Fantasy Making of a Starship Captain

Chappie got into his face, so close that they were almost eyeball to eyeball. "Are you blind, son? What's your name!"

"Kenilworth, Sergeant!"

"Well, I don't know if you're worth a kennel to the Service if you're blind, Kenilworth. Are you blind, Kenilworth?'

"No, Sergeant!"

"You must be, because I'm Chinese!"

"Chinese, Sergeant?"

"Look again! What race am I?"

Kenilworth looked at Sergeant Chappie's black arms, black hands, and black face, and his prominent African nose. "Chinese, sir."

Chappie smiled. "Very good, Kenilworth! There may be hope for you yet!" He raised his voice. "For all the rest of you, for the next ten months I'm going to be keeping my little Chinese eyes trained on you. They may be small, they may be slanty, but trust me, they see EVERYTHING!"

He paced up and down the line, and stopped in front of the Chinese twins. "What have we here? And who might you be?"

"Ming Wa Ching, Sergeant," said one.

"And you, honorable sir?" Chappie asked his brother.

"Ming Wa Chang, Sergeant," said the other.

"Ming Wa Ching... Ming Wa Chang... Hm.... No, that simply won't do," said Chappie.

"Sergeant?" said Ming Wa Ching.

"What if we're in a live fire exercise, and I need to tell you to get your head down in a hurry?" said Chappie. "By the time I say your name, your head will be blown off. No... that won't do at all." He pointed to each of them, one at a time. "You, I will call Ping... and you, I will call Pong. Any problem with that?"

"No, Sergeant!" they both said together.

Someone laughed.

"Who laughed?" Chappie asked. No one responded. "If I have to ask again, everyone's going down to give me forty pushups."

"It was me, sir," said Ernie Maslarov, stepping forward. The novelist.

"Name?"

"Ernie Maslarov, sir."

"Sir?" said Chappie, sounding enraged.

"Sorry, Sergeant," said Ernie hastily.

Chappie put a friendly arm around Ernie. "Tell me Ernie--may I call you Ernie?"

"Of course, Sergeant."

"Do you find this funny, Ernie?"

Maslarov looked hesitantly up at him.

"Come on, Ernie, you can tell me!"

"A... a little, sir," said Maslarov.

"Well, let's see how you like my next joke," said Chappie. "Give me five laps around the perimeter, soldier!"

"The perimeter, sir? You mean, of the entire base?"

"No, I mean your grandma's asshole! Bronski, get him started!" One of the corporals wacked Maslarov with a walking stick, and he started running.

"Does anyone else find this funny? Anyone at all?" Chappie asked walking back and forth along the line furiously. "I feel that there is something I've forgotten. Someone I've forgotten. I have heard we have a genuine hero here. A Moon hero. Is that correct?"

Taylor groaned silently.

"I heard that we have a great hero among us who saved many lives. I would like to meet this brave hero. Step forward now!"

Taylor reluctantly took two steps forwards. He felt the eyes of everyone on him.

His heart thudded in his chest as Chappie marched over to him, with a grim expression on his face.

"Name?" he demanded.

"Michael Taylor, s... Sergeant!" said Taylor.

Chappie glared at him as Taylor stared straight ahead. "So you think you're a hero, are you?"

"No, Sergeant!"

"Then why did you step forward?"

"You ordered me to, Sergeant!"

"I asked for a hero," said Chappie. He walked around Taylor in a tight circle. "You don't look like no hero to me, boy. You look soft, and weak. May I share something with you, Moon Hero?"

"Yes... Yes Sergeant!"

"I don't like soft boys. Soft boys get other people killed. Right now, at this very moment, I think it is my mission in life to get you to give me your RFD. Would you like to give it to me now and save us both a lot of time and trouble?"

"No, Sergeant!"

Chappie glared at him as they stood face to face. "You will, Moon hero. Trust me, you will."

They ran two laps around the perimeter before breakfast, passing an exhausted Ernie Maslarov, who was working on his fourth.

At breakfast, Joanna Martin sat down next to Taylor. "What does Chappie have against you, Mike?"

"I don't know," said Taylor. "I never even met him before today."

"He sees you have potential," said Sophie Astor, sitting down on the other side of him.

"Why do you say that?" Taylor asked.

"As I see it, Sergeant Chappie has not one but two roles. The first is to encourage the resignations of those of us who are not capable of fulfilling our roles as Survey Service officers. The second is to test the best of us, to see if he can find a weak spot. I believe that is what Sergeant Chappie is doing to you."

"How do yew knauw this?" Joanna asked.

"It is self evident, surely," said Sophie, raising an eyebrow.

"Tell me more about this Passive Observer philosophy of yours," said Taylor. "Do you... do you have emotions?"

"Of course," said Sophie, and she smiled at him, briefly, for a moment. Her face looked totally different. And then the smile faded as quickly as it had arrived. "But we train ourselves not to react to superficial stimuli. We find it interferes with the observer process. For us, life is about observing experiences, visuals, tastes, touches, and smells, and cataloging them objectively. "

"So could Sergeant Chappie ever break yew?" Joanna asked, perhaps a bit too eagerly.

"Break me?" Sophie frowned. "That would presume that there was a psychological component within me that could be severed, which would cause me emotional panic. On a psychological level, I exist as a substantial homogeneous volume of neurons which cannot be 'broken', Cadet."

"So... yew don't think yew can wash out?"

Sophie shrugged. "The physical requirements may be too arduous. The class requirements may be overwhelming, though I doubt that. The answer to your question is that yes, I could, 'wash out'. But it will not be due to simple psychological pressure."

Taylor looked at her, methodically eating her breakfast, one bite at a time, and wished he could be as calm as she was.

"Should I call you Mister Vladek, Doctor Vladek, or Lieutenant Vladek?" Taylor asked.

"Why, whatever you like," Doctor Vladek smiled.

Taylor felt like he was being tested.

Doctor Vladek was introduced to him as his "Counselor", but he was very obviously a psychologist, there to evaluate him. Taylor knew he couldn't truly confide in him, and that Doctor Vladek probably was there to assess his psychological fitness to be a Survey Service officer.

"So, how are you settling in, Michael?" Doctor Vladek asked.

"Fine," said Taylor.

"I heard that Sergeant Chappie showed a special interest in you this morning."

"It was nothing," Taylor smiled.

"Nothing? When a man says his mission in life to get you to RFD, you call that nothing? Do you discount all challenges in this way?" Vladek looked at Taylor intensely. He had big eyes, and even bigger bags under them.

"No, I didn't mean that!" said Taylor hastily.

"What did you mean?"

"Only... that I'm not going to worry about it," said Taylor.

"But shouldn't we worry about things sometimes? Doesn't worrying about a problem mean that we think about it, without dismissing it out of hand?"

Taylor felt confused, like Vladek was trying to twist his own words. "I... I'll give it the attention it deserves."

Vladek suddenly grinned. "That's as good an answer as any. Until you come up with a better one. You'd better get going, or you'll be late for small arms training."

Major Shalikashvili was their weapons instructor. The first weapon they were trained on were compression rifles. Shalikashvili had a friendly manner, one that encouraged students to ask questions, and one came almost immediately.

"Why don't we train on blaster rifles, first?" Ernie Maslarov, the writer, asked. "Aren't they a lot more powerful?"

"More powerful, undeniably," said Shalikashvili, walking to the weapons stand, and selecting a blaster rifle. He held it up, and aimed at target on the outdoor shooting range. They oooh'ed as he blasted a target away. Then Shalikashvili picked up a compression rifle. He aimed, and fired, hitting a target much farther away. "But power isn't everything."

He looked at the Cadets. "Soon you'll see for yourself.."

They started with the compression rifles. They all did reasonably well--most of them could hit the targets they aimed at. Joanna Martin managed to hit a bulls eye. "Good work, Josie," said Andrea Farber.

"This is nothing. I used to shoot wild dingos on me Dad's ranch outside of Adelaide," said Joanna.

Major Shalikashvili went over to each student, one by one, offering suggestions on how to aim and hold their weapon. He was patient and helpful, a marked contrast to Sergeant Chappie. None of the cadets could imagine him demanding a student's RFD.

But when he went over to Taylor, he put a hand on his shoulder and said, "What are you doing, son? You haven't made a scratch on the target."

"Yes I have," said Taylor. "I hit a bulls eye twice. Look!"

Shalikashvili looked, and saw nothing.

"No, there," said Taylor pointing.

Major Shalikashvili's jaw dropped. Taylor had been shooting at the wrong target. The one he had been firing at was twice the distance of the other students. And he gotten two bullseyes, just as he said.

"Have you ever fired a gun, son?"

"Before today? No, sir?"

"Then how did you get two bullseyes at 2000 feet?"

Mike shrugged. "I aimed. I fired."

Shalikashvili nodded. He had a prodigy on his hands, he could feel it. "Let's see how you all do with targets that move."

"Mark your targets, mark your targets!" said Shalikashvili, as he walked across the line of cadets who were lying prone on the rifle range, aiming intently at the many targets moving back and forth. "Cambell, you're not leading your target enough. Lead more, man, lead." And then, "Najjar, you're leading too much!"

"For the glory of Laquinta!" Mohammida shouted, startling everyone as she fired her weapon. Shalikashvili grabbed her rifle away from her. She looked up at him inquiringly. "We don't yell out when we fire our weapons, Najjar. That can warn the enemy. Do you think you can fire this weapon without calling on your deity for assistance?"

Mohammida nodded. He handed the rifle back to her. "Then show me, soldier."

It wasn't long before Shalikashvili came over to watch Taylor. He said nothing, but Taylor was very conscious of his presence behind him. He tried not to let it affect him. He aimed carefully and fired, one shot at a time, at targets moving twice as fast as the ones the other students were aiming at. Then he looked up at Shalikashvili.

"How was I, sir?"

"Seven of eight. I think you missed one," said Shalikashvili.

"Sorry, sir."

"Don't be sorry. I'm going to post you for advanced sniper training. Does that suit you, Cadet?"

"Sir, yes sir!"

Once again Taylor sensed he was the center of attention during dinner, but this time in a good way. He saw people staring at him and whispering to each other. Mohammida Najjar came and sat down by him.

"Hi," she said, smiling at him. Mohammida was brown skinned. She had long straight hair, and dark eyes.

"Hi," Taylor replied.

"How do you shoot so well?" she asked.

"I don't know," said Taylor. "I just aim and fire."

"We all do that," said Mohammida, and Taylor sensed she wasn't satisfied with his answer.

Taylor had questions of his own. "I... I heard you calling to Laquinta on the firing range."

Mohammida blushed, though Taylor couldn't see it. "Yes, it is a battle cry my people use," she said.

"Your people... so you are a follower of the God of Blood?" Taylor asked.

Mohammida nodded.

"Then why...." Taylor let his question drop off.

"Am I here?" she said. "I get asked that a lot."

"I'll bet you do," Taylor said.

"In my culture, women are second class citizens," said Mohammida. "Women are expected to stay in the home and get impregnated. When they go outside, they must cover their body from head to toe. Their husbands are allowed, even encouraged to beat them, and in many families they are not allowed to have outside jobs."

"But you... are here."

"I am a follower of reformed Laquintaism," said Mohammida. "It is our belief that the Book of Blood allows women to go out of the household and do everything a man can."

Taylor struggled to understand that. "But... how can that be? Doesn't the Book of Blood say-"

"The Book of Blood says many things, but was written by men. Men who had little understanding of Laquinta's true thoughts and desires, and twisted his words to suit them," said Mohammida.

"Did your family support your applying to the Academy?"

"No," said Mohammida. "They wanted an entirely different future for me. I was to have an arranged marriage at 14. I ran away from home instead, and came to Earth. A charity supported me and I lived in a boarding school, until I was old enough to apply to the Academy."

"It must have taken a lot of... courage to leave your family on Ramada," said Taylor.

Mohammida smiled at him appreciatively. "Not so much, actually," she said, chewing on some hamburger meat thoughtfully. "It was just a matter of falling out of love."

"Falling out of love?" Taylor asked.

"Or never being in love in the first place. My groom-to-be was a 70 year old man, a rich landowner my father was trying to cultivate," said Mohammida. "After seeing a 70 year old man leering at you, you find the courage to run comes rather easily."

"I imagine it would," said Taylor. They ate in silence for a moment longer.

Then Mohammida said, "Tell me again how you aim at targets."

The Cadets spent about half their waking hours in classes. If Taylor thought that Solar Chemistry was hard, that was before he was introduced to Spatial Math and Shipboard Mechanics. It was all incredibly complex. More than once he found himself wishing that he had Hal to talk to, or a quiet place to go to he could call his own, like the Robolawya control room.

But Hal had told him he didn't need any of that anymore. And so Taylor focused and studied as best he could. But he still found himself struggling in school.

Their instructor in Shipboard Mechanics was Lieutenant Commander Sarah Blade.

Sarah Blade was in her mid 30's, and she was gorgeous. Not gorgeous like an 18 year old, perhaps, but gorgeous in that way of a more mature woman who is socially well adjusted, who knows what she wants, and who knows how to get it. She had brilliant bright blonde hair which curved inwards towards her neck, with every hair exactly in place. She had expressive green eyes, high cheekbones, and ruby red lips. She could flirt with students merely by smiling at them, and she often did.

Sarah Blade always had had her pick of men. She was too busy playing the field to ever get married. But in her 30's, things started to change. She could no longer attract men in their 20's quite so easily. So she got a job at the Academy, a job which allowed her to flirt with young men every day. There were wild rumors about Sarah having relationships with her students, though perhaps relationships wasn't exactly the right word.

After Taylor got his second 'C' on an exam, Blade asked him to stay after class to speak to her about it. Taylor shuddered when she asked him to stay behind. He shuddered whenever she looked at him. She was so incredibly attractive, so very sexy. He felt like he would fall to pieces whenever she smiled at him.

"You're having trouble with the material, Michael," she said, as he came up to her podium after class.

"I'm trying, Commander, really I am," said Taylor.

"Trying doesn't get you commissioned as an officer. Doing does," she said, smiling at him. Somehow everything she said came out as a flirtatious remark. Or maybe it was the way she looked at him with those piercing green eyes.

She went around so she stood behind him. Her hands gently touched his shoulders. "What are your plans to do better, Mister?"

"I... I'll try harder, Lieutenant Commander," said Taylor. He was almost trembling now.

"Would you like some... help?" she said, pivoting so she was in front of him now.

"Help?" said Taylor, as if the word was foreign to him.

"Tutoring," she said, looking into his eyes.

"From you, Lieutenant Commander?" Taylor asked.

"Do you see anyone else in the room, Michael?" she asked, as she touched his wrists, ever so gently.

"No, Lieutenant Commander," he stammered. He felt her fingers playing, tapping on his lower arms, like it was all some game to her.

"Then I guess it would be me. Is that acceptable to you, Michael?" she asked.

Taylor managed to nod.

"Good," she smiled. "Come to my quarters at 1900 hours tomorrow."

"Your quarters?"

"Unless you'd rather be tutored in your crowded dormitory? Or perhaps the hallway would be more to your liking?" She was playing with him! She was playing with him, and enjoying it thoroughly! He saw the little smile on her face.

"No, Lieutenant Commander; your quarters will be fine."

"Good," she said. She swiveled, showing him her ass. "I'll see you then."

The Cadets were running around the base. It was a hot day in September, and they were doing laps around the base perimeter. Sergeant Chappie didn't run with them, but showed up at specific points along their run. When he saw them breaking into a sweat, he said, "All right, time to cool down!" And then he had them run in the surf.

Running on the beach in the surf was about three times as difficult as running on solid ground. The ground was soft and their feet tended to sink into it. The water they were in was knee deep, at times waist deep, depending on the tide, and every time they lifted their legs the water would pull at them. Every time they would step forward the water would resist them. They tired much more quickly in the water than they did on land.

And then, after they were exhausted from running, they were made to do pushups. Sets of ten, with little rest between each of them. Inevitably the cadets would collapse from arm muscle exhaustion.

"What's wrong, children? Are we tired from a few pushups? You all know you're going to have to do a hundred before you can graduate! And here we've done, what, thirty in total, with breaks after every ten? You won't have those kinds of breaks when you have to take your final exam! All right, break time is over. Run around the perimeter one more time, and you're done for today."

The cadets groaned. Chappie was enraged. "Oh, you want something more challenging? All right. One more time around the perimeter, and the last person to arrive gives me his RFD. Now get a move on!"

They started running. Taylor ran next to Bill Kenilworth, the artist, who vented his unhappiness to Mike. "I knew that the Survey Service would be physically demanding, but this feels like we're training for a marathon. We're not going to be running miles in space!"

"We... have to be... physically fit," said Taylor, in between gasps. He saw that he and Kenilworth were falling behind, in the last group of cadets. And then, suddenly, he and Kenilworth were last, just behind Cadet Carlos Sotomayor.

"Come on, we can't be last!" Taylor cried. He started pumping his legs, even though he felt close to the breaking point. Kenilworth matched him, and they arrived at the end just a foot ahead of Cadet Sotomayor. They all collapsed on the ground, gasping for breath.

"That's not very dignified, rolling around on the ground like that," said Sergeant Chappie. "If my narrow Chinese eyes were not mistaken, Cadet Sotomayor was the last to arrive. Is that not correct, Cadet?"

Sotomayor nodded, gasping for breath. "I... I just need a breather."

"You can have that, and more. All the breathing you want," said Chappie, whipping out his Pad and holding it to his face. "But first, I want your RFD, Sotomayor!"

"No sir!" said Sotomayor.

"Sotomayor, out of a 52 cadet group you came in dead last! You're not going to make it here! Now give me your RFD, soldier!"

And so intimidated was Sotomayor, that he wearily held up his thumb, and Chappie pressed his Pad against it.

"I would never do that," said Cherry Oteri at dinner. "Just give up like that. He intimidates people. I would never let Sarge get to me like that."

"You won't know until you're on the receiving end of one of his tirades," said Ernie Maslarov.

"I suppose you think this is great material for that book you're writing," said Cherry.

"It is," said Ernie, smiling. "Sergeant Chappie is the perfect antagonist."

"And who will the protagonist be in your soon to be holobestseller?" Andrea Farber asked.

"An intellectual young man who suffers many setbacks but withstands the rigors of training," said Ernie.

"I wonder who that could be," said Andrea dryly.

"I wonder what happens if someone refuses to give Chappie their RFD," John Cambell said.

"Well, I suppose he could drop them from the program if he really wanted to," said Joanna Martin.

"I wonder if he's ever done that," Cambell mused.

Sergeant Chappie was relentless. In the afternoon, they generally attended classes, but in the morning, they were always his, bright and early, starting at 6 AM every day. He pushed the cadets to their limit, trying to get them to give him their RFD's.

The next morning as they ran around the perimeter Chappie jogged with them. He jogged next to Natasha Romanov.

"Romanov! Aren't you the Russian spy?" Chappie asked.

"No Sergeant!" she gasped, even as she ran.

"Sure you are. You were sent here by Russia to spy on the Survey Service."

"You must be tinking of somevone else," she said.

"No, I know exactly who I'm 'tinking' of, Romanov," said Chappie. "Look at you. You're falling behind the main group. Didn't they teach you how to run in spy school?"

Natasha didn't answer. Her legs were in pain. She bit her lip and kept jogging.

"Didn't they have any exercise classes in spy school?" Chappie asked. "Or were you too busy learning how to poison and fuck? Poison and fuck, Poison and fuck, that's all you learn how to do in the NGB, right?"

Natasha didn't show any reaction, she kept running.

"You look on the verge of collapse, Romanov," said Chappie. "You keep pushing yourself like that, we're going to send you home in a box."

Natasha shook her head. Her lungs were heaving, but she kept going.

Chappie shook his head. "They sure don't make Russian spies like they used to."

Chappie latched on to his next victim during sit ups: Bill Kenilworth.

"Hey! If it isn't the artist!" said Chappie, bending down next to Bill. "I hear you joined the Survey Service because you wanted to become a painter. Is that true?"

"No Sergeant!" said Bill, as he bent his chest forward painfully.

"Yeah, I know you. You're the painter. Makes perfect sense. You want to paint, so join the Survey Service. Why not? Your Mommy and Daddy were in the Service, weren't they? They were too proud to recognize that their son wasn't exactly cut from the same cloth, and they pushed you into it. Tell it, tell it straight. Whisper it into my delicate Chinese ears. Mommy and Daddy are forcing you to do this, aren't they? Aren't they? Answer me, boy!"

"No sir!" said Bill, staring at Chappie defiantly, even as he continued to do sit ups.

"Don't you eyeball me, boy! Don't you eyeball me!"

Kenilworth looked away.

Chappie's tone grew more conversational once again. "Why endure all this pain? Just give me your thumbprint, and we can have you on a transport going back to San Francisco in an hour. You can have your work displayed at some fancy art gallery, and some chick with a bald head and twenty two piercings will be so high on Weed that she'll think a pair of horizontal lines will be better than a fucking Picasso! Come on, Bill, give me your RFD. Give it to me, and it will all be over."

"No sir!" said Kenilworth, straining as he did another sit up.

Chappie's tone darkened. "Fine then! Then do me a painting, right now! I want to see a painting of pain, Kenilworth, real life vivid pain! Do you know what such a painting would look like? Do you?"

He held up his Pad, pressed a button, then turned the Pad so Kenilworth could see it. It was a photo of Bill's face, colorized to look like a painting. Bill's face was in exquisite pain, his eyes bulging, his jaw open, his face silently screaming in agony. "Perfect boy, we're going to frame it, and put it on every wall in your dormitory, so you can win your prize!"​