Far knew he’d gone too far when the instructor’s smile flatlined. The man cleared his throat. “I don’t care who your mother was. I don’t care that you were born on a CTM. I don’t care that you’re first in your class. You hashed up, McCarthy. You hashed up royally.
“You want to know why? Hubris. You think no one can touch you. I’ve watched you bend the rules again and again without consequence, because you think you’re the exception. But I’m going to let you in on a little secret, McCarthy…. You’re not special. You aren’t important. You are arrogant and disrespectful, and I have no doubt you’d obliterate history if given the chance. Crux help this world if you ever set foot on a CTM. I’ll be hashed to the moon and back before I let that happen. Cadet McCarthy, I’m sorry, but you are not a good fit for the Corps. You’re hereby expelled from the Academy and banned from ever applying for a license.”
“You can’t expel me,” Far croaked. “I’m the valedictorian.”
“Not anymore,” Marin told him. “Final exams are final, Mr. McCarthy.”
Mr. McCarthy, not Cadet. Far hadn’t missed this change in Instructor Marin’s address, the double-syllable shift that stranded him in life as he knew it. There would be no sergeant bar. There wouldn’t even be a CTM.
“I’d advise you to hand over your practice Sim pass and campus credentials before security has to get involved,” the instructor said.
Security? No, if Far had to leave, it’d be on his own terms. He stood slowly for the sake of his pillaged soul, peeled the lanyard of badges from his neck, and tossed it across the table. An impertinent motion, perhaps, but what did manners matter when he was a hashing civilian? This time Far wasn’t subtle about releasing “the bird,” on his left hand or his right. One flew toward the mirror, the other toward Marin. Though he was dragged down by the weight of his own sweat, both gave him wings enough to fly toward the door. It felt like waking from a nightmare, this dread trembling through all corners, but Far knew he wasn’t so fortunate. The real nightmare lay through this exit, stretching out into inescapable linear years.
The real nightmare had only just begun.
4
OLD PAPER, REAL INK
AFTER A LESS-THAN-STELLAR SIM, FAR USUALLY found solace on the pull-up bar in his room. He faced his feelings in ten-rep sets: pumping anger out, muscle mass in. Making himself better, getting ready for next time. This evening when Far stepped inside the Zone 3 flat he shared with his aunt, uncle, and cousin, the exercise equipment seemed to mock him. What was the point of burning muscle pain now? There was nothing more to work toward.
Marie Antoinette and Instructor Marin had seen to that.
Dreams, badges, his will to fight… all that was gone. Far didn’t even have the energy to make it past the entertainment room, and so he sprawled across the rug, performing a scrupulous examination of the ceiling. There wasn’t much to study: just white interrupted by a light fixture and a single crack that whispered along the room’s length. He’d spent the past forty minutes watching a jumping spider begin an epic trek from one end of the room to the other, ignoring the messages Gram kept pinging to his interface: WHAT HAPPENED? WHERE ARE YOU? I THOUGHT WE WERE SUPPOSED TO MEET FOR LIBATIONS???
Priya’s question was even worse: HOW’S THE VICTORY DANCE GOING?
There was music, but it wasn’t the happy kind. Punched Up Panda’s anthem had gone straight in the trash, replaced by the cyber-metal radio station thrashing through Far’s comm. He’d turned it up to max volume in a vain attempt to drown out Marin’s speech about hubris and history hashing. The rant cycled through Far’s thoughts on repeat, angrier than the synthesized song screams. Louder, too. Diagnostics showed all systems are untampered with. You hashed up royally. YOU FAILED.
He didn’t hear Imogen press her palmdrive to the front door’s lockpad. What he did hear was her yell, “Sorry I’m late! I picked up some gelato on the way home. I thought we could celebr—Far?”
There was a thud—she’d dropped something, the gelato probably—followed by panicked steps.
Far was still staring at the ceiling when his cousin’s hair spilled into his face: bright pastel color, stabbing ends. The closest he’d ever come to describing Imogen McCarthy’s personality was by comparing it to a kaleidoscope. Always changing, always surprising. COLORFUL. She flowed from one thing into the next in a way that was never expected but made perfect sense.
Imogen’s hair was the most obvious canvas for this. In the 366 days since her Academy graduation, Far had seen his cousin’s hair 366 variations of colors. She chalked them in every morning, washed them out every night. This seemed like an inordinate amount of work to Far, but Imogen would have it no other way. Dye was too permanent. Natural blond was too boring.
Today it was violet and very much in his face. Far couldn’t find the strength to wave, so he huffed the offending strands away.
“Crux! I thought you were dead or something!” Imogen leaned back on her heels. The ceiling returned. The spider was still marching, eight legs milling across the plaster wasteland. Where was it going? All Far could see in the arachnid’s immediate future was blank space….
His cousin frowned. Her stare lingered on the wool stockings and waistcoat Far had still been wearing when he stormed out of the Academy—hash you very much! “What happened?”
“I failed.”
Imogen didn’t move. She sat on the floor beside him, silent for the length of another cyber-metal song. It hammered through Far’s ear. The ceiling melted orange with the light of the Flaming Hour, and the jumping spider reached the other side of the room, disappearing behind a HAPPY 17TH UNBIRTHDAY, FARWAY! banner. The sign had outlived its usefulness by half a month.
“I failed,” Far said again, thinking that maybe the words would make him feel better, or at least give the day some sense. All they did was punch the spiderless ceiling.
Imogen left and returned with a carton and two spoons, settling cross-legged next to him. “I got honeycomb flavor. Your favorite.”
If anything, the gelato made Far feel worse. The silky treat—real cream, genuine sugar—was a luxury. Something only senators and high-ranking Corps members and people with connections could afford. When he and Imogen were younger, his mother spoiled them with cartons of the stuff. As if pints of pistachio or key lime or raspberry sweetness could make up for the fact that she was still going on expeditions, aging months in the span of minutes. Chocolate was the flavor she’d bought before she boarded the Ab Aeterno ten years ago and never came back. The ship was declared untraceable by the Corps, lost in a way that could never be found again.