“You think IASA faked it?”
“IASA or somebody else. You didn’t submit an application in my name, did you?”
“I resent that,” she said. “If I was going to fake one, I’d have faked my own.”
She called back two days later in the middle of tensor calculus to tell me she couldn’t get to my application. “I was finally able to hack into the Academy’s database and the cadet applications files, but I can’t get into yours.”
“Because it doesn’t exist,” I said after I got to my hiding place.
“No, I mean, there’s a file with your name on it, but I can’t get access.”
“What about having someone they won’t connect with me make the request?”
“I already tried that. I used my sister’s friend’s friend in Jakarta. She couldn’t get in either. Neither could any of the professional hackers I contacted. It’s blocked. I can get into the other applications, but not yours.”
“Well, keep trying,” I said, and hung up. I stuck the phone down the front of my uniform, crawled over to the hatch, and began to slide it open.
And heard voices below me.
The soccer players weren’t supposed to be in here till 1900 hours. I slid the hatch silently shut and flattened myself against it, listening. “It’s my bunkmate,” Libby was saying. “I’ve tried to be friends with her, but she acts like she doesn’t want to be here.”
You’re right, I thought. In more ways than one.
“Libby’s right. Her bunkmate’s got a terrible attitude,” one of her friends said. “I have no idea how she got appointed when there are thousands of candidates who’d love to be here.”
“I know the Academy must have had a good reason for picking her,” Libby said, “but…” and launched into a ten-minute list of my shortcomings, which I had no choice but to lie there and listen to. “That’s why I asked you to meet me here,” she said when she was finally finished. “I need your advice.”
“Tell the dean you want a different bunkmate,” another friend said.
“I can’t,” Libby said. “Inability to foster healthy personal relations is the number one reason for failing first-year.”
“Cut her EVA tether next time she’s outside,” the first friend said, which didn’t exactly sound like fostering healthy personal relations to me.
“Maybe you should introduce her to Cadet Griggs,” another voice said. “It sounds like they’d be perfect for each other.”
“Who’s Cadet Griggs?” Libby asked.
“He’s a third-year in my exochem class. Jeffrey Griggs. He doesn’t like anything or anybody.”
“I sat next to him in mess last week, and he was completely insufferable,” the first one said. “And conceited. He claims he didn’t even have to apply to get in. He—what was that?”
I must have kicked one of the nutrient drums in my surprise. I held my breath, praying they didn’t investigate.
“He claims he was so brilliant they just appointed him without his taking any entrance exams or anything.”
“You should definitely introduce them, Libby, and maybe they’ll move in together, and your problem will be solved, and so will hers.”
My problem is solved, I thought.
As soon as they left, I called Kimkim. “I need you to get into the cadet application files.”
“I told you, I can’t get anywhere near your application.”
“Not mine,” I said. “Cadet Jeffrey Griggs’s. He’s a third-year.”
She said the name back to me. “What am I looking for?”
“The application,” I said.
She called back the next day. “There’s no application on file for Jeffrey Griggs.”
“I knew it. Listen, I need you to go through all the cadet files for the last five years and see how many others are missing.”
“I already did. I went back eight years and found four more: one last year, two four years ago, one seven.”
“I need you to find out where they are now.”
“I did, and you’re not going to like the answer. All but one of them are still in the Academy or working for IASA.”
“What about the one who isn’t?”
“Medical discharge. ‘Inability to tolerate space environment.’ Her name’s Palita Duvai. She’s in graduate school at Harvard,” Kimkim said. “Do you want their names?”
“Yes,” I said, even though I knew the registrar would say five missing applications didn’t prove anything. He’d claim they’d been accidentally erased, and if it wasn’t an accident, then why hadn’t they posted phony applications like the one they’d shown me?
I asked Kimkim that.
“I don’t know,” she said, “but it’s definitely not an accident. When I looked up their IASA assignments, I found something else. Next to their ranks are the letters ‘D.A.’ It’s part of Jeffrey’s class rank, too—‘Third-year Cadet, D.A.’”
D.A. District Attorney? Didn’t Apply? Dragged Away Kicking and Screaming?
“I looked it up in the IASA lexicon, but it wasn’t there,” she said. “Do you want me to try to find out what it stands for?”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” I said. I signed off, went back to my cabin and got the slip of paper the registrar had given me with the psychiatrist appointment on it, wrote, “D.A.,” on the back, and took it up. I handed it, folded, to one of the guards, told him to slide it under the registrar’s door, and went back to my cabin to wait.
I didn’t even make it halfway. A fourth-year cadet was waiting for me before I even reached the dorm section. “Cadet Baumgarten?” she said. “The registrar wants to see you,” and took me back up to his office.
“Come in, Ms. Baumgarten,” the registrar said. “Sit down.” I noted that the slip of paper was on his desk. And that he hadn’t called me Cadet Baumgarten.
“The cadet said you wanted to—” I began, and then absorbed what he’d said. Ms. Baumgarten, not Cadet Baumgarten. I sat down.
“I’m sorry to have taken so long getting back to you,” he said. “The first few weeks of term are always so hectic. However, I wanted to tell you that we’ve completed the check on your application, and you were correct. A mistake in our admissions software wrongly identified you as a candidate. The IASA sincerely regrets the error and any inconvenience it may have caused you.”
“Inconvenience—!”
“You will be reimbursed for that inconvenience and your lost class time,” he went on smoothly. “I understand you want to go to UCLA. We’ve already spoken to them and explained the situation, and they’ve agreed to reschedule your interview at your convenience. If you encounter any other problems, feel free to contact me.” He handed me a folder. “Here are your discharge papers.”
I opened the folder and read the papers. Next to “Reason for Discharge,” it read, “Medical—Inability to Tolerate Space Environment.”
“You’re free to leave whenever you wish,” the registrar said. “We’ve reserved a space for you on tomorrow’s shuttle. It leaves at 0900 hours. Or, if you prefer, we’d be happy to arrange for a civilian shuttle, and if there’s anything else we can do, please let us know.”
He stood up and came around the desk. “I hope your time with us hasn’t been too unpleasant,” he said, and extended his hand.
And all I had to do was shake it, go pack my kit, and get on that shuttle, and I’d be back on blessed Earth and on my way to UCLA. It was extremely tempting.
“Sorry,” I said, folding my arms across my chest. “Not good enough.”
“Not—? If you’re worried about questions from your friends and family regarding your leaving the Academy, I’ll be happy to issue a statement explaining that inner-ear problems made it impossible for you to adjust to the Coriolis effect. Medical discharges carry no stigma—”