the student problem 5 bonus chapter

 

 

Chapter 5

 

Serenaa Kerofin had caught on to what I meant. Good girl.

She was dressed unconventionally again, in a sand-coloured marine jumpsuit which was no longer military in the least. She’d taken off any insignia and taken out the sleeves, and wore it with the same thigh-high boots, a wide blue belt the colour of her eyes, and an elbow-length bolero in the same colour. An anklet in lapis lazuli over the boot round one ankle drew the eye down her legs and boy did she have a lot of legs to eye. Her hair had grown a little and fell in natural curls over her head, but she had not let it grow longer than what I could only describe as an aureole of gold around her head. She was a peach.

I beat out the flames metaphorically speaking by thinking of the principal’s secretary who took sexually unpalatable to new depths.

Fat women should never wear tight, revealing garments.

Miss Kerofin spoke first.

“You took what I said seriously, then? I wasn’t being paranoid?”

“Miss Kerofin, I’ve had some serious concerns about the coterie of which Miss Brontine is the apparent centre as well.”

She frowned.

“Apparent... you mean that Faruu lets Lisilli be the one to take the laser barrage, and you aren’t fooled by it.”

“Precisely,” I agreed. “Most of the reason I wanted to speak to you was to warn you not to be too free with whom you speak about your concerns. And to ask you to... well, to eavesdrop for me. Which one should not ask a civilian to do....”

“But it’s what you are training us to do in your classes,” said Miss Kerofin. “I would be a pretty poor specimen if I didn’t apply your lessons.”

“You aren’t supposed to have to do it so young,” I sighed. “But I truly believe that in this instance, it might be enough to save your life, if this is as serious as I fear it might be.”

“I’ll do my best, Gunny,” she said.

“You shouldn’t call me that,” I protested.

“In private. And so you know I’m serious,” she said.

I’ve been called ‘Gunny’ by more recruits than I can count. Never by one who made it sound uncomfortably... intimate... before.

“And never in class,” I said, firmly.

“Our little secret,” she said, peeping up under her lashes, which were long enough when natural to make me hot.

Wait, ‘little secrets’ were the sort of thing to be avoided.

“You blew my cover, I acknowledge it, and the Principal knows all about why I am here,” I said, perhaps unduly harshly. If a whisper of a professor and a student having a ‘little secret’ was even whispered at, there would be the bum’s rush for the professor without stopping to find out if there was a more innocent explanation than that sounded.

“I’m not blackmailing you; did you think I was?” she looked hurt. “I just like knowing things.”

“No, of course not!” I yelped. I cleared my throat. “It could be taken the wrong way,” I managed, more levelly.

She batted those outrageous eyelashes.

“Well, I suppose that depends on your definition of ‘wrong,’ in this context,” she said.

I frowned.

“’Little secrets’ usually implies an inappropriate and abusive relationship, which would cause anyone who heard you say such a thing, even in jest, serious concern, and quite right too,” I said, repressively.

“I don’t think I’m abusing you,” she said, those blue eyes all wide.

“No, they’d think... you wretched girl, you’re teasing me.”

“Yes. Oh, I am sorry, it’s just nice to have a person to talk to. I don’t know many.”

Derogatory as this sounded, I knew what she meant.

“But at the moment, I am in loco parentis for you, and I have to treat you like any other recruit, which is to say, as a lower life form, not worthy of being considered a person,” I said.

“Of course, Gunny,” she said.

“And speaking of Loco Parentis, and people to speak to,” I said, “I wish you would use your charms to fascinate Miss Ondarool.”

“Lisilli calls her ‘Onlydrool,” said Serenaa... Kerofin. “Poor kid, she is a drip.”

“Then wean her out of a situation where the poor drip is being made drippier, and give her a sense of self-worth,” I said.

Miss Kerofin nodded.

“I can do that,” she said. “I can trid her and talk about assignments. Her name’s Kassuli. I’ll call her Kassi, and slip an arm in hers when we meet. She isn’t stupid.”

“No, she isn’t, but be prepared for Brontine acting up when she’s aware what you are doing.”

“I can run rings round Lisilli Brontine.”

“But Miss Faruu is dangerous, and don’t forget it,” I warned.

She nodded.

“I’ll wangle you an invitation to Lord Duranor’s ball,” she said. “Then you will hear a lot of loose talk, I bet.”

“No, you’ll leave me to wangle an invitation to Lord Duranor’s ball,” I said. I had enough pull in enough places to make it happen.

“Well, in that case, I’ll spend some time shopping to make it look good that you’ve been spending time reaming me out with a hydrospanner up the backside, and mumsy will be so relieved that I got back home in time for it, that she won’t ask any details.”

I laughed.

“I hope you are suitable chastened,” I said.

“Terribly,” she said, putting her head on one side. “I am thoroughly cowed and butter in your hands.”

“Yes, and I have an orbital tower for sale on Capital,” I said.

She giggled her musical gurgle at me, and we parted.

I went for a run.

 

oOoOo

 

 

Lord Duranor was one of those stuffy old farts who has been a stuffy old fart since his voice finished breaking reliably, and he was very self-conscious of being what they called ‘pure-blood.’

I can’t quite get the logic that says that the best stock of early humans was taken by the Forerunners to Wiłu to form an elite; because that still says they were taken from  Earth. And genetics has long since proved that combining exceptional traits tend towards a norm, so their second generation would be no more exceptional than those born to the more average Solcentric to move into the niches left by the supposed cream of the crop.

And when you come down to it, the Wiłanu lost when they decided to attack the Solcentrics And whilst might does not make right, when the main reasons for the less well advanced group to win were a combination of tenacity and innovation, this tends to suggest who might be the more likely to succeed, being expansive not stagnant.

I might do a class on that, and watch the purebloods squirm. They tended to gloss over that part of history. I wouldn’t mind betting that it is implied to the brats in my class that the Wiłanu won and graciously allowed the Solcentric under the aegis of civilisation.

A+ to those of you who recognised the quote, with tongue firmly in cheek, from old Earth SF writer, EE ‘Doc’ Smith.

This teaching malarky must be getting to me if I’m offering grades to any hypothetical reader of my memoirs. Do I admit that I actually enjoy imparting information to bright young minds who want to learn, and who can see themselves going forth to do their part for the Imperium? I suppose if this is ever published, and people are fool enough to read it, I’ll be long since dead and gone, so losing my power to terrorise young recruits under Gunny Kowalski will be redundant.  I suppose I’m mostly writing it as a warning of how seemingly unimportant bad attitudes, elitist upbringing, and entitled brats can lead to things that are soberingly dangerous.

When even the boring, stuffy old farts play their part in insurrection.

Which brings me back to Lord Duranor’s ball.

I don’t advertise that I hold a patent of nobility. It embarrasses me, and I still don’t think I deserve it, just for writing a few books. ‘The Principles of Applied Thought’ is the one which is best known, but I wrote a couple of training handbooks for marines, and one for spies as well. Which could be summed up in two statements; see everything; don’t be seen seeing it. But it was well received in certain circles, which is why you won’t be likely to find it on any library shelf because it’s essentially a banned book – or rather, one which is privately published for very select readers. My biography of Yin G’warz was published under a pseudonym, and it tickled me no end that it had been recommended reading for my class.

I think about three of them had read it.

Anyway, I was Sir Henry Kowalski, Knight Puissant of Educational Literature, largely because before ‘The Art of Knowing’ was withdrawn from public consumption, several loudmouths mentioned that it had saved their lives during the frontier war.  Including Indira Kelso, whose instincts are good enough anyway, but I suppose I should be flattered that she managed to learn anything.

The pamphlets, ‘The importance of greeting rituals,’ ‘Never underestimate a Wargin’s nose,’ and ‘National Literature is a Key to the People who Wrote it’ probably helped. The last is the reason why I had warmed to Mr. Ruhe, who had also understood the importance of the fiction of any peoples. I wondered if he had read my pamphlet; if he had, he had given no indication of associating my writing style with my teaching style as Serenaa... Miss Kerufin... had done. . Actually, I thought he had read it; he had made a reference to Pasquinate poetry, from the tradition of attaching satirical poetry as a rebuke to those in power to a statue called the Pasquino in Earth’s city of Rome, which continues to this day with the addressing of complaints and satires to the caryatids on the council spire on Capital.

Anyway, getting an invitation to the ball was not hard. Lady Kelso might be considered a bit woodsy by some people, but there was no denying that she had friends at court, and the polite fiction was that a lot of my literature had been screenplays for some of her films... and to be honest, I had had great fun writing ‘Softly softly catchee spy’ and ‘Our agent on Xhandifol reports,’ unashamed spy trids and romps, with no educational value whatsoever. But I could say, with truth, that I had written for her trid company.

So I got to meet Lord Duranor for afternoon refreshments.

“So, you’re the expert on the Forerunners who writes for the Kelso woman,” he said.

I gave a self-deprecating smile.

“I wouldn’t say I was an expert; even Lady Kelso claims she is no expert, only better informed than most people,” I said. “But it’s one reason I’m teaching under a pseudonym, and I’d take it as a great favour, one gentleman to another, if we could use my pseudonym, as I suspect some of my pupils might be at your ball.”

“Of course, of course! What pseudonym are you using?”

“Harry Lime; it has literary significance.”

He sighed.

“A very plebian name, as well as definitely Soll’d,” he said. “You have features of the Wiłanu.”

“My mother was from Wiłu,” I admitted.

She ran away with my father, but I wasn’t going to mention that.

“Uh... your official name is Henry, was it chosen because of the similarity to the Wiłanu name ‘Henduuri’?” he asked. “And Harry, I believe, is a Sol diminutive of Henry?”

“That is so,” I said, choosing to answer the second part.

He brightened.

“Then I can introduce you formally as ‘Henduuri Lime,’” he said. “Plenty will think your surname is ‘Liim,’ which is not too unfortunate. Surnames were set a long time ago, after all, and someone had to be a lumberjack.”

I reflected that it could have been worse, had he picked ‘Liiym’ which meant ‘melon’ unless said with the inflection which turned it into ‘ruminant turd.’ Henduuri had similar problems, and if emphasis was put, as many Solcentrics tended to, on the first syllable, it stopped being a name, and became a rather toxic arthropod.

I could get behind being an arthropod toxic to Pure Bloods.

 

 

oOoOo

 

I hated wearing dress clothes. I could get away with uniform a lot of the time, but going as a gunnery sergeant would go down about as well as a neutron star in a gas giant.

I dressed conservatively in a dress jump suit, in unrelieved black, with officer-style military boots over, and a half-cloak. It was a costume which could not be faulted, but also made no concessions to any nod to fashion.

There were a few men in uniforms, but most of the young men were dressed in various versions of the heights of fashion.  Or at least what passed for it on this world. To match... or echo... or parody... or whatever... the monoringlet so favoured by the young women, the nether garments of the most fashionable youths consisted of one leg which widened to flow outside the boot which was de rigueur with this costume, the other leg  skin tight and tucked inside the other boot. It was known, I believe, as the Leginout.

And if my brain did not require a memory scrub for that, a few of the more daring lads had taken it a stage further, having the leg normally in the boot cut short above the knee. [I later learned this was called the Pantabrief, but at the time, I could think of other descriptors, none of them suitable to record for posterity.]

The fad for asymmetry was all very well, if not taken to extremes.

Young people always take things to extremes.

I recognised Miss Faruu in one leg befrilled from the knee down, the other leg in something akin to a flowing skirt extending as far as the other trouser leg, and the frilled bustle with its ridiculous little train behind her. Her upper garment started just below the breast and extended down one arm frilled like the trouser leg, the other arm and shoulder bare, the nipple barely confined. It was not as extreme as some of the costumes, nor as conservative as others, but was a general measure of how taste is rarely the consort of fashion. Did I mention that the garments were in shades of purple and lilac heavily encrusted with silver sequins? Her hair and eyelashes matched.

And then I saw Serenaa... Kerufin.

She was in a white onepiece jumpsuit, not unlike mine in cut, but it must have been made of shvawdush silk subject to an electrical field. One sleeve was transparent and ghosted on her arm, attached to finger and hand chains; the other was attached in the same way, but utterly opaque. The legs were similarly one opaque, one transparent, but oh! The clever girl, her boots were asymmetric.  She wore one of her delectable long boots on the transparent side, so there were only glimpses of the thigh which was to be seen, with that ridiculous ankle bracelet on it, and on the other foot, a precise copy of the long boot, but ankle height only, over the bottom of the opaque leg. Any other girl would have had that leg bare, and it would not have been half as sexy.

Her face appeared innocent of any makeup, or it was so subtle as not to show, and her golden curls, burst from her head with the joyous unrestrained effervescence of those of a child. Which she most plainly was not.

With the obligatory train over it, with only the minimum number of frou-frous, her midriff, neck, and chest all covered in skintight white silk, she looked untouchable... and I was certain that every man in the room wanted to rip it off and touch her.

Well, I did.