The Status Of Pupil

14

The Status Of Pupil

    Vt R’aam Thirty-Two stood in silence before Commodore Tn Vstschl’nn-Mrrflau’s  large desk. After quite some time the Principal said on a tired note: “I’m not even going to ask who was responsible for covering Commander Feee-ah Zwheee’s lifter in Njneeainwearian chewing-taffy. Though I will just add this: the recipe for that particular type of chewing-taffy is a trade secret, and therefore there are very few beings at this institution at this particular point in time who are capable of reducing it to the requisite liquid consistency.” He gave him a hard look.

    Vt-R’aam Thirty-Two did his best to emanate complete blankness, though he was plasmo-blasted-well sure the Principal was reading him. Lieutenant-Commander Kweee-ah Feee-ah Zwheee taught astrophysical navigation to the First- and Second-Years and into the bargain was the Second-Year Chief Flight Instructor, and was cordially loathed by every student who had to suffer under him. He was a Hawtree, and like many of that avian race did not suffer fools gladly—no, worse than that: was incapable of any sympathy whatsoever with beings whose minds did not work as fast and efficiently as his own. Vt R’aam Thirty-Two’s own performance in class hadn’t come in for any of the being’s more caustic remarks but his appearance and behaviour since the uncloning most certainly had. Most of the other Second-Year cadets hadn’t got off so lightly. Poor jineL had been so cowed by his searing critique of her first attempt to land a lifter on an asteroid that the second time she’d crashed into it—or would have, if the thing had been there in reality instead of only mind-suggested by Commander Feee-ah Zwheee, as the whole class was then able to realise with a mixture of heartfelt relief and, as the implications began to dawn, furious humiliation.

    “Well, let me see. You can join Full Surgeon MeeGadden’s Third-Year Chemistry class,” said Commodore Tn Vstschl’nn-Mrrflau in a bored voice.

    “Chemistry? Sir, it’s not my stream!” gasped Vt R’aam Thirty-Two in naked horror.

    “No, that’s why you can do it on top of your other classes; it may help to keep you out of trouble.”

    “Yessir,” he said glumly. “Permission to speak, sir?”

    “Go on,” replied the Principal on a dry note.

    “I think the classes clash with First-Year Biophysics on days 1 to 3 of the IG week, sir,” said Vt R’aam Thirty-Two cautiously.

    “You know and I know, Cadet, that you’ve spent the last couple of IG months’ Biophysics classes in attempting to send the desks up to the ceiling, row by row, behind Lieutenant Mealandru’s back. Fortunately for you she found it mildly amusing: Kinntrooers generally have quite a sense of humour, though as a being from the Third Galaxy, you could scarcely be expected to know that. I can see it never dawned that you might have been put in that class in order to be of some assistance to the lieutenant and some help to your fellow-students, so I won’t ask if it didn’t: I shall merely ask you to reflect on why it didn’t, Cadet.”

    “Yessir,” replied Vt R’aam Thirty-Two glumly.

    “You’re excused the First-Year Biophysics classes, but that doesn’t mean you can get away with not sitting the exam. In fact when I’ve done with you, you can go and ask Mealandru to set you the exam immediately; I think she’d be quite glad to do so, and get rid of you for good.”

    Vt R’aam Thirty-Two wasn’t quite sure of the correct reply to this, so he licked his lips and then ventured: “Yessir. Thank you, sir. Um, may I ask how long I have to do Third-Year Chemistry, sir?”

    “Wasn’t that clear? For the foreseeable future. In fact, let me clarify that: for the remainder of this academic year and the whole of next.”

    Vt R’aam Thirty-Two’s jaw sagged and the Principal, though his face was unmoved, looked at him with considerable satisfaction. “At the moment they’re studying the sub-atomic structure of viscous substances: I dare say you may be able to contribute something.”

    The ex-clone gulped.

    “And that brings me to what I called you in for, Cadet Vt R’aam Thirty-Two. I know the effects of your uncloning have been a lot harder to cope with than you anticipated. And to be fair to you, a lot harder for you than I anticipated, also. Though I admit I never expected you to cope particularly well. No reflection on you: I doubt any being would have managed to perform well under such circumstances, and in fact I told Shank’yar Vt R’aam so, quite some time back. A pity your home’s so far away; my preferred tactic would have been to send you home for a year: let you adjust at a much slower pace. There’s a farm, isn’t there?”

    “A—a farm?” he stuttered. “Yes, sir. Grqwaries, grpplybeasts, and several varieties of grain; and—and quite a large acreage in vegetables and fruit.”

    “Mm. A healthy outdoor life, and plenty of opportunity for romps with the peasant girls, mm?” he said, suddenly smiling at him.

    Poor Vt R’aam Thirty-Two looked at him in bewilderment. The Commodore was broadcasting a picture of a bunch of voluptuous, laughing, dark-haired humanoid girls in a field. It was plain enough what he meant in general terms, but what, specifically, were peasant girls? Or was it his translator playing up?

    “Peasants are the lower classes who work in the fields, Cadet. Whom do you use as agricultural labourers on New Whtyll, if not peasants?”

    “The fields are worked by the farmers, their family members, and their clones,” he said limply.

    “Perhaps it’s as well I didn’t send you home, then,” noted the Commodore drily.

    A dark flush rose up Vt R’aam Thirty-Two’s golden-brown neck. “Um, at home it’s only house clones who, um, have the reproductive urge de-activated, sir.”

    “In that case, it’s hard to see why you don’t use the word ‘peasants’,” he said lightly. “No, well, it wasn’t really an option. But given that you haven’t coped too well, I’ve decided you’ll definitely need another full year before we set you loose upon the unsuspecting two—make that three—galaxies.”

    “Sir, I promise you I can pass—”

    “I don’t want you to pass, Cadet,” said the Commodore grimly. “I want to see you fulfil your potential. And before you rush off and embark on a course of action even sillier than your recent one, let me just add this. For a sexual being, like the majority of mammalians, fulfilling one’s potential includes handling what I believe your xathpyroid friend calls ‘repro stuff’ in conjunction with one’s other duties, responsibilities, and more intellectual occupations. Possibly this seems unfair, in comparison with asexual beings; but then, I don’t think fairness is a general characteristic of the Known Universe, is it?”

    After a moment it dawned on Vt R’aam Thirty-Two that the use of the phrase “the Known Universe” was also a deliberate echo of Commander BrTl, and he managed to dredge up a very weak smile. “No, sir.”

    “There are those who claim that in some situations it gives us an edge,” he murmured. “Well, us males, at any rate. The urge to compete for a mate being considered comparable in many sexual societies with the urge to compete in general?”

    “It cuh-could be so, I suppose, sir, but—but what about Nblyterian males?” he gulped.

    “Quite. And then, Friyrians, who are technically hermaphrodites, are possibly the most competitive race in the two galaxies—though there again some would claim it’s the fact that they do all have male chromosomes that makes them so. Be that as it may, I think you’ll agree that the majority of the Friyrians at this academy perform at a high level in all spheres?”

    “I— Yes. If you mean both academically and in their chosen leisure activities, yes, sir.”

    “But?” murmured the Commodore, raising his slanted Whtyllian brows slightly.

    “As far as my observation goes, sir, they’re hopeless in group situations and incapable of sympathy with another being, let alone empathy. They succeed as leaders because they work their teams unmercifully. Though possibly that’s what Star Fleet wants; they do all seem to be getting high grades and Merit Stars.”

    “Yes, Friyrians usually top the First- and Second-Year classes,” he murmured.

    Vt R’aam Thirty-Two blinked.

    “Their unfair disadvantage, you see, is the necessity for coming to terms with the fact that other beings need to be taken into consideration in more than ninety percent of the circumstances with which Star Fleet officers have to deal in the course of their careers. It’s relatively rare for a Friyrian to top a Third-Year class.”

    “I see,” he said thoughtfully.

    “On the other hand, those that go on to Pilot Training usually do brilliantly.” Commodore Tn Vstschl’nn-Mrrflau watched the being expressionlessly as he thought about it, wondering if he was going to dare to voice his— Yes. Well, good for him.

    “What about Advanced Pilot Training, though?” he said, forgetting to call the Principal “sir”.

    The Commodore’s chiselled mouth twitched very slightly. “First-Year scuttlebutt to the contrary, Advanced Pilot Training has very little to do with flying a ship. Beings are not usually accepted for their Advanced Pilot Training until they’ve learned some very salutary lessons as serving officers. Everyone’s Service career is scrutinised very carefully before acceptance, but it would be fair to say that Friyrians are amongst the beings whom we look at hardest. They make brilliant Pilots, but relatively few of them make brilliant captains. Those who get the qualification, however, usually go on to have outstanding service careers.”

    Vt R’aam Thirty-Two nodded thoughtfully.

    “Ah—perhaps I should just add this, since the subject of Friyrians has come up. The best of them—usually those from the upper classes, I don’t think it’s just my Whtyllian prejudices speaking—have extremely high standards of loyalty, honesty and service.”

    “Yes, I know, sir,” he said, eyeing him uneasily.

    “Many of them, however—and the word ‘xenophobic’ has been used in this connection—fail to treat non-Friyrians with the sort of consideration they extend to those of their own race.”

    “But—”

    “Any suggestion that Cadet Vvalnachzzyllia might become female-tended while s/he is still at the Academy,” said the Commodore in a detached tone, “should not be taken seriously. It is not the custom for female-tended Friyrians to undertake occupations—such as serving in Space Fleet—which are regarded as traditionally male on Friyria.”

    Vt R’aam Thirty-two gaped at him. “But sir, you made the point yourself that they're hermaphrodite: how can there be traditionally male—”

    “I believe one school of thought claims that it’s because they’re hermaphrodite that the distinctions are very strong. Are any of the Friyrians you’ve met here female-tended?”

    “Um, no,” said the cadet uncertainly.

    “No. If they were their families would not have allowed them to apply for the Academy, because Service careers are not considered fit occupations for the female-tended.”

    After a moment Vt R’aam Thirty-Two went very red indeed and cried unguardedly: “You mean the being was stringing me a line?”

    The Principal did not remark on the cadet’s choice of expression, merely said: “Certainly as to those suggestions of becoming fully female-tended and producing a nice little friymanoid with you, yes. To the Friyrian mind, it was a joke: s/he was vastly entertained by your giving it credence. They’re like that. I don’t claim the being didn’t fully enjoy your relationship: they’re like that, too, especially at that age.”

    He swallowed. “I’ve been an idiot,” he said bitterly.

    “Most of your contemporaries would agree,” replied the Commodore calmly. “But you see, the reproductive urge is precisely that, in us mammalians. It’s not just sex as such, though many males believe it is.”

    “I— You mean that’s another thing I couldn’t control?” he gulped.

    “Mm. Added to which, you’re at the humanoid age—though this didn’t occur to the youthfully limited mind of Cadet Vvalnachzzyllia—where one would normally be settling down and setting up a family.”

    The ex-clone blinked. “Am I, sir?’

    The Principal picked up his thought without any difficulty whatsoever. “Great splintered shards of quog, they start their families that young on New Whtyll?”

    “Um, yes, sir. It’s pretty much a Pioneer World, you see. Though not everyone approves of the practice: Madam certainly doesn’t. I beg your pardon, sir: Captain Smt Wong Vt R’aam.”

    “Shank’yar’s bond-partner?” he said with a smile. “I see. Well, if you’re looking for a mammalian humanoid rôle model, Cadet, I don’t think you can go past her!”

    Perhaps not unnaturally, Vt R’aam Thirty-Two had expected him to say he couldn’t go past My Lord; he stared at him.

    “In that difficult juggling act which we all have to learn: keeping the sexual being, the reasoning being, the being of action and the being of feeling all in play, and not letting any one of ’em dominate, Cadet,” he murmured.

    “I see… The feeling being as distinct from the sexual being?” he croaked.

    The Commodore got up. “Very much so. Taking the one for the other is one of the commonest mistakes of the inexperienced mammalian. Try not to let yourself be led astray by that one. Oh—and don’t resent Cadet Vvalnachzzyllia’s little joke too much, will you? S/he’s almost as inexperienced and relatively speaking even younger than you are.”

    “I’ll try not to,” he said tightly. He took a deep breath. “And thank you, sir.”

    “Not at all, my dear boy,” returned the Commodore, sounding incredibly like Leader Lord Vt R’aam. “Oh—if you see an immature Orpetularian in the outer office emanating a strong need to go home and divide, refrain from telling it kindly it’s just an hysterical need, will you?”

    “Yes, sir. It is, though,” he said doubtfully.

    “Of course it is: relatively speaking it’s considerably younger than you are!”

    “How old is it in IG years?” asked the ex-clone, suddenly grinning.

    Commodore Tn Vstschl’nn-Mrrflau put a hand lightly on his shoulder. “Two hundred and three. They don’t normally divide until they’re at least three hundred and seventy IG years. And next time you experience any envy of my job,”—he ignored the cadet’s startled jump—“just ask yourself how in Federation you’d tell an Orpetularian gently but firmly that it’s suffering from an hysterical reproductive urge. Oh—and you can start Third-Year flight classes as from tomorrow: Commander Feee-ah Zwheee’s had more than enough of you.”

    Vt R’aam Thirty-Two was very flushed. The Commodore himself took the Third-Year flight classes. “With you, sir? Thank you, sir!”

    “Cadet Vt R’aam Thirty-Two, this is not a promotion,” said the Commodore evilly. “Believe you me, if you thought Feee-ah Zwheee put you lot through it, you ain’t seen nothing yet!”

    “Yes, sir!” he said, coming smartly to attention.

    “Get out,” said the Commodore heavily. He opened the door for him. “And we’d better make it grounded for the next three IG months, and three hundred demerit points. Don’t fancy yourself let off lightly, Cadet, you can work them off at a rate of twenty per IG week. And one more puerile trick involving any sort of viscous substance whatsoever and I will send you home to the Third Galaxy.”

    Ignoring the emanations of pure horror which were now swamping the hysterical need to divide of the waiting Orpetularian, Vt R’aam Thirty-Two saluted smartly, turned on his heel, and got out.

    Five IG minutes later, when the Principal opened his door again, the Orpetularian had thought very much better of the whole bit and quietly vanished, but it must be admitted that Commodore Tn Vstschl’nn-Mrrflau was neither surprised nor taken aback by this phenomenon.

    Vvalnachzzyllia was reclining on Vt R’aam Thirty-Two’s bed when he got back from the Principal’s office, very much out of uniform. In fact, in a confection consisting, as to the top, of puce lace, and as to the lower section, of an apron of vfllurfll leaves. As her/s name indicated, Cadet Vvalnachzzyllia was from a high-ranking, and thus very rich, Friyrian family: it had been no trouble to her/m to import fresh vfllurfll leaves from Friyria. Most of the Second-Years had now discovered that their reputation as a strong aphrodisiac to many mammalian species, whether inhaled, ingested or simply applied externally, was far from exaggerated.

    “Grounded for how long?” s/he said with a loud tinkle of amusement. “And three hundred demerit points at one blow? That’s gotta be a record!”

    “Hah, hah,” replied the ex-clone tiredly, sinking down onto a chair. “He’s spread them out over the three months, so if you work it out, they cancel each other out, don’t they?”

    “Um, yeah. Except that it’ll be on your record,” said Vvalnachzzyllia uncertainly. “Um, what’s up?”

    “You might as well read the rest,” replied Vt R’aam Thirty-Two sourly.

    “Oops!” concluded the Friyrian with a merry tinkle.

    “I realise you can’t help yourself,” said Vt R’aam Thirty-Two heavily, “so I’m not going to say anything except go away.”

    “But darling, why should this change anything? I’m still me, and you’re still you—as lovely as ever!” s/he said with a sidelong smile.

    Vt R’aam Thirty-Two was aware that Vvalnachzzyllia had been practising this humanoid smile, and denied crossly to himself the effect it had on him. “Clear off, Vvalnachzzyllia, the joke’s over.”

    “But what about that three you and me and jineL were going to have?” s/he cried.

    “Have it between the pair of you. By my count that makes four, in any case,” said the humanoid sourly.

    Vvalnachzzyllia got up uncertainly. “That’s almost anything-ist.”

    “I’m feeling almost anything-ist,” replied Vt R’aam Thirty-Two grimly.

    Uncertainly Vvalnachzzyllia went over to the door. “Don’t you like this puce lace?”

    Vt R’aam Thirty-Two gave it a bitter look. It and the perky little breasts inside it: Vvalnachzzyllia, like many young Friyrians who had not yet elected to be male-tended or female-tended, had small, tip-tilted and, to the male humanoid eye, very attractive mammary glands. In addition to the well developed male genitalia, not so attractive, in the ex-clone’s opinion. True, they could be retracted at will, but also true, Vvalnachzzyllia usually didn’t bother unless her/s partner required it. Vt R’aam Thirty-Two usually did require it, unless he was very drunk. Or so far gone on essence of vfllurfll that he was past even speech. “Not much, on your turquoise skin. It clashes with the colour of those leaves, too.”

    The Friyrian fingered them slowly, pouting.

    “And don’t bother to crush them, I could smell them the minute I walked in!” shouted the driven clone.

    “Darling, I know,” s/he murmured, directing a longing glance at his pants.

    “I can’t help it, and get OUT!” he shouted

    Instead of getting out Vvalnachzzyllia came over to him and put a hand on the bulge in the pants.

    “Federation!” gasped Vt R’aam Thirty-Two through his teeth.

    “Darling, what a naughty two galaxies swear, don’t tell me we’ve got you converted?” said the Friyrian with a soft tinkle.

    “The Principal’s under the impression I’m stopping all this,” said the ex-clone very faintly, as Vvalnachzzyllia fingered his balls. “Ooh!”

    “Darling, I don’t think he’s that stupid,” s/he murmured, taking his hand and slipping it under the leaves.

    “You’ve retracted the equipment,” said Vt R’aam Thirty-Two very weakly indeed.

    “Most of it! Just rub that little tip!” squeaked Vvalnachzzyllia in a very high voice.

    This voice generally meant—as well as that the being had been sniffing vfllurfll for some time—that s/he was very near coming. Vt R’aam Thirty Two gave in and rubbed the little tip—not without several thoughts in the direction of was this too kinky to be truly masculine—and at the same time got a couple of fingers up the wide, wet vagina. Vvalnachzzyllia moaned, and tangled her/s tongue fiercely with his, and Vt R’aam Thirty-Two swung her/m round fiercely, got on top of her/m, puce lace, vfllurfll leaves and all, and fucked like mad for quite some time, Vvalnachzzyllia shrieking, whistling, and coming like crazy for most of the time he was doing it. And eventually finding breath to gasp: “Come on, darling, kiss my tits!” Vt R’aam Thirty-Two then ripped the puce lace off one tit, fastened his mouth greedily on it and came like a Seeker taking off. He always did, when he sucked a tit: Federation knew why, thought Vvalnachzzyllia muzzily, lying back and tinkling gently. Um, deprived of it in his babyhood? Well, Federation alone knew: what with being a humanoid plus and a clone, who could say? But if the being had been a Friyrian that would have been the most likely explanation.

    “I wish you were a Friyrian,” s/he murmured, after quite some time.

    “Cou’ be berrer?” mumbled the clone.

    “Mm? Oh—better! Not really!” admitted Vvalnachzzyllia with a choked tinkle. “Well, back home some people can do it both ways: you know, fuck and be fucked—though I have to admit I’ve never met anyone that could.”

    Suddenly Vt R’aam Thirty-Two remembered what the Principal had said about the being’s youth and inexperience. He smiled at her/m. “No. Sounds a bit exaggerated, doesn’t it? Well, thank you, Vvalnachzzyllia, I’m very flattered.”

    The Friyrian cadet blinked. “Oh. Good,” s/he said weakly. He’d sounded horribly kindly, not to say about as old as the Principal himself! S/he eyed him doubtfully. After a moment s/he ventured: “What are you thinking about, darling?”

    “Mm? Oh: that essay for Lieutenant Dorabblkanurwyallo’.”

    His friend looked blank.

    “Vvalnachzzyllia! For Sentient Being Social Behaviour Patterns! Due tomorrow!”

    “Eh? That’s complete mok shit! Anyway, you wrote it last night.”

    “Yes, in ten IG minutes with my brain full of qwlot fumes. Push off, Vvalnachzzyllia, I’m going to rewrite it.”

    The Friyrian got up uncertainly. “Look, you’re wasting your time, Vt R’aam Thirty-Two: species polite address customs? And you know Thwurbullerian customs from perihelion to aphelion and back, anyway; didn’t you say there’s a Thwurbullerian world in the Third Galaxy?”

    “Mm.” He sat up. “I’m going to choose a different species, it was stupid to choose one I know well, what’s the point of that?’

    “None, because is there is NO POINT TO THE LORPOID’S COURSE!” s/he shouted. “It’s all MOK SHIT!”

    “No, it’s interesting. I think I might choose the Mklontians, instead.”

    “Why?” demanded his schoolmate crossly. “You’re never going to go to Mklontia, the place is the worse stink-hole of the entire Known Universe!”

    “Isn’t that pejorative?” he murmured.

    “NO! LITERALLY! And why in Federation can’t you say ‘anything-ist’ like the rest of the two galaxies?” screamed the Friyrian, turning dark indigo.

    “Because Lieutenant Dorabblkanurwyallo’ says it’s pejorative,” murmured the ex-clone with a twinkle in his eye. He got up, put a dressing-gown on, and went determinedly over to his desk. “Push off, Vvalnachzzyllia,” he said mildly.

    The Friyrian glared at his straight back. “What about our gribble-ball game?”

    “Push off, Vvalnachzzyllia.”

    Vvalnachzzyllia stamped out, emanating baffled annoyance.

    Vt R’aam Thirty-Two didn’t really register this; he was deep in the Intergalactic Encyclopaedia.

    Just as BrTl reached the ex-clone’s door the door opposite opened and Ju Mullan popped out. “He’s working, Commander,” he warned glumly.

    BrTl blinked at him. “Eh?” It was the weekend! Days 9 and 10 of the IG week were sacrosanct to lazing off throughout the two galaxies! Well, on worlds with daily cycles that followed the IG week. But most other worlds had weekends, too.

    “He said he might as well make the most of being gated for three IG months,” added the Meanker cadet glumly.

    “Eh?”

    “Yeah. Didja know he got an A for his essay on species polite address customs for Lieutenant Dorabblkanurwyallo’?”

    “Eh?”

    “Yeah.”

    BrTl groped in the foggy recesses of his mind. “Uh—this is the mid-year essay where you have to choose one species, is it? –Right. Oh, did he write it on humanoids?”

    “No, you’re not allowed to choose your own species. Um, not even if you’ve been a clone all your life, Dorabblkanurwyallo’ specially mentioned that,” he admitted with a slight hoo-oo down the meankoid tubes. Not a snigger, BrTl decided, reading the emanations, a sound of embarrassment. “Um, he wrote it on the Mklontians.”

    “I won’t ask why,” BrTl decided heavily.

    “No, I wouldn’t,” agreed the cadet sourly.

    “Doesn’t he know that even though he’s gated, he is allowed to have visitors?” ventured BrTl.

    “Um, yeah, I think so, but he said he had to work, because he wants to get his Chemo swot out of the way before he starts on the written work for the Principal. He’s been put up to Third-Year Space Flight, didja know?” he added proudly.

    “So he ought to be.”

    “It’s the course the Principal takes!” the young Meanker reminded him.

    “Is it? Think in my year it wasn’t. Oh, yeah, that’s right: it was a full captain from a Destroyer—seconded, for her sins. Nblyterian. Toughest old she-mok in the Known Universe.”

    “A Destroyer captain?” he echoed dazedly. “Two galaxies!”

    “Something like that,” said BrTl, wincing at the memory. “Oy—hang on. Third Year?”

    “Yes.”

    “Put up to Third Year right before mid-year exams?” he croaked.

    “Um—well, yeah. Um, what he said was, he’s going to have to sit the First- and Second-Year ones as well. Um, maybe that’s why he’s swotting, Commander BrTl.”

    “Mok shit,” said BrTl briskly. “The being’s piloted a PBTT with its blobs blobbed out under the influence of schlonky pwld, he’ll fly through them. –So to speak! No, but it doesn’t seem fair to put a being up right before the exams, whatever his abilities.”

    Ju Mullan cast a haunted look up and down the corridor, and nodded cautiously.

    BrTl was about to tell him kindly that even with his xathpyroid paranoia he was sure that Y-K-W did not bother to continuously monitor the First-Year corridors, but remembered in time what it had been like to be a First-Year, and didn’t bother. “Well, I was only going to suggest he might like to grab a burger in one of the cafeterias, he can spare the time for that,” he said briskly, tapping on the ex-clone’s door.

    Ju Mullan made a gulping sort of noise down the meankoid tubes, but stood his ground.

    Go away! came a loud mind-message.

    “I’m awfully sorry, Commander!” gasped the cadet.

    “Not your fault,” replied BrTl mildly. It’s BrTl, he sent. I can open this door, but do you want Ju Mullan to realize it’s poss—

    Suddenly the door opened and Vt R’aam Thirty-Two stood on the threshold, bowing very low. “Good morning, Commander BrTl. Please accept my apologies: I didn’t bother to check who was knocking.”

    “That’s okay.” BrTl looked limply at his Service greige coveralls. They looked as if they were straight from the recycler, they were the spanking-est new, most uncreased coveralls he had ever seen in his life. In fact he hadn’t known that Durocloth could look that smooth.

    “He’s blobbed up his recycler,” reported Ju Mullan with a sort of gloomy pride.

    “Uh-huh. You do know that the formula for Durocloth’s a trade secret, do you, Vt R’aam Thirty-Two?”

    “I think you mean it’s patented, Commander,” he said politely. “But the Chemo class isn’t interested in copying it, only in making it look a bit more Space Issue!”

    “Yuh— Uh—” It was very hard to know which part of this speech to respond to, actually. Finally BrTl croaked: “So you did say Chemo, Ju Mullan, it wasn’t that my ears had gone funny.”

    “Yeah. I mean no, they hadn’t. The Principal’s making him do it: Third-Year Chemo; I’m not absolutely sure why,” said the young Meanker, eyeing Vt R’aam Thirty-Two cautiously.

    “As an illustration of Cruel and Unnatural Punishment?” said BrTl hazily, vestiges of memory of the slightly more interesting parts of his First-Year Service Etiquette course floating back to him.

    “Not Service Etiquette, Commander BrTl: Service Regulations 102,” said the ex-clone, smiling.

    “Oh—yeah.”

    “We’ve haven’t done 102 yet, you do in it in the second half of the year,” said Ju Mullan in bewilderment.

    “I know. But I’ve done the reading for it, so Lieutenant Dorabblkanurwyallo’ said I could sit it.”

    “Heck, at this rate you’ll of passed all your First-Year courses halfway through the year!” gasped the Meanker.

    “Yes: that’s the idea,” he said, smiling at him.

    “But then we won’t have any classes together!” he wailed.

    “Uh—there’ll be a few, the Principal’s said I have to attend the First-Year classes that don’t clash with my Second- or Third-Year ones.”

    “Not if you’ve passed, though,” said the cadet glumly.

    Vt R’aam Thirty-Two bit his lip. “Um—no. I mean, he said I do have to attend, still.”

    “Oh, good!” he said, cheering up.

    “Seems pointless to me,” noted BrTl. “It’s lunchtime: wanna come and have a burger in one of the cafeterias?”

    “It’s very kind of you, Commander,” said the ex-clone firmly, “but I do feel I shouldn’t waste my Lord’s very generous allowance on cafeteria food, since the Mess provides a balanced and nutritious diet.”

    “See?” cried Ju Mullan on a note of despair which echoed down the meankoid tubes for some time.

    “Yeah. –On me. You’re coming,” announced BrTl grimly. “And while the Principal was at it, didn’t it say something about the virtues of socialisation, not to say of simply socialising?”

    Vt R’aam Thirty-Two’s golden cheeks had darkened. “Er—something of the sort, yes. Thank you, Commander BrTl. Er—and our Principal is a ‘he’.”

    “Eh? Oh. Yeah: was thinking of ours, for a minute, back there,” he admitted with a slight shudder. “Oops!” Just in time he grabbed Ju Mullan with a pseudopod. “Sorry about that, Ju Mullan. You coming? On me, of course!”

    “Ooh, yes, thanks awfully, Commander!” he hooted happily. “The o-breather caff on Level Four’s got a new burger!” he offered hopefully.

    “Good. Come on, then,” said BrTl kindly, not expressing his own preference for the h-breather caff on Level Seven with its fluorogas shakes.

    And off they went, BrTl firmly ignoring the dubious emanations coming from the ex-clone.

    On Level Four of the cafeteria building he realised why: nothing to do with Vt R’aam Thirty-Two’s new leaf: in the first instance the cafeteria was a cheery shade of pink, BrTl’s most un-favourite colour in the entire spectrum, and in the second instance the new burger was mainly boring old grqwary meat, only slightly spiced up by the addition of a very little something darker and much tastier which after some thought he was able to identify as gongha meat. The cafeteria must have got a Special Offer delivery, and it was a great pity it hadn’t got more of it. The total effect reminded him vaguely of something…

    “Don’t you like it?” asked the Meanker anxiously.

    “Eh? Oh! Yeah, it’s good. Mooghanurdrangyean walking-chicken,” said BrTl slowly. “Only had it once.”

    Vt R’aam Thirty-Two looked at him dubiously. “If that’s a bit like grqwary meat, you’re probably right.”

    “Eh? Oh. No, that’s what this reminds me of. This is ordinary grqwary with a bit of gongha added. Without the fat, though. –Had it when I was on Urrgaynia II: it’s good meat, if you avoid the chunks of fat, but you don’t wanna go there, the place is like the vacuum-frozen plains of Gwrrtt.”

    They looked at him dubiously. “Cold?” ventured Ju Mullan.

    “Cold! And you thought Old Rthfrdia was cold!” he said on a scornful note to the humanoid.

    The cadets looked doubtfully at his heavily-furred person but politely refrained from comment.

    They couldn’t do anything much after the burgers, since Vt R’aam Thirty-Two was grounded, so they had a second round of burgers. With a second round of maxi-galaxy shakes, of course. And then dessert. Vt R’aam Thirty-Two just had a fruit salad but BrTl decided he might as well try out the caramel pie. According to the menu-blob it had nymbo cheese in it, so it couldn’t be all bad, could it? Ju Mullan, not without some guilty hoo-hooing down the tubes and some guilty glances at his classmate, joined him in it.

    “That,” said BrTl reverently, some bloated time later, “has got to be one of the best pies I have ever eaten!”

    “Mm!” admitted Ju Mullan guiltily.

    Vt R’aam Thirty-Two took a deep breath. “Commander, that layer of caramel sauce under the layer of whipped nymbo cheese—”

    “Pure nymbo cheese, with a bit of air in it,” said BrTl dreamily.

    The ex-clone’s cheeks darkened. “Yes! That caramel sauce—”

    “Would you call it a sauce?” said BrTl dreamily. “Think there’s another word for it. Tell you who’d know: that’s Dohra! Oh, you haven’t met her, yet,” he recalled hazily.

    “No,” said the ex-clone grimly, taking a very deep breath. “Commander BrTl, that caramel confection was almost pure rau-mushroom sugar.”

    “Was it? Think Dohra used to use that in her recipes,” he said dreamily. “Well, I vaguely remember…”

    “Pure rau-mushroom sugar!” repeated Vt R’aam Thirty-Two loudly.

    “Mm? What made it brown, then, isn’t it white?”

    “The burnt sugar made it brown! Burnt sugar sweetened with sugar syrup? What would Madam say?” he cried.

    “Mm? Jhl? Uh— Oh.” BrTl cleared his throat. “Just for once?” he offered amiably.—The ex-clone glared.—“Uh—’tis the weekend?” he offered amiably.

    Suddenly Ju Mullan collapsed in a fit of Meanker ho-ho-hoos.

    “Look, you’ve got him on a sugar high, as well!” cried Vt R’aam Thirty-Two.

    BrTl looked at him amiably. “Wouldn’t say I was on a sugar high, exactly.”

    “Of course you are! You’re broadcasting good will all over the cafeteria!” he cried.

    BrTl looked round amiably. Immediately several dozen beings nodded, waved, grinned or gave other evidences of friendly body language. “Oh, well, I was a cadet once, myself,” he said amiably, waving his tail a bit. “Oops! Sorry!” he said amiably as two Ma’manker-style chairs at the next table, fortunately empty of Ma’mankers, fell over, and the three Ma’mankers on the remaining three chairs at the table gave Ma’manker ho-ho-hoos.

    Vt R’aam Thirty-Two got up. “We’re going for a brisk walk,” he said grimly.

    “Can’t. You’re gated,” returned BrTl amiably.

    “Get up, please, Commander,” he said firmly.

    “No point: you’re gated.”

    “A walk in the grounds. Round and round the goperball field.”

    “They’re playing on it! It’s the weekend!” hooted Ju Mullan helplessly. “Ho-hoo-hoo!”

    His nostrils flared slightly. “Then round the boundary fence.”

    The Meanker blinked his big lapis lazuli eye in shock. “Uh—that’s IG glps!”

    “Good. If it’s too much for you, your superior officer can carry you,” said the ex-clone grimly. “Commander BrTl! Get up!”

    Amiably BrTl rose to his feet. “Oops,” he said, righting the table. “No harm done,” he said as a servo-mech shot up to them. “I’ve done it a megazillion times, you know,” he said amiably to the ex-clone.

    “Really? Then you can do it a megazillion and one! March!”

    Amiably BrTl marched. “Oops—sorry. –Pardon me. No harm done!”

    “You, too,” said Vt R’aam Thirty-Two grimly to his classmate.

    “I’m just giving him time to clear the doorway,” explained Ju Mullan, wincing. “Ouch! –Okay, if you insist.”

    “I do insist. The class has to pass Fit for Active Duty first thing in the morning of Day 1 of next week, or had that slipped your memory?”

    “No,” admitted the Meanker glumly.

    “Right. Come on.”

    Trying not to betray his relief that it was “Come on” and not “Go on,” Ju Mullan accompanied him obediently.

    “Exactly what is that?” murmured Full Surgeon MeeGadden, peering from the window of the Staff Mess.

    Commander Feee-ah Zwheee came up to his shoulder. “The vacuum-frozen clone,” he discerned sourly.

    Commodore Tn Vstschl’nn-Mrrflau came over to join them without haste. “Ex-clone, Kweee-ah,” he murmured. “The xathpyroid is Commander BrTl, Retired.”

    “What are they doing?” asked the Ballunder dazedly.

    “As you can see, my dear Murriu, jogging along the boundary fence,” returned the Principal smoothly.

    MeeGadden Murriu peered dazedly. “So has someone given Vt R’aam Thirty-Two a new punishment? Not that I’m claiming he didn’t deserve it, Kweee-ah,” he said quickly to the Hawtree.

    “Deserved sacking,” corrected the unfortunate owner of the chewing-taffy-ed lifter grimly.

    “Not in the circumstances,” said Lieutenant Mealandru, coming over to join them. She looked across the field. “Oh, yes, so it is! And I think that Meanker’s young Ju Mullan, he’s in my First-Year Biophysics class. But why in Federation is the xathpyroid with them?”

    “Needed the exercise?” suggested Lieutenant Dorabblkanurwyallo’ meekly. The lorpoid was usually meek in the company of his fellow-teachers: although most of them would not have dreamed of showing it, he was aware they all despised him because of the non-Service subjects he taught.

    “A xathpyroid?” retorted the Kinntrooer biophysics teacher swiftly.

    The lorpoid floundered, looking at her helplessly.

    “Undoubtedly they all needed the exercise, and I should imagine that Cadet Vt R’aam Thirty-Two is the inspiration behind that little scene,” said the Principal smoothly.

    “Right, sir: now tell us the plasmo-blasted clone’s got the mind-powers to force a xathpyroid Pilot into taking exercise!” retorted Commander Feee-ah Zwheee, the Hawtree beak snapping closed crossly.

    “But he knows better than that!” gasped the lorpoid in distress. “He got an A for his essay on Why Mind-Powers Mean Manners in Sentient Being Etiquette!”

    Total mok shit, broadcast the Hawtree sourly, not bothering to shield it.

    “So did you, in your time up, I think, Kweee-ah?” said the Principal smoothly. “The title of that essay has very sensibly been changed slightly since.”

    Suddenly the Kinntrooer collapsed in high-pitched sniggers. “I see! In Kweee-ah’s day it was Should Mind-Powers Mean Manners! And he argued they shouldn’t!”

    “Mm. It was said to be a brilliant essay,” allowed the Commodore, “but the teacher of that time was extremely annoyed about it, and the following year the title was changed.”

    “Should have been dropped entirely,” sneered the Hawtree, not managing to hide his pleasure at the Principal’s recalling his triumph. “But the clone’s marks are irrelevant, Dorabblkanurwyallo’: he couldn’t force a Pilot to trot round the boundary fence!”

    There was a dubious silence in the Academy Staff Mess, and the other teachers looked uncertainly at the Principal.

    “On the contrary: he could, if he really tried. Not all Pilots, of course,” he said with what the Hawtree was unable to convince himself wasn’t a kind humanoid smile. “I don’t think for a moment he used his mind-powers in this particular instance, however.”

    The Hawtree merely snapped his beak crossly but the other teachers all made gestures of agreement and tried not to broadcast the thought that he didn’t think it, the being knew it. Even at this range.

    “Possibly one should commend him for not having to mind-tussle with the Commander in order to persuade him to take exercise,” added the Commodore on a very dry note. “Personally, however, I’d quite like to see if he’s capable of overcoming his social conditioning to that extent.”

    There was a stunned silence in the Staff Mess as it began to dawn that the Principal had actually hoped that the ex-clone had used his mind-powers to force Commander BrTl to trot round the boundary fence!

    After quite some time Lieutenant Mealandru, who besides having considerable sense of humour was also, like all female Kinntrooers, socially conditioned not to automatically respect males simply because they were males—as some of her fellow-teachers would later remind themselves sourly—offered: “So that’s why you’re holding him back for another year, sir!”

    “Very largely, Kirrian, yes,” he said, smiling that nice humanoid smile at her. “I’ve got some affines from Jishowulla coming to see me this afternoon about some of next year’s candidates, so if you’ll all excuse me?” And he went out.

    The Staff Mess was left wondering why else he was holding the ex-clone back.

Next chapter:

https://theadmirableclone-sf.blogspot.com/2023/11/extraordinary-leave.html