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Authors: Peter Grant
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certainly won’t be able to tow that cooler behind us! Can we put the food in our backpacks?”
Steve turned to fetch the machete and its belt sheath from the hall closet. “Sure. It’s in smaller containers. I just put it in the cooler to keep it cold on the way there.”
“Oh, good! Do you have a swimsuit with you? Further up the valley a stream empties into a pool, shaded by trees. It makes a great swimming hole.”
“I have a pair of running shorts. Will they do?”
“They sure will.”
He added the shorts and a towel to his pack, joined her outside, locked the door, and led the way to his pickup. He opened the passenger door for her and began to offer his hand in support, but she reached up, grasped a handle and lifted herself lithely into the seat, tossing her backpack into the rear of the cab. He put the cooler and his pack beside hers, then climbed in himself and energized the power pack. With a muted whine, the truck pulled slowly out of the parking lot.
They traveled in companionable silence for a few minutes while Steve threaded his way through the morning traffic. As they reached the outskirts of Preston and turned onto a highway, Abha said, “I guess we’ve got a lot to share about our orphanage backgrounds. You start. Where were you born and raised, and how did you end up in an orphanage?”
“I was born on Old Home Earth,” Steve began. He told her what little he could remember about his parents, their death in a vehicle accident when he was only five years old, and the provisions in their will that ensured he was admitted to a private orphanage , rather than entrusted to the self-serving bureaucracy of Earth’s Child Welfare Services.
“I guess I was very lucky that my folks were wealthy enough to do that. CWS was much more interested in itself than in the kids it was supposed to help. Its bosses concentrated on bureaucratic infighting and turf wars with other agencies instead of their mission. Later, when I was old enough to understand, I read about all sorts of scandals where its field agents ‘cooked the books’ for their own benefit at the expense of the kids in their care. You know – inflated expense claims, falsified record-keeping certifying that they’d checked on kids when they hadn’t, that sort of thing. A lot of the kids ended up being neglected or abused as a result. I was very lucky to be spared that.”
Abha made a moué of distaste. “I ran into some of that too – but I don’t want to interrupt your story. I’ll tell you mine later. Go on.”
“OK. I was in the orphanage for almost twelve years, until I graduated high school at the age of seventeen. It was… not good.” He was silent for a moment as he remembered. “If you dump a bunch of boys together, of different ages and sizes, they’re always going to establish a very physical ‘pecking order’. There was a lot of bullying, even though the Benedictines did their best to keep it under control. Their best was pretty good, but they couldn’t be everywhere all the time. I learned to hate bullies with a passion, as well as those who use or abuse others rather than accept and respect them for who they are. As a result, I guess I’m a bit fanatical about those things to this day. I won’t permit them in my subordinates, and I won’t accept them towards me from anyone else.”
“What happens when you find it in your superior officers?” she asked.
“That’s only happened twice during my eight and a half years in the Fleet. Each time I was able to sort it out by talking to the person concerned. If that hadn’t worked, I’d have taken it up the ladder, and if necessary resigned my commission rather than accepted it. Thankfully, that’s never been necessary – at least, not yet.”
“I’m glad. I share your hatred for bullies from my own experience. Oh – we turn off here.” She indicated an upcoming off-ramp. “Turn right at the stop sign.”
“Gotcha.” Steve took his foot off the
Steve turned to fetch the machete and its belt sheath from the hall closet. “Sure. It’s in smaller containers. I just put it in the cooler to keep it cold on the way there.”
“Oh, good! Do you have a swimsuit with you? Further up the valley a stream empties into a pool, shaded by trees. It makes a great swimming hole.”
“I have a pair of running shorts. Will they do?”
“They sure will.”
He added the shorts and a towel to his pack, joined her outside, locked the door, and led the way to his pickup. He opened the passenger door for her and began to offer his hand in support, but she reached up, grasped a handle and lifted herself lithely into the seat, tossing her backpack into the rear of the cab. He put the cooler and his pack beside hers, then climbed in himself and energized the power pack. With a muted whine, the truck pulled slowly out of the parking lot.
They traveled in companionable silence for a few minutes while Steve threaded his way through the morning traffic. As they reached the outskirts of Preston and turned onto a highway, Abha said, “I guess we’ve got a lot to share about our orphanage backgrounds. You start. Where were you born and raised, and how did you end up in an orphanage?”
“I was born on Old Home Earth,” Steve began. He told her what little he could remember about his parents, their death in a vehicle accident when he was only five years old, and the provisions in their will that ensured he was admitted to a private orphanage , rather than entrusted to the self-serving bureaucracy of Earth’s Child Welfare Services.
“I guess I was very lucky that my folks were wealthy enough to do that. CWS was much more interested in itself than in the kids it was supposed to help. Its bosses concentrated on bureaucratic infighting and turf wars with other agencies instead of their mission. Later, when I was old enough to understand, I read about all sorts of scandals where its field agents ‘cooked the books’ for their own benefit at the expense of the kids in their care. You know – inflated expense claims, falsified record-keeping certifying that they’d checked on kids when they hadn’t, that sort of thing. A lot of the kids ended up being neglected or abused as a result. I was very lucky to be spared that.”
Abha made a moué of distaste. “I ran into some of that too – but I don’t want to interrupt your story. I’ll tell you mine later. Go on.”
“OK. I was in the orphanage for almost twelve years, until I graduated high school at the age of seventeen. It was… not good.” He was silent for a moment as he remembered. “If you dump a bunch of boys together, of different ages and sizes, they’re always going to establish a very physical ‘pecking order’. There was a lot of bullying, even though the Benedictines did their best to keep it under control. Their best was pretty good, but they couldn’t be everywhere all the time. I learned to hate bullies with a passion, as well as those who use or abuse others rather than accept and respect them for who they are. As a result, I guess I’m a bit fanatical about those things to this day. I won’t permit them in my subordinates, and I won’t accept them towards me from anyone else.”
“What happens when you find it in your superior officers?” she asked.
“That’s only happened twice during my eight and a half years in the Fleet. Each time I was able to sort it out by talking to the person concerned. If that hadn’t worked, I’d have taken it up the ladder, and if necessary resigned my commission rather than accepted it. Thankfully, that’s never been necessary – at least, not yet.”
“I’m glad. I share your hatred for bullies from my own experience. Oh – we turn off here.” She indicated an upcoming off-ramp. “Turn right at the stop sign.”
“Gotcha.” Steve took his foot off the
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