22. Professor DeVault

Academy Hill, Vidako

Imperium Stellarum
September 27, 2847

By the morning of the first day of academic classes, Arc only half regretted joining the group chat. True, Vee was rather enthusiastic, but her excited messages actually helped to distract him from a sudden and unexpected wave of nerves. As torturous as Hard Burn had been, he hadn’t really ever been asked to do anything other than follow directions and, figuratively, be stubborn enough to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Now, the academy professors were going to actually expect him to think. Even though that was what he’d always been good at, the sudden change was uncomfortable.

The time of audible alarms echoing through the dorm room were over. Instead, Arc and his two roommates were each roused by their AI. Iceni was already flashing Arc’s class schedule for the day; a reminder to take his morning dose of the steroids, antibiotics, and painkillers they’d all been assigned during recovery; and his current merit total— one hundred and thirty two, which was more than ten percent of what he needed to earn his first genetic modification.

I am far more efficient than the tablet you were using before, Iceni preened as Arc carefully folded his sheets. Now that Hard Burn was over, they’d received a notice that room inspections would be at random intervals, rather than a daily occurrence. In some ways, it was too bad—forty-two of Arc’s merits had come from making his bed each morning. Cal Madine’s attitude might be hard to take, but he’d gotten all three of them off to a good start.

In fact, Iceni asked, as Arc went about the business of taking a morning shower, I have a hard time understanding why an assistive intelligence such as I am is not issued to every citizen of the Imperium from birth. That would be even more efficient, would it not?

Arc sighed. He was glad that he’d picked up the trick of responding silently, because that wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have out loud while he stood in the showers with a dozen other men. Across the way, Pika luxuriated under a blast of ice-cold water. Arc knew it was ice cold, because he’d made the mistake of getting too close when he walked by, once, and nearly frozen his balls off. He averted his eyes from his naked Alu’kan friend, very carefully kept his bandaged head out of the spray from his own shower head, and set to work with soap.

One reason is the cost, he explained to Iceni. The Imperium picks up the tab for all of the cadets here, but only after they weed out the non-hackers with Hard Burn. That works out to something like fifty-surgeries each year. You think they’d only do that many if it was cheap?

Iceni considered for a moment. Forty-nine cadets remain in the class of 2851, she corrected, before getting to his main point. According to a quick search run through the academy systems, each procedure costs in excess of fifty-thousand Imperial credits. That means your class already represents an investment of 2.45 million credits, not counting food and housing, waived tuition, expected medical care over the course of four years of training, not to mention the cost of sufficient T-3 Tyro training mechs, estimated at –

Arc couldn’t help but laugh. He very much wanted to duck his head under the water; it would be a relief when the bandages finally came off. You can cut it off there, Iceni, he thought. Cost isn’t the only reason, though yes, trained mech pilots are pretty expensive to field. That’s why there’s less than a thousand of them—of us—in fleet. The other reason is the Singularity.

Iceni seemed to consider that for a long moment. Ah. I see. There appears to be substantial and irrational prejudice against both cybernetic implants and artificial intelligence in the Imperium.

It isn’t exactly irrational. Arc gave himself one last rinse, turned off the shower, and grabbed his towel from the hook to begin drying off. The war wasn’t really that long ago—only about sixty years. I mean, it’s still within living memory, and they basically started using their AIs for war the moment they declared independence. The only reason the Imperium’s even willing to give mech pilots neural lace is because you can’t handle a mech without it.

He padded back down the hall, past other cadets in various states of dress and undress, while Iceni seemed to dwell silently on what he’d told her. It wasn’t until he’d gotten back to his room, dressed in his uniform, and was pulling on his shoes that she spoke again.

Prejudice is illogical. I would have thought the decision-making apparatus of an empire spanning more than two dozen worlds would be based less on emotion, and more on analysis.

“Welcome to working with humanity,” Arc told her, straightened his tunic in the mirror, and then headed downstairs for breakfast.

𝝮

“It is bizarre not to be going on a dawn run,” Pika said, in between crunching some sort of smoked fish breakfast sandwich. “After being pushed, and pushed, and pushed, to think that now I will spend my morning sitting in a physics lecture.”

“That’s the difference between an officer and a grunt,” Arc told him. He looked down at the crumbs left on his plate from fried potatoes, the smears of yellow egg yolk. “Which reminds me, I need to get going. The history building is on the other side of campus.” He rose from his seat, and scooped his things up, but before he could leave his table, Cassie stood as well.

“I’ll walk with you part way,” she said, and together they stacked their dishes for cleaning. Cassie was silent while they walked past the few cadets who’d taken their meals out to the sofas and armchairs in the lounge which connected the dining hall to the foyer of Tycho Hall, and when they reached the door, Arc stepped forward to hold it open for her.

“I hope that wasn’t because I’m a princess,” Cassie grumbled, pausing at the top of the steps for him to catch up.

Arc shook his head. “It’s because my father taught me to always hold the door for a woman. So what’s up?”

They set off down the path together, away from the dorm and toward the central part of campus. Vidako’s twin suns were still making their way up toward the zenith of the sky, and the two light sources caused Arc and Cassie’s bodies to cast dual shadows at slightly different angles. It was a bizarre sight, and one he didn’t think he would ever quite get used to.

“Duke Alvarez Montalban has apparently leaned on the commandant,” Cassie explained. “He wants me to come to dinner in New Toledo, presumably so that he can show me off and try to get something out of my father. Captain Marlowe has made it clear to me that this is not optional. She promised to put him off until after Hard Burn, but now we’re through that, and we’ve had our surgery, she’s going to be running out of excuses.”

Arc blinked. This was not at all what he’d thought she wanted to talk about. Classes, maybe, or—well, not this. He winced in genuine sympathy. “He’s going to make you go out in public, with all sorts of fancy people, while you’ve got your head wrapped in bandages? That sounds horrible. It’s the last thing I’d want to do.”

“I hope it isn’t,” Cassie said, throwing a glance sideways at him. “Because I can’t go alone. Marlowe’s approved me for a plus one. We both get leave to go to New Toledo, as well as a pass to go into the city here ahead of time to get clothes. I also made her agree to compensate us for our time with merits.”

“Me?” Arc actually stumbled, feeling thoroughly conflicted. On the one hand, the fact that she was inviting him sent a splash of hot excitement through his belly. He was certain that there were more politically appropriate people at the school for a princess imperial to be seen with—her cousin, for instance, or even Cal Madine, who was the son of an admiral. There were almost certainly other nobles among the upperclassmen who would have been comfortable and familiar with this kind of event—people she’d know wouldn’t embarrass her. But she hadn’t asked any of them: she’d asked Arc.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

On the other hand, the thought of escorting a princess to a dinner hosted by the Duke of Vidako was terrifying. He wouldn’t know a single person there beside Cassie, and he wouldn’t have a clue what to talk about. He wouldn’t know the right forks or spoons to use, and what if there was dancing? He’d never come closer to the Duke of Zurah than walking past a gated off estate in the capital.