The wrong shuttle
I recall the sense of fatigue. The kind that tunnels your vision and mutes the world around you. The term had been long and arduous as across the state funded primary academies teachers and pastoral staff ran hefty programs to identify the most suitable specialist subjects to add to our core curriculums. They would serve as our first division in curriculum before military conscription. Malkalen Academy, a distant subsidiary of the Kaalakiota Corporation, had not held back in it’s duties.
Hush fell across the classroom as our teacher walked in. I cannot remember her name but I can still picture the woman. A stern and imposing figure with the glare of a demon. “Afternoon students. This registration period will extend into your afternoon periods as your specialist subjects have been assigned to you. A communication will have been sent to your family residence, but it is tradition here at the academy for us to share them with you in your tutor group.” My fingers. I remember fidgeting as the absence of any groans belied the anxiousness of the moment. Even Galtter had shut up as the datapad became the focal point of attention. Yellow text through a blue translucent glass.
“We shall proceed through the class in student number order descending.
One Three Six. Kullelar Kobuya. Mathematics module A. Introduction to Engineering. Design and technical applications B. Introduction to astrophysics.
Two One Three. Galtter Nunta. Further Physical Education Module A. Introduction to Managerial Practice. New Eden History. Executive Module C.
Two Three One. Tallia Thorn. Mathematics module A. Statistics module A. Introduction to Data Science. Introduction to Galactic Trade.
“Two Four Seven. Hitotaka Yonesen…”
Memory plays fickle tricks. It distils the personally important from the whole and saves in bit sized package form. Alters facts for convenient fiction. I’ve tried to recall the rest of that registration, but all I can dredge up is the feeling of confusion. Of hazy disorientation. That panicked feeling of boarding the wrong shuttle. Come on. We’ve all done it at least once.
“Miss. Please may I ask a question?” The class had gone and I stand across from Miss Yonesen with my student-pad tucked under my arm. With curt nod and expectant look I know to proceed. “Have I been assigned the incorrect subjects? I was hoping to have be-“
“Your subject assignments are correct, Tallia.” Through the hazy glass of her desk-pad I can see the profile Miss Yonesen brings up. The image of a fourteen year old girl with brown eyes. Shoulder length hair. The twinge of a smile that just passed ID regulation. Performance graphs. Observation logs. Family history. Financial payments. “Your scores in mathematics, the sciences and analytical subjects strongly suggest your aptitude lies in those domains. Genealogy analysis suggests that you are ill suited for pursuing advanced physical studies, as do biometric markers during stress test sessions. Your family histo-“
“Mi-“
“Do not interrupt me, Tallia. The Thorn family history has a long ling of superb service as analytical technicians within several Kaalakiota corporations, and there is little reason to believe you could not contin-“
“Miss, I want to see the stars. I want to go to space an-“
“Tallia.” I can recall her expression of furrowed brow and concerned smile still. The memory feels of anger, yet I can see the caring impulse in her eyes. “Do you wish to do the most that you can for your family?” I nod. “Do you wish to do the most you can for yourself?” I nod. “Do you wish to do the most you can for the State?”
“Of course.”
“With diligence and hard work, these subjects are where you can start doing the most you can do. Your parents spent a great deal to get you into this academy so that we can guide you into fulfilling that potential.”
“…Ok. Thank you, Miss.”
An audible sigh of relief left someone’s lips, though whose it was I could not say.