the Hungry Ghost Festival rolls around. But the wrought iron fence and gate keep some of the riff-raff, even the oh-so-emo goths, out."
The dark-haired human, Raiford, hid his face in his hands.
"That doesn't sound very effective."
"We haven't had a body dumped on site since I was," Keeling replied.
Yendroth performed the equivalent of a polite cough.
"I think we'll save descriptions of Cadet Raiford's home ecology for later. Perhaps an extra class session for credit."
Raiford sank further down in his seat. Keeling took this as a signal to speak for him.
"Trust me. Arkham's picturesque, but yeah, no."
"Then let's take a look at Cadet Keeling's medical scan from yesterday. As we shall see, humans are no strangers to injury." Yendroth trailed off. Maybe he'd pulled up the wrong diagnostic scan?
"Keeling, what's this thing occupying your left orbital socket?"
"That eye's a jade prosthetic. The bone around it has been replaced by more of the same. Having a tennis ball-sized chunk blasted out of your head does that. And no, I don't want anyone going after it with scalpels."
"I'm sure. Class, notice also the bone restructuring here in the frontal bone, pointing to an injury that should have caused a dangerous concussion."
Raiford grumbled loud enough for all to hear.
"Someone was supposed to stay in the hospital for recovery."
"That someone doesn't agree."
The Professor knew humans well enough to head off wherever that digression was headed.
"Elsewhere, we can see evidence of microfracturing of the left tibia and a full break of the right tibia. Healed cartilage damage in the shoulders and wrists, along with restructuring of both pairs of radius and ulna, indicates a rather traumatic childhood. Now, let's look at soft tissues."
He realized the depth of his mistake as soon as he saw it.
Healing patterns common to human military servicemembers didn't belong here. Someone had shot this child in the gut with a kinetic projectile. Time to tap dance around one of the many disturbing things that made Earth a deathworld: its inhabitants.
"This additional circulatory mass may be why our subject is referred to as 'variant'. Is this a functional modification?"
Keeling responded. "Yes, my blood somehow requires a secondary heart. Most doctors prioritize the one up topside."
"And how would you say that affects oxygenation?"
"I've still got red blood cells, if that's what you're asking. I just have other oxygen-carrying compounds as well. And caffeine. Gotta have that! That's what my doctors told me."
By the time the class lurched to its intended conclusion, nearly a dozen students had relocated to safer seats. By "safer", they generally meant "further away from the chaos gremlins from Earth."
# # #
The Galactic Academy functioned as the equivalent of an American A&M university. As newly accessed cadets, Keeling and Raiford's next stop after xenobiology was uniform and gear issue for introductory hand-to-hand combat. Luckily, the quartermaster could fit boots on anything that had two or more feet. Baseline skill evaluation followed.
"Just like old times!" Benjamin joked to Peter.
"Only if they have a skinny, short, and completely evil old man who could dent battle armor with his hands."
"That's a universal constant. The only difference is the number of stripes he's sporting."
They were greeted by an instructor who might have been skinny and short by his species'sstandards, while remaining entirely evil and old.
"Glad to see you two gentlemen finally show up to our little gathering!" said Instructor Chews Trash Spits Nails, Nails for short.
"Glad to be here!" Benjamin chirped.
Judging by the other cadets' reactions, he shouldn't be. He so soon wouldn't be. But if he was, that was about to become a self-correcting problem.
"Keeling. That sparring circle. Raiford. That circle. You and your partner have ten minutes to force one of you outside the circle or achieve nonlethal submission. That should be simple enough for newbies."
"Best two out of three?" asked Peter. If he was going to have flashbacks to Basic Martial Arts class, he might as well do it right.
"That assumes you'll make it through the first round."
"Weapons, powers, other limitations?"
"If that will help you feel better about your performance, go for it. Nonlethal only."
Instructor Nails called over two returning cadets. Cadet Lithia looked like she'd been grown from crystals in some off-world cave. Her four-armed stature loomed over Peter. Cadet Animosmia appeared to be a sentient cloud of either exotic particles or maybe razor blades. Benjamin simply grinned with a feral light in his eyes while performing namaste.
"Begin!"
* * *
Peter started with an evasive pattern, circling around Lithia and watching for signs that she was a striker or a grappler. He'd clipped his taser onto his duty belt, but ruled its use out for now.
Lithia rushed Peter, closing with him not for a grapple, but for a front kick at someplace soft and painful. Peter parried the kick, then followed through with a trapping move to unbalance her. That left him dangerously within her arms' reach. But she'd never sparred with Tag Team, had she? Two bodies, two minds in sync, double the bruises, the only thing missing was a Doublemint gum commercial.
The real difference was that Lithia's extra pair of arms was limited to the same arc in front of her as normal arms. Peter ducked low, joints unhinging enough to pull that off. He used that time to let his brain shift gears, seeing limbs as levers springing from sockets. Striking points were just specialized manipulators waiting to be configured.
Lithia tracked his move, shifting weight so her next kick would add momentum to a turn and two-fisted strike. One fist grazed Peter's side when he jumped into the gap opening up. His weight, high above his opponent's center of gravity, springboarding from one shoulder into a tight roll, left Lithia crashing to her back. What the maneuver did to the arm he'd held onto to stay inside the circle was another matter.
"I yield!"
The look on the female cadet's face said, "I'm done for today. Maybe longer."
Peter felt like a rock slab had landed on him, but he moved out of the way.
"Don't move," he said. "If anything's broken, that just makes it worse."
"As if you'd know, human!"
"Look. I overestimated what your body could take. That's on me. But I do know what bone dislocations and breaks feel like." Before she could muster a comeback, Peter added, "And I will sit on you if that's what it takes to keep you from injuring yourself further."
"You wouldn't dare!"
"I've done it before. Reduced dislocations, that is. My teammates haven't needed me to sit on them."
"Teammates?"
"Sure. Whateley has a combat team training program. It's nonmilitary for the most part."
"For the most part?" Lithia asked. "Did that truly sound reassuring in your head before you said that?"
"My parents called it character-building."
"This is why hardly anyone trusts your species."
* * *
Benjamin swung a manifested staff through Animosmia, causing the other to jump back. The wood was abraded to half its thickness where it had intersected the alien, but it had done its job.
"Point to the Terran!"
"Where'd he get that stick?" Animosmia demanded.
"What stick?" Benjamin asked, empty-handed and grinning as if he were an apex predator looking forward to playing with its meal.
Instructor Nails looked at Animosmia with his best "I'm so very disappointed to be sharing oxygen with you" look.
"Cadet. Exactly what danger does a primitive stick of wood pose to you?"
"N-nothing, Instructor, Sir."
"That's what I thought." Instructor Nails sighed and said, "Again."
"You won't catch me with that trick again," proclaimed Animosmia.
Benjamin rubbed his hands together. "Nah. Where's the fun in that?"
The real problem was how to engage with an opponent that was only present when delivering a blow. Dimensional phase displacement, psychokinetic swarm, or something more exotic?
Cadet Animosmia concentrated for a moment, and this time, one of his appendages straightened out into a shiny metal blade.
Benjamin shifted one hand behind his back before gesturing 'bring it'. He met the provoked charge with a composite ceramic shield coated with metallic magnesium. One of them would still be comfortable when it ignited, and it might not be his opponent.
Animosmia didn't so much as blink or flinch. Psi senses. Benjamin could work with that.
"How are you doing that?"
"Scandalously." Benjamin hadn't been the Imp's teaching assistant for nothing.
The particles that made up the edges of Animosmia's sword began moving with intent. Who wouldn't enjoy swinging a pocket chainsaw if they had one?
Benjamin palmed a Mister Sticky Special he'd never gotten official authorization to use. Something about risk management and lawsuits? He chucked the 40mm mini-grenade dead-center of the other guy's personal cuisinart space. The casing cracked open almost instantaneously, releasing a growing cloud of adhesive foam that gummed up the entire works.
Okay. Maybe the area of effect could interfere with little things like eyelids and airways. Still fun to watch.
"I... yield. Please. Just let me go!"
Benjamin wiped the smile off his face.
"Anyone got a spare gallon or two of acetone? I can't be the only person using nail polish."
* * *
"Gosh. What are the odds of two humans cheating?" huffed one of the more humanoid cadets, "One hundred percent?"
Benjamin crossed his arms.
"What part of 'if you're not cheating, you're not trying hard enough to stay alive' do you not understand?"
Instructor Nails answered the short and mouthy one, "As late as your arrival was, it's early in the term. How about you tell me what sort of training you've had?"
"Me? Silat, tai chi chuan, and savate, along with some mixed martial arts and dirty tricks based on aikido. Raiford's got more of the tai chi and mixed arts."
"Did you hear that, Cadet Rxkwxki? They're not cheating, much, for humans. EarthGov just likes to stack the deck."
From what Benjamin had seen since being dumped into this timeline, that scanned perfectly.
"What about this one being able to produce objects out of nothing?"
"Well?"
Benjamin pulled his hands from his pockets and flipped two coins in the air, one hand to the other. He juggled three coins as he stepped toward Rxkwxki. Two landed in his left hand, heads up. He smoothly reached past the cadet's head to pluck the third coin from behind one of her sensory clusters.
"Legerdemain. It's a kind of magic."
"There's no such thing!"
"Where I'm from, we used to think the same of psionic manipulation. Turns out that Animocity here uses psychokinesis to hold themself together — when they aren't glued to themself."
Instructor Nails interrupted, saying, "You'll refrain from using adhesive holdouts unless you want to spend the rest of your time cleaning training equipment. Understood?"
"Yes, Instructor!"
Nails wasn't buying it, but some boundaries were more important.
"Fine. Cadet Keeling, you and Rxkwxki, Training Pad 17. No weapons, improvised or otherwise. Work on throws and falls."
"What in the Seven Hells do you need with adhesive foam anyway?" Rxkwxki, soon to be abbreviated to Ski, asked.
Keeling shrugged as if it were obvious.
"It was designed as a non-lethal crowd control method. There are a few bugs left to work out, but at least it's water-resistant. Really helpful in British weather."
"So very human. May I assume that you can take a throw without breaking apart?"
"Mostly. Just throw me to the mat, not through it."
Ski made a sharp noise that Benjamin's translator took as laughter.
"What a strange distinction."
"If you'd ever trained with Sensei Dennon, you wouldn't say that. She used to go by Wildhammer, if that tells you anything."
"Wild hammer. She sounds like a great warrior, to have been gifted such a title."
"She took that code name back when she was," Benjamin paused. How much difference would a year make? "a couple of Terran years younger than me. That's not to say that Sifu Wong, Sensei Beaumont, or Sensei Tolman are slouches. I'm still learning."
"Let's see if the student is worthy of his masters, shall we?"
# # #
The next day began with bruises blooming on top of other bruises, which, to be honest, described most days after martial arts practice. Going by the scuttlebutt from the carnivores in adjacent dorm rooms, breakfast was at Dining Hall #17, also known as the meat-lovers' special. Peter and Benjamin recognized a few students from xenobiology who hadn't moved as far away as others.
Pherlix, a seven-foot-tall ursine Crogan whose name was impossible to pronounce otherwise, sat down at the table. After a few awkward moments, Peter shifted to sit next to Benjamin and give Pherlix a clear exit route.
"I'd always heard that humans were appallingly fond of capsaicin," Pherlix sniffed carefully. "But now I get the impression that other chemical weapons are included in human cuisine."
"Peter here looked up the hidden food production menus."
It wasn't exactly untrue. Gadgeteers and hacked customizations just went together. Between the awesome cafes Benjamin, Tabbie, Ms. Imp, and his parents dragged Peter to, the guy was developing a more adventuresome palate. Besides, it was all practical!
Benjamin went on to say, "Cooking and acidic pH work well for reducing bacterial growth and denaturing proteins for better digestion, but many of the spices we use inhibit potential pathogens. They taste good too! "
"You have converted phytochemical toxins intended to deter predation into food preservatives?"
"Some. Others are used as medicines. A few make effective assassination tools."
"That is not reassuring."
"Earth life has been described as endless forms most beautiful, abounding in infinite variety."
Peter broke in with, "Some foods do require experience to appreciate. Others are the stuff of dares, or starvation."
"Like haggis."
Pherlix pulled up a description on his tablet. No telling what his translator implant had called it.
"A savory Scottish dish consisting of sheep's heart, liver, and lungs, minced with oatmeal, suet, onions, and spices, and traditionally encased in an animal's stomach. It sounds... what is savory?"
"Think curry, but then, dial it way down," Benjamin replied.
Peter swallowed a piece of bacon-like meat substance. "At least it's boiled, not deep-fried," he said. "It gets cooked all the way through that way without burning."
"If you say so. Your species'sreputation for surviving regrettable culinary choices doesn't help your case."
Peter shrugged. What was there to say?
"We're just special that way."
"What is your next class? I should like to be far away when it starts."
"Evolution of Mental Resilience, which sounds suspiciously like Abnormal Xenopsychology One-oh-Screw-You. After lunch, it's something called Principles of Survival: The Galaxy's A Really Dangerous Place."
Benjamin added helpfully, "The last time I took a Principles of class, I ended up being hired on as the teaching assistant."
"Oh? Interesting."
"I also immediately got assigned detention."
Pherlix left, rumbling something about rescheduling hibernation in a distant cave, perhaps in a more distant star system.
# # #
"Welcome, class, to Evolution of Mental Resilience," droned Doctor Walthrus Aberystwythllness in a sleep-inducing monotone that rated a solid seven on the Quintain Scale of consciousness inhibition. Both Whateley exchange students missed their former cafeteria's 'devisor coffee' equally fiercely.
"A course syllabus and selected readings from my ongoing research have been sent to your personal devices. Complaints about administrative overreach can be submitted to Room 101 of the Peace Ministry Annex. Mmmkay?"
Peter caught Benjamin jotting that last bit down.
"Skip that bit. I've got a bad feeling about this Ministry of Peace business."
"What?"
"Just, no. Trust me on this one."
Aberystwythllness opined further.
"While not technically seen as a moral failing among all galactic species, many regard fear as the beginning of moral decline. However, as the course goes on, we shall examine the adoption of social coping mechanisms, reframing certain fears as traditional concerns. Moral incompetence is thus understood as the logical outcome of emotional resource scarcity in the face of changing conditions."
Peter translated, "Fear is the mind-killer."
"Huh?"
"Some young species, such as humans, can be very, erm, emphatic in communicating their fear-driven anxieties. I mention humans because they also display contrary behaviors. Once anxiety exceeds a situationally variable limit, humans can act with the silent intent of other apex predators."
A hand-like appendage went up.
"But, Professor, apex predators don't display fear reactions! Caution at most."
"Miss Serenia, since we have a couple of Terrans in this class, I believe you will have an opportunity to see predatory tiers in practice. It's invariably instructional."
It was beginning to sound like the class was going to have a field trip to some galactic zoo exhibit. Benjamin hoped for a student discount.
"Before that scheduled class, you all will have a chance to examine your own fears. Understanding your own baseline status is crucial for developing mental and psychic resilience."
Benjamin whispered to Peter, "My Intro to Psychos class doesn't seem so bad now, does it?"
"Aren't you still on the 'no pokey brainy' list?"
"Only until graduation."
"... The Academy only maintains one Phobic Simulator. Follow me to the staging and viewing room, where you will wait and take notes on your classmates' performance. I will call out your names. Please do not dawdle, as we have limited time allocated. Come!"
The primary difference between the staging area and a standard conference room was the graphics resolution provided by the holoviewer. One of the developers must have had a phobia of tiny things. The other difference was the entirely unprofessional absence of coffee and doughnuts.
Heights, other classes of fauna, drowning, lethal weather, various ways to die or fail with or without weapons, age, illness, obsolescence, tax preparation, inspections, public speaking, humiliation, clowns: the specifics varied among species. However, the outcomes of letting the Simulator dig into each student's psyche remained similar. Most left the chamber shaking, or their species's equivalent.
"Keeling, Benjamin."
"Here goes nothing," he said, standing up."
Peter stood up with him. He placed a hand on the other's shoulder.
"Want me to step outside?"
"I, um."
"Thought so. I'll take five."
The machine itself used more leads than a combined electrocardiograph and electroencephalogram, but sticky connectors are still connectors. The induction coils built into its headgear were ominous in a mad science kind of way, but all the other students survived. Wasn't that one of the Workshop's claims about dodgy equipment cobbled together for bypassing physics on odd-numbered Tuesdays? Benjamin was left to his own thoughts as the machine's diagnostics spun up.
What if the machine only dug up things he just didn't like? Mayonnaise sucked in that slimy way, but he didn't actually fear the stuff. Checking his meals for awfully-sourced meat was just natural. He could think of at least three butchers, back in Kapalangpur, who doubled as crime scene 'cleaners'. What if a bit of chainsaw broke off on a bone, pin, or piercing and got cooked into a mystery burger? There were so many other ways to poison food, and it wasn't fun at all to be on the receiving end of the bun.
Peter really did need to find a better class of loser to fall in love with. It would be okay if he finally figured it was all just a mis-aimed crush, right?
Benjamin's nightmares were, well, nightmarish. He wasn't in therapy for nothing! More like CPTSD. His worst nightmares, like watching Peter actually die under a pile of bricks this time, routinely woke him up in a cold sweat. He had reviewed the real world incident in detail and had ideas for preventing a repeat. Only once in a while was he reminded of his own body being dumped in a ditch. That was one of his happiest memories. Speaking of memories, this gear he was hooked up to had better have memory to spare.
To be fair, Benjamin had damned good reasons for hating being exposed to snow and cold weather. He remembered almost freezing to death in winter snow. He'd run from something.
He had to run! He'd been given a unicorn by one of the other Daddies, and he was expected t-to, to.
Professor Aberystwythllness was already shutting down by the time Benjamin started screaming. University tech services had imposed a fifteen-second dump for those kinds of trauma. Human younglings weren't even physically big enough for what he'd seen.
"Let me go!"
The terrified survivor cut half the restraining straps while still in them.
Peter returned to a room of shocked alien students. The professor was referring the class to the school's trauma counseling services. No one dared approach Benjamin, which, all things considered, was smart of them. Peter carefully walked over to Benjamin, hunched over in the chair.
"Hey."
"Hey."
"You going to sit there all day?"
"Tempted."
"Meds?"
"Alien Xanax? Sounds like a plan."
Peter held his hand out, waiting for Benjamin to take it in his own time. No pressure, no guilt trip. If the medications on hand turned out to be too little? Well, maybe they could get some scientific use out of Alienation U.
On the way to a clinic for carbon-based oxygen-breathers, Benjamin finally spoke up.
"What about your deepest fears? What kind of boogieman do you keep under the bed?"
Peter took as deep a breath as his lungs could handle despite irritation from galactic cleaning and sanitary products.
"I've already seen it."
He remembered those rare times when the light faded from a pair of green eyes he knew as well as his own. Logically, he knew there'd be one last lights out. One last time unto the breach.
Just, could it please not be today?
# # #
Professor Gus was a proud Goonie of the Goo-Goo Clade who resembled the mythical Bigfoot of Earth legend. He'd been teaching Principles of Survival for the past two hundred standard orbits. Thus, he knew in advance that one of his two Terran students would be absent.
"Cadet Raiford, please explain why Cadet Keeling is not present."
"Benjamin and the Phobic Simulator had a significant disagreement about psychic ethics."
"A mere disagreement with an AI should have no effect on my class, Cadet."
Peter refrained from rolling his eyes. With his luck, the alien would take the gesture as a proposal.
"I could name at least half a dozen synthetic intelligences back home who would strongly disagree. Some have needed counseling. Anyway, Benjamin is currently sedated. The Simulator and the entire rest of the class are in counseling."
Peter sighed like any teenager being reminded of the universe's general perversity.
"He passed Introduction to Psychic Disciplines with a solid 'B'. Yet – somehow – the guy is still on the Psycho Department's Do Not Engage list. Can't imagine why."
Unlike many aliens, Gus could read human expressions. The boy had at least a solid thesis on the matter.
"For the sake of argument, I'll assume that my colleagues need to work more on their trauma processing algorithms. When can we expect Keeling to grace us with his presence?"
"Medical assured me that he can't break fr— Probably the next class, Professor."
"I shall look forward to it."
"Sir?"
"You Terrans have unique perspectives on the topic of survival. Even your mistakes tend to be educational."
"Mr. Anderson and The Imp have said similar things."
"The Imp? That sounds unique."
"Scandalously unique. Or, so I'm told."
Professor Gus said, "Please take a seat."
The galaxy offered a broad array of environments that Gus's students might have to face someday. Opposing forces, tactics, and weapons fire could be equally lethal. But any infantry grunt knows, vividly, too many other ways to die without being shot at. After all, no one can fight a battle if their ass doesn't make it to the line. To be fair, field researchers run similar risks. Still.
"Welcome to Principles of Survival. I know that many of you are only here for the required physical education and general sciences credit. That is unfortunate but understandable. My colleagues and I will be presenting materials and experiences that very well could save lives: yours and your pack's. What you take to heart is entirely and unequivocably on you. However, don't come back crying that we never warned you."
Some, or their surviving families, would do so anyway. Professor Gus was proud of how few of those lawsuits made it past discovery.
The human youngling's scowl was precious.
"Who here has successfully completed survival training elsewhere, formal or otherwise?"
Not many, except for the few deathworlders. Typical. Every term.
"Raiford. What's the first rule of survival?"
"Avoid dying today."
Once the snickers and gas emissions of humor died down, Professor Gus nodded.
"It's as simple as that. Don't sacrifice utility for tradition or protocol. Tend to immediate needs now, because you can't once you're dead. Know the differences amidst needs and desires. Which environments would you say that you and your missing partner have experience in?"
"That depends on who's asking."
"What you can afford to reveal, if you don't mind."
Peter looked up and off to the side as he went over scenarios.
"Survival One covered basics for urban environments. The final exam hospitalized me, so you could say the experience was personal. Natural environments, counting mountainous terrane and temperate forests? My father's taken me on a couple of hunts. Benjamin's the outdoorsy one. Equatorial desert and rainforest for him. If anyone asks, I never said anything about going SCUBA diving in the South China Sea."
The human massaged the back of his neck. Given the gesture's translation, perhaps this diving activity wasn't limited to social bonding? Another topic for later.
Several students thumbed through their personal data devices, looking up strange concepts like equatorial deserts and rainforests on the same planet. A few soon regretted looking up the predators inhabiting the South China Sea area of Earth. Three thousand kilometers from the mythical hellscape called Australia was clearly Not Far Enough.
Professor Gus nodded and said, "You may be seated. Does anyone else have different expertise? No? In that case, let us start with what this class cannot cover. After that, we'll go over the major types of survival challenges. My teaching preference is to start with general cases followed by specific instances to reinforce principles."
# # #
Later, during the station's rest cycle, Peter felt the unmistakable shifting a bunk makes when sixty kilos (rounded up, but don't make a big deal of it) are added to the load. He tilted his head, breathing the scent of warm skin and freshly-washed hair. Almost a habit now, he rolled just enough to take weight off the arm now under him. Benjamin's leg was positioned more stategically.
At least one of them was likely to get a full night's sleep. He really should mind that more.
# # #
The next day started as well as could be expected, with a notification to meet with Doctor Walthrus Aberystwythllness before returning to his class. Pherlix sat with Benjamin and Peter at breakfast.
"I was under the impression that humans were omnivores," he said. Peter's high-carbohydrate meal fit with the concept. Benjamin's protein-centric breakfast less so.
"The meal fabricator is doing a decent job of a coconut-based sauce for the chicken. I'm not sure what's being used as a thickening agent." Benjamin guessed, "Maybe starch plus indigestible fiber."
"Indigestible? For humans?"
"Usually plant cellulose and chitin. We don't eat wood or termites! Most termites, anyway. That takes enzymes we don't have. But, fiber helps keep things moving."
"Pressing for more detail would leave me more traumatized, wouldn't it?"
"Heh. Someone once told me I'm too old for toilet humor, but I disagree."
Peter swallowed a spoonful of processed egg-like materials. "That disagreement was with his therapist, by the way."
"It just keeps getting worse with you Terrans."
Benjamin chirped, "It's kind of our thing!"
# # #
Circling back to the previous xenobiology class, Professor Yendroth made an announcement.
"A word of advice to those tempted to poke around in restricted data systems: don't. Earth governments have a unique perspective on their even more unique citizens. You can presume that behind each security classification there's a human placing a bet, giggling maniacally in corners, possibly both."
The Professor looked up from his notes to see Benjamin quietly handing Peter a facsimile currency token. For the sake of sanity, he refused to ask about the nature of the bet during class. Career educators learned such things over time. Terran metabolic pathways were already mind-bending enough. Besides, the other students were already putting as much distance between themselves and the Terrans as the classroom allowed.
* * *
Walking out of xenobiology class, Peter had to give his partner some credit for presentation. Not that Benjamin wasn't the most devious person he'd ever known.
"Pretty good idea, using your bookbag to hide where those kunai were coming from."
"I've done the bunny hat trick in my act. Not very different."
Not very easy, either. Benjamin put hours into his practice, not just to make it look easy. Some guys picked up fidget spinners, he took up coin walking.
Also, knife throwing.
These days, Twain Cottage orientation includes a warning against opening doors that sound like wood being hit with sharpened chunks of iron.
"Do you think Professor Yendroth knew you practiced? That sort of thing doesn't belong on transcripts."
Benjamin shrugged.
"He could be playing the Law of Averages. Humans throw shit. That makes it a matter of time before he runs across someone with expertise."
Remembering the Professor's point, Peter said, "It's weird that so many intelligent species don't develop that early on. 'See rock. Throw rock. Repeat until someone drops dead.' Works everywhere."
"Huh. Maybe it should be uncommon. Imagine playing baseball with wing claws?"
Peter tried not to picture that biomechanical trash fire. He just hummed, "One of these clavicles is not like the others," as they walked into one of the less crowded dining halls.
To their surprise, Lithia and another student – a four-footed, brown-furred Grask named Ismella – walked up to their table. One of Lithia's arms was still in a sling, but she still managed a tray of various minerals.
"May we join you?" Lithia asked. "My roommate, Ismella here, says xenobiology class today was more interesting than usual."
Benjamin gulped down his bite of overloaded sandwich.
"Sure," he said, motioning to Peter to shift seats. He pretended not to enjoy Peter's warmth next to him.
"First," Ismella said, looking at Peter. "Would you have really sat on Lithia? Like you said you would?"
"I could have easily lifted him off me despite my injury!" Lithia protested, even as Peter said "Yes."
"He's denser than he looks."
"I am not going to dignify that with a response."
"Dignity? It would be so much better for everyone's dignity if you primitives left this institution."
Lovely. The purple people hater had taken his road on the show.
Benjamin let his expression fade back into something neutral. There were two civilians and Peter also present.
"It's said that an essential part of dignity is accepting that the only thing you're entitled to is death and disappointment."
"Two things, unlike dignity, civilization, and common sense, that Earthers have in abundance."
"We also have party tricks. Wanna try turning one?"
Benjamin scooted his chair back, opening an indirect line of attack if he needed to move.
"In fact, I was just being reminded of Pin The Tail On The Donkey."
He casually pulled a kunai from behind his back. He flicked up into a lazy back-spin that landed handle first. A little retained momentum sent the knife into a flat spin millimeters above his palm.
"Typical. Is that supposed to be some primitive attempt at a dominance display?"
"No. I'll let you and your better half there give it your best college – do colleges even have short busses – try harder."
"In your puerile little dreams, dirtlings."
Lithia spoke up, not caring to turn around to face the uninvited, "Don't you have family ashes, participation trophies, or whatever to polish, Coprolitax? If not, please go find some. You bore me."
Benjamin stayed on his feet until the Zephyrian gong show rejects went looking for easier prey.
Ismella finished her bite of some exotic tubers and sauce dish.
"See, Lithia? I told you Professor Yendroth said that humans were tactically-adaptive apex persistance hunters."
"Were you using telekinesis just now?" Lithia asked Benjamin.
"Hm? No. Manipulating props is all about hand-eye coordination and practice. "
"Both of which contribute to accurate weapon throwing," Peter added. "Throw in a little practical psychology, and things get interesting."
"Threatening?"
"Promising."
Lithia concentrated on a spoonful of crystals in the palm of her hand. If she were human, she might have been taking a socially delaying swig of coffee.
"To be fair, steel knives of any configuration would pose no concern to my species."
Benjamin smiled a very apex predatory smile.
"That's when plastique makes things more spicy."
"Spicy?"
"If we have the time, I can demonstrate in the training hall. Come to think of it, there have to be targets we can set up for that."
"For the record, Keeling? You make Rxkwxki's point perfectly," said Lithia.
# # #
"Since our last meeting, it has come to our attention," Doctor Aberystwythllness began, struggling to diplomatically describe the information.
Benjamin leaned back and templed his fingers. Strange how a gesture of serious contemplation could turn so menacing.
"'Our' meaning who, exactly? Because my understanding is that your machine revealed very personal, very private, legally protected information."
On the other tentacle, humans remain predators.
"Legal protections?" Aberystwythllness asked. This was rarely a consideration among students their age. "I assure you that our counseling resources are more than secure enough for what the Phobic Simulator is designed to show."
"Where are the confidentiality statements for classroom attendees watching from the next room? I was never asked to sign one."
"Our galactic civilization is advanced enough not to require such things!"
"With all due respect, I don't care about your civilization. I do care about what its individuals may take out of context or use against me."
"The last fifteen seconds of the record are only available to me, you, and your assigned counselors. Anyone else discovered handling such materials would face at least censure, possibly more severe consequences. What's concerning to us is the specific nature of the phobias uncovered."
"Their specific nature?"
"Yes."
Benjamin lowered his head. It wasn't a gesture of submission. Vulnerability? Sincerity? Perhaps.
"Those are the memories of an eight-year-old boy's failed attempt to escape from the real monsters of our world," Benjamin said. After a long pause, he raised his bowed head and said. "Some scars take longer to heal than others. I'm working on it. I am."
The boy looked back up, his green eyes far too serious for someone his age.
"If I fail, it won't be for lack of effort."
"The record then raises some serious allegations. Do you require legal counsel as well?"
"Professor, the 'dimensional variant' flag on my documents means I'm a long, long way from home. Those responsible are spending the rest of their lives in prison, in solitary confinement, for their protection. In theory, I could care less where my mobile womb unit and their unholy spawn are now. If they've crawled into a bottle, so be it."
Now the professor wilted under Benjamin's ice-cold stare. He didn't need to see its teeth to understand that he was looking at a predator that hunts other predators.
"For the purposes of the classroom, we still need to know and understand your fears and anxieties. We'd rather not dig into memories, for reasons you appear to understand. What might not be obvious is that we'd rather avoid triggering violent fear reactions. Some species could tear you limb from limb before they understand what they're doing. The psychological cost alone..."
"I'm intimately aware that retrieving a soldier from the battlefield is a far cry from recovering them."
"There is also the issue of the other Terran."
"Peter? I think he knows more about my broken pieces than he lets on. And that? That is one of my fears."
"He stepped out when you entered the Simulator."
"I know. I would do the same for him."
"Would you?"
Benjamin hesitated before admitting, "No."
"No, I'd go looking for whoever hurt him." Then his mouth crooked up. "Again."
Aberystwythllness recognized the warning for what it was. He marked both Terrans 'completed' on the baseline evaluation. After all, Terran chaos tended to resolve with fewer injuries when left unexamined.
"Then I'll just inform you the first psychic sparring matches begin next week. As with the other tactics classes, what happens on the mat stays on the mat. I trust both you and Raiford will prepare appropriately. For example, industrial adhesives have limited use on the battlefield of the mind."
Benjamin frowned before letting an insincere smile play across his face.
"My experience has been that psi ability degrades rapidly when said adhesive is blocking an opponent's airway. See you in class, Professor."
# # #
Professor Aberystwythllness sent revised rules to each student before the first psychic sparring class. The humans were heard to quietly claim the "Sensei back home" would have considered many of the newly prohibited tactics required.
Gods of Form and Understanding! Were their teachers even worse?
"Gentlemen, does your home academy provide advanced psychomedical services?"
Peter looked confused by the question.
"Um, yeah?"
Benjamin helpfully added, "Arkham Research Consortium has a state-of-the-art facility just a few miles away from campus. Extreme mimetic hazards, no extra charge."
"We'll be using galactic protocols, nonetheless. As of today, each of you will be assigned a psi interface pod. If any of you fail to maintain minimum cleanliness standards, you'll be the only one suffering. Today, we will be verifying connections and presenting you with level one threats. Any questions?"
"How representative is the simulation?" Peter asked.
"This is no mere simulation! The equipment reads your thoughts and provides fully immersive sensory feedback to your physical senses."
"So, if I imagined you in a set of ratty, black robes and a crooked old witch's hat?"
"You could make the attempt. If you have the stronger focus, self-image, and power needed to back it up, perhaps others will see the same. This gear is better suited for visualizing mental shields as actual shields and making mental attacks more visibly threatening. Weaker or poorly constructed defenses might appear more ridiculous. Think twice before antagonizing your classmates beyond the assignment."
Benjamin looked up and away, as if thinking of something he shouldn't.
"I'm thinking French Maid."
"I'm thinking English Leather."
"Promises, promises."
Twelve psi pods filled with the usual amounts of derailment and delays. The shared mindscape spread out around the students as a pale sandy plain under a washed-out sky. That was expected, being an average of "nowhere" as different species interpreted it. Once the scenario settled, the Professor keyed in the most basic non-threat level: "Home."
Twelve conflicting visions of home sprang up around the students. Eyries, spires, and colonized cliff spaces responded to the avian species. Space stations hanging above dead planets, ice giants, and jewel worlds, their artificial environments a stark contrast. A modest building, surrounded by manicured green vegetation, briefly resolved before shattering in a burst of sheer panic. Cadet Raiford ran out the entrance door that became the fanged maw of a polychrome jednorog. He began speaking in hushed tones as soon as he grabbed the other Terran's shoulders. In less than a minute, their merging experience became a clearing surrounded by an aggressively green jungle under a turquoise sky.
The implications were staggering. Few species produced untrained psychics able to empathize their way into another's mindscape.
"You okay?" Peter whispered to Benjamin.
"Apparently not, but getting better."
"Armor?"
Benjamin looked at Peter's blue, grease-stained overalls covering a standard supersuit. He preferred either more armor or less clothing, but it wasn't his self-image to fix. Benjamin concentrated, and his cadet uniform shifted to a black-and-green, articulated, high-impact resin battle suit.
The Professor keyed in the next piece of the threat level: "native fauna, one each, predator." The neural linkages would need less energy to conjure up threats the students were already familiar with. Ratcheting challenges up slowly let students keep up. Also, parents and the academy's medical staff tended to respond poorly to severe mental injuries.
Benjamin tapped the side of his helmet. He pointed into the jungle, then angled off to the left. Peter nodded and angled right, taking advantage of headstones and monuments for cover.
Nine feet and two hundred pounds of death, wrapped in tawny orange, black, and white fur, slinked into the clearing. It was critically endangered death, but death nonetheless.
"No. No. No. No. No. No," Peter said to himself, knowing it would be useless.
Benjamin's subconscious was anxiously telling itself this was only a simulated kitty. It wasn't running away from him, was it? He manifested a volleyball-sized wicker ball filled with aromatic leaves and bopped it over to the tiger. He still hid behind a grave marker, just in case.
Professor Aberystwythllness witnessed ten standard conflict scenarios. After all, most species'shomeworlds evolved predators capable of triggering a fight or flight response. The Terrans, however, were watching a very stoned, purring, feline megapredator batting a bouncy cellulose ball around a collection of funereal monuments. The Professor did what any self-respecting academic would. He manually triggered a new predator retrieval, this time from Raiford's memory stores.
To many aliens, Raiford's home address referencing Arkham, New Hampshire, meant little. Even humans had given up on explaining English personal and place names. Was there even an Old Hampshire, perhaps even a Refurbished Hampshire, now on discount? Then there was the odd reference to being a "gadgeteer". Were there any humans who weren't insanely curious, tool-using maniacs?
Benjamin was the first to notice the scenario update. Weird eyes peered out of the dark undergrowth, visible well ahead of their body.
"See that? Did someone let Doctor Talltale out?"
The creature appeared to have been cobbled together from a star-nosed mole, a wolverine, and a Cheshire Cat. On the whole, it was almost too normal for a Doctor Talltale project.
Peter busied himself in thoroughly voiding the warranty on his translator implant. If he remembered correctly, these things were supposed to have language.
"It's called a zoog. Omnivore. Mythos-touched. Shouldn't exist here."
"Any weak spots?" Benjamin asked.
"Well. They hate cats..."
The Malayan tiger might have been in his Happy Place so far. Yet, he wasn't so far gone that he would miss a pounce or fail to sink sharp canines into a prey animal's neck.
"I'm guessing the feeling's mutual?"
"Very."
Three of the alien students tapped out after their sensory fields overlapped with the Terrans'. Somehow, no one had expected to watch a deathworld predator chow down on something that shouldn't even exist. Back in the Terrans' corner of the arena, a tiger went back to the Happy Ball because cats will be cats.
* * *
Professor Aberystwythllness decided that, just maybe, he'd allowed enough chaos to creep into the practical materials. He nodded to an assistant.
"Let's put fully independent autonomous combat drones into play. Terrans use similar machines in structured entertainment."
"Professor? Aren't those games and theatrical productions age and security restricted?"
"All the best entertainments from Earth are."
* * *
The next scenario plunged Benjamin and Peter into a dark and eerie stillness.
Peter sub-vocalized over a comm link to Benjamin, "Did they really think we couldn't imagine night vision?"
"I'm signing you up for Intros for Psychos. Night vision gear is part of your self-image. Other folks have other sleights of mind."
"And if you'd paid more attention in Powers class, you'd know it's all psi attacks wrapped in metaphors. That includes the three bogies vectoring in to flank us."
"Attempting to flank us. Attempting being the operative word."
Benjamin reached out with his actual power.
* * *
"Professor! We just lost the humans!"
"We what?"
"They just... disappeared from all the monitoring systems."
"This was a Level One exercise. Even humans couldn't drop dead while hooked up."
* * *
Peter was the first to jump out of his psi pod.
"Could you please not crash the Sims while we're still connected?"
"How was I to know that alien systems don't handle misperception well?"
"HIVE doesn't handle it well! Or, does she?"
"To be fair, the Chief handles less of me well."
"Whatever you meant to say, don't."
"Nanites for the win?"
"She'll be five hundred years old and still looking like a sorority chick after going through a hundred husbands or something. Ew."
"Isn't that just like half the anime and manga online?"
"Double ewww."
# # #
Weeks into the term, Principles of Survival convened its first survival trip. Most of the students in class arrived early, exosuits and power packs in hand, tentacle, or whatever. The first-timers, the majority of them, brought half again more than what they'd ever use. Professor Gus explicitly warned his charges, every term, not to bring any ancestral lineage honor weapons on field trips. Yet, every term, someone did.
The Terrans arrived wearing a mix of military and civilian gear that made them look like demented Scouting rejects. Then again, humans still chose to teach their younglings military reconnaissance and forward observer skills under the rubric of "building character." They also loved their sharp, pointy sticks, so, technically, bayonets could be called specialized knives. Gus's equipment scanner understood those. It glitched when faced with a "Workshop-certified first aid kit" produced by Sidewinder Industries. The minigrenades Raiford carried set off other alarms.
"Gentlemen, were you aware these contain a controlled aphrodisiac among some Federation species?"
Keeling nearly choked. Gus was pointing at the CS gas rounds.
"That's for nonlethal riot control."
"Interesting riots you Terrans have. My scanner's flagging some of the other packaged agents."
"That's because Raiford here's still buying from Cherry Bomb. Now that she's graduated, the postal workers are scared."
"I'm not the one who can't figure out how to use devises."
The professor's scanning device began whining louder at Raiford's pack. The Professor paled at the small containers of shiny black pseudoliquids.
"Why are you carrying nanite hives?"
Peter shrugged and said, "They're general-use batches, part of my usual loadout. Safer to keep them on me than leave them out in our dorm room."
Professor Gus shook his head and left well enough alone for now.
* * *
Innsmouth IIb posed basic survival challenges. The planet's gravity was a quarter greater than Earth's, two-thirds more than galactic standard. That was enough to thicken atmosphere, lower mountains, shorten vegetation, and broaden flood plains. However, it was said that on rare, strange nights when the double decks of clouds parted, the stars were spectacular.
The chosen landing zone was at the top of a low rise overlooking a broad river valley. Twenty adolescents spilled out of the university shuttle. Their first obstacle was the absence of grav sleds to carry their luggage. Anything they failed to carry out with them went back into orbit with the shuttle. Everyone watched its departure.
"I'm still not happy about the planet's name," Peter remarked. He tossed a microdrone into the air and kicked off equipment diagnostics.
Benjamin watched the drone spaz out to diagnostic routines.
"I was thinking more about ambush predators in the river down there."
"Deep One spawn are ambush predators. Let's not feed Father Dagon."
"Couldn't we just worry about alien hippos instead?"
"What kind of alien hippos lunch on low-carb carnivorous plants?"
"Sturdy, sturdy hippos."
Benjamin took their empty water packs. If the water proved potable, he'd be ahead of the curve. If not, it would be better to find out early. Maybe he could save the "fish pee in it" joke for later? Considering his options, he dissolved an iodine tablet into one of the packs. Either it killed local bacteria and parasites or it didn't. Then he took a side trip for vines that could be used as biological water filters.
* * *
By morning, several Happy Campers had discovered that Innsmouth had evolved its own mosquito, chigger, tick, and mite analogs. The terrestrial herbivores here were smaller, but they still bled food. Peter woke up scratching bites on skin he'd missed with his 'family recipe' repellent. Benjamin imagined the stunned insects he found near his bedding choking on spicy... Yeah. He was keeping that comment to himself.
He shared his chipotle garlic jerky with Peter. It might not repel local vermin, but it worked well on alien students. Some set up closer to the river, for shorter resupply trips. Peter caught him watching them.
"Don't."
"Don't what, save ourselves from walking like they are?"
"Do you see where the vegetation is mud-coated up to a certain level? How do you think that mud got there?"
"Um? Oh. When's the rainy season here?"
"Not sure. But even a foot of moving water will sweep you along with it. Because gravity works."
Benjamin asked, "Do we have any good news?"
"We have plenty of firewood. The survival blankets are good for basic tents, but I don't want to pitch one with lightning rods."
"What about a covered foxhole with platform beds and drainage?"
"You dig, I'll go looking for starches?"
"Sure. If that doesn't work out, try fishing. Animal protein's still protein, and the fishies might see your hook."
"I'm not showing my hook to anyone. Speaking of invisibles, have you seen any birds?"
Benjamin shook his head.
Peter looked at the scrub trees, floodwater lines, and a tree line below them. He could be wrong. But his father and cousins had taken him on their share of mountain hikes. Those hikes had taught him to keep a silvered blade handy, among other things.
"Could you, um, add some kind of windscreen? After digging in to the hillside?" he asked Benjamin.
"Worried about the Big Bad Wolf?"
"Something like that."
"I'll keep the C4 handy. Works for fishing too."
Peter returned near midday with tubers and roots to test for edibility. Benjamin had dug out a space next to a low cliff. One or two students had pointed and laughed at the rocks lining the floor. Primitive decorations for primitives, they'd called it.
"Trust me, standing in ankle-deep mud gets old before you even find the sores," Benjamin told them.
Peter looked over the dug-out foundation and asked, "What about cover?"
"Doing what I can with wood that doesn't bend. Do we have time to pack mud tomorrow?"
"I'll sneak a peek later."
"Suddenly, I'm hoping we're not on the same page."
"Onay adowshay uppetpay ayplay orfay ethay aliensyay!"
"Yeah, yeah. That's what they all say."
* * *
By the third day, a couple of students had been retrieved suffering from allergies. Another injured herself in a fall. As they were on Innsmouth IIb for a minimum-risk trip, Professor Gus sent transport for them. Also, weather conditions were due for a change. Any others bailing out would have to wait out a couple of damp days. A little adversity might build character!
It was more likely to build parental complaints.
Most remaining students were hungry, tired, and dirty. Some were showing signs of digestive distress. They'd probably tried drinking unfiltered water from the river. The Terrans? They were literally playing house.
Benjamin pulled a tuber from his serving. It had clearly grown on a diet of existential sadness.
"I don't care if it's technically nutritious. I'm not eating a potato with bones sticking out of it."
Peter frowned, staring at the offending rhizome.
"That explains the calcium content. Whatever it used to be, it's dead now."
"I am not eating anything with a face!"
Peter poked the thing with a fork.
"That's not a face. Probably a leg. And there's no seagulls to feed it to."
"We could add it to the daub mix with the other no-go stuff. Cold front still coming in?"
"Last I checked."
"Check again. I smell rain."
Mid-afternoon, the horizon began to darken upstream. Ordinarily, that would translate to a few hours yet to go. Instead, sand-grain-sized ice landed, crinkling and popping against vegetation. Those pops came with small puffs of fog as if dry ice had been mixed in. Wouldn't that be a surprise — an inch of dry ice sublimating into oh, crap!
"Yo, Icejack!"
Peter froze and turned where he stood. Benjamin tossed one of the larger hailstones to him. It blew apart in his hand.
"Flash flooding might not be the worst thing down by the river." Benjamin dug a comms earpiece from a belt pouch. "Spare a drone?"
"Sure. If these storms can pull frozen carbon dioxide down from the stratosphere, you need to bug out at the first downdrafts. They'll be mixed at first, but, just go."
Peter sprinted for the ridge top, where a couple of others had decided to gut things out. An idle thought crossed his mind.
No wonder the plants favored nontoxic tubers. Burrowing creatures were asphyxiated sooner or later, maybe with a stomach full of seeds.
Benjamin couldn't recall the green-skinned Walurin's name. Regardless, the sound of a human's boots thudding into the muddy riverbank should have startled them. He searched the area until he found a damp depression meant to serve as a nest. Warin was curled up at the bottom, his breathing too shallow for comfort. Benjamin pulled his groggy classmate up to their feet, half-carrying, half-dragging them to the next trackway before heading uphill.
"Human Peter, you look like you've seen a razor-spinner beast! What's wrong?"
Peter bent over for a few seconds to catch his breath before saying, "Wrong? There's a storm coming. See?"
The Vrixian turned to look at the approaching darkness.
"There's no need for panic. This isn't some hellworld like Earth. We'll get wet from a little rainfall. That's it."
"This isn't a little rain coming. It's hail."
"Yes. And?"
"The conditions that make hail can also spark lightning. Right now, we're the tallest conductors up here. If you don't want to become flash-fried Vrixian, I need you and the rest up here to move downslope. Hang on."
Benjamin's voice broke in over the comms.
"'Jack, I've got Kermit and am heading upstream. You got an eye on us?"
"Wait one."
Peter switched his attention over to his drone, commanding it to gain altitude. Luckily, not everyone was an idiot.
"Belfry, Icejack. Your second target might have broken camp. Follow the uphill footpath when you come to it."
"Roger. If you see any other holdouts?"
"I'll vector you. Otherwise, head back before you have to tread water."
The Vrixian asked, "Are you seriously worried about floods, too? Paranoid much?"
A nearly ultraviolet flash answered for the Terran.
"Where did you say you were camped?"
* * *
The initial flood of chilled air slid down the valley. It bent leaves as it passed, but left few other signs of the smothering carbon dioxide. Then came the floodwaters, racing ahead of the storm, building by the second. Professor Gus and the academy's tech support watched from orbit. No electrocutions, no drownings, just a self-reminder to have the ship disinfected from Raiford's nanites.
Below, most of the students learned a cold, wet lesson in paying attention to the world around them. Five of them waited out the storm in a primitive hut that had no business standing against the howling wind outside. Warin, the green-skinned Walurin who absolutely did not see any resemblance between himself and a certain muppet, snuggled closer to Human Benjamin. After all, anyone with decent infrared vision could see that Human Benjamin was much warmer than Human Peter.
Once the storm passed, it was pretty much all over for the trip. The non-human students went back to avoiding what the humans claimed to be food. That included roasted tubers that didn't have bones or faces.
# # #
What surprised everyone was that a separate craft had been dispatched for the two humans. The pilot, Jake Murphy, mentioned a betting pool on how horribly wrong the survival trip could have gone with the Whateley students involved. He'd walked away a thousand credits richer, making him a happy biped. Side bets on the other classes raked in a tidy couple of hundred credits more.
"You might as well set us down in front of Kane Hall," said Benjamin. He already dreaded the paperwork to come.
"Nonsense," Jake said. "We do this every year. Think of it as a secret getaway that no one on the planet is going to believe!"
"That makes it what," Peter asked, "Tuesday?"
"That's the spirit, kiddo!"
"As long as we don't run over any students other than Bystander, Huntsman, van Hellspawn," Benjamin mused.
"I thought you and Abigail buried the hatchet?"
"I'd call it more like geocached."
Security still demanded a mission debrief. Tuesday, indeed.
* * *
A mere four hours later, Benjamin followed Peter out of Security.
"So. How many drones and nanite hives do I owe you for saving our collective bacon?"
"I'll have to think of, I don't know... something. Gear, too, maybe."
"Looking forward to it."
That made two of them.
The End?
