Vyyda Book 1: The Haver Problem (15 page)

"Here for provisions?" Dorsey asked.  He glanced back over his shoulder to see that the mess had opened and students were collecting their packages.

"No.  Sklar's called us in.  You'd have heard if you were wearing your fleks."

Dorsey glanced at his wrist.  It had completely slipped his mind that he'd taken it off back in his rooms.  The fleks was something new for him upon his arrival at Sykes and there were still times he liked to feel unburdened from it.

"I..."

"That's alright.  It's less noticeable than the rest of your appearance," Witt remarked with a smile.

Dorsey looked once more at his red cargo molka, doubly embarrassed by just how out of place he seemed to be.

"Dominic Spackle is sure to have a thing or two to say about it," Witt said.

"No.  I mean, I'll b
e there...after I go back – get my fleks and vestment."

"Sklar wants us now.  He's anxious to get the sweep going as soon as possible."

Dorsey turned toward the mess again.  The lines were growing shorter by the moment.  Efficiency was at work in the dispersal of provisions.

"They're still getting...all the students won't be -- "

"They will soon enough," Witt said.  "Come on, it'll be fine.  You're strong enough to take a little poison from Dominic Spackle."

They walked together in silence for a moment, continuing away from the mess and toward the administration wing, just off the landing platform.

"You know I finished...I finished the -- "

"I know."

"How?" Dorsey asked, then almost immediately realized.  "You put a tracer on the files?"

"Can you think of a better way for me to keep track of your progress?"

"Right."

Witt patted Dorsey on the shoulder in a ‘no hard feelings, eh’ manner.

"Anything you want to ask me about idiom or style?"

"Not that I can think of," Witt said.

              “You requested -- ”

             
“I was sure you’d see through that.  I wanted you to read it because I
wanted
you to read it.  You did it as a personal favor.”

             
They continued their walk, Witt occasionally greeting one or another of the passing students familiar to him. 

             
“You’re not even going to pretend that -- ”

             
“I’m releasing the journal, Dorsey.  I’m sending it out immediately through every resource for distribution that I can find.  Spread it across U-Space.”

             
“What?”  Dorsey came to a dead stop.  Witt turned, looking a little disappointed.

             
“That was the point all along.  You didn’t suspect?  What would you have me do with something so important?”

             
“Most people can’t read.”

             
“They’ll hear about it.”

             
“A lot of them will think it’s a hoax.”

             
“You’re right.  But then people – other people – will start to look into FTC-45.  Questions are going to be asked.”

             
Dorsey still hadn’t moved – too much to digest in Witt’s admissions.  The older man, an odd smile on his face, motioned for Dorsey to keep moving.

             
“Sklar.  Remember?  Don’t want to be late.”

             
Dorsey remained in place.

             
“I’m sorry, Tomas…you seem irresponsible about this whole thing.”

             
Witt walked back to Dorsey.

             
“Think about what took place on Earth all those years ago – just the part we know about.  It doesn’t deserve sharing?”

             
“Anyone who really wants…can track it back to you.  Back to Sykes,” Dorsey said.

             
“I’m prepared for that.”

             
Witt began walking again.  Dorsey caught up.

             
“It may or may not make a difference to you…but that’s the sort of thing that have brought some to a premature end.  The wrong individuals take offense.”

             
“Those tales are unconfirmed.  But in the event that they’re true, as I said, I’m prepared.”

             
“And what about the rest of us?  What about Sykes?”

             
Witt stopped, glanced at the floor for a moment and then looked Dorsey in the eye.  “I think I’ve given a lot over my years here.  Maybe just enough to earn this act of rebellion?  Besides, how do the people you mean take down an entire institution such as this…as far as they’d have to travel?”

             
“I don’t know.  And neither do you.”

             
“Come,” Witt said softly with a jerk of his thumb.  “Sklar.”

V              V              V              V

Sklar had assignments ready to dole out for the sweep.  As tasks go, it was simple enough:  take your designated segment of the facility, do a quick check.  If it was residential, assure that all students were locked in.  If it was any other part of Sykes, make damn sure there weren't any stragglers, away from their rooms.

             
These were strictly precautionary measures.  The Rollos were closely watched and marched from vessel to confinement upon their arrival (and in reverse once their layover was complete).  They hadn’t the freedom to spread out around the school.

             
Still, most of the places Rollos camped between jobs didn't have anything as vulnerable as students to protect.  Sklar had created the Rollo program only with the understanding that security would be of paramount importance.

             
Dorsey, once given his assignment, was sure that Spackle had drawn up the division of responsibilities.  He’d received the job of going through the entire lower level of first-year student residences.  A winding, sloping excavation which had a bizarre odor and never got warm enough for comfort.  It hadn't originally been planned for first-year students, but once it was established as the most unpleasant spot on Sykes, it fell to the newcomers.

             
Faculty were to begin the comprehensive sweep immediately.  Even Dorsey’s plea to return to his quarters to don his faculty vestment was denied.

             
“Transient labor’s arriving sooner than we thought.  We’ve got to tie everything down,” Sklar replied.

             
“I don’t think it matters what you wear,” Spackle said to Dorsey as the room was emptying of faculty.  “Some people don’t improve just by donning faculty vestments.”

             
For the first time in memory, Dorsey allowed animosity to be translated into a physical reaction, driving a quick elbow into Spackle’s midsection.  Uncharacteristic though it may have been – Dorsey was no fighter – the result was satisfying.

V              V              V              V

              The first-year rooms were squeezed close together along either side of the twisting passage which gradually wound lower and lower into the planet.  The area showed no signs of activity by the time Dorsey began his walkthrough.  Doors were closed tight, students already piled in with their collection of basic provisions.

Things were so quiet
that Dorsey had slipped into a lackadaisical approach to the sweep, and was taken by surprise at the sight of a single student making his way along the curved passageway, clutching an item secretly up against his abdomen.  Tainesbott, was the kid's name, as Dorsey recalled – one of the students who had dropped his class mid-term earlier in the year.

"Tainesbott
?" Dorsey asked, startling the student, as he was still looking over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't being followed.  Snapping around face front, Tainesbott nearly dropped the item in his grasp.

             
"Professor Jefferson!"  The young man thrust his hands behind his back in a painfully awkward attempt to conceal the item in hand.  "What's happening?  Are you evacuating the level?"

"No.  Just making sure everyone's in for the duration," Dorsey replied as he craned his neck slightly to get a better look at whatever Tainesbott was hiding.

“I was on the way back to my room.”

“Been out scavenging?” Dorsey asked.

“No!  I was…” Tainesbott’s voice trailed off as he was unable to find the right words to complete the explanation.

“You were…?”  Dorsey asked, gently pressing the issue.

“It’s probably not allowed, Professor, but I did pay for it.”

“You paid for what?”

Slowly, Tainesbott produced the item in his grasp:  a ten inch, oblong metallic object with slender tubes emanating from each side.  Dorsey stepped back in alarm at seeing it.

“Where the hell did you get that
?”

“I bought it, I told you,” Tainesbott said.

“And you know what you have there?”

“Yeah.  A flurry dispenser.”

“For what possible reason?” Dorsey was still backing away.

“The Rollos.  They force their way into my room, this will go off on them.  All I have to do is hook these on to the security bar on our door,” Tainesbott said, holding the device aloft. 
“At least, that’s what I was told to do.”

Dorsey, despite his panic, noticed a critical detail.  The dispenser held no r
elease pin – a thin blue rod that should have been situated atop the device.  When armed, flurry dispensers shot grain-sized pellets in a predetermined direction.  The poison coating the pellets led to immediate blindness, difficulty breathing and, occasionally, death. 

The dispenser in the possession of Tainesbott had been decommissioned and subsequently disarmed. 

Such deterrents, when active, were strategically placed in sectors containing oxygen filtering and distribution, generators and communication centers.  It was essentially the last line of defense to prevent any ‘unfriendlies’ from compromising the most critical elements of the school’s defense and well-being.

Flurry pellets had a limited life.  Every six months the canisters had to be replaced, with the disarmed and mostly inert dispensers stored in a vault until such time as they
could be permanently removed from Sykes.

“Set it down, please.” Dorsey instructed.
As Tainesbott placed the dispenser on the ground, Dorsey breathed easier.  “You know what flurry pellets do, don’t you?”

“Disable, sometimes kill, from what I’ve heard,” Tainesbott said in an eerily calm way.

“And that doesn’t concern you carrying it around?”

“No,” the young man said with a shrug.  “I took the…you know.  The pill.”

“The pill?”

“I know I’m not supposed to know about it, but…”

“Wait.  What pill are you talking about?”

“The immunity pill,” Tainesbott replied.  “You don’t know?  I thought all the faculty knew.”

Dorsey held up one hand.  “Who told you…never mind.  You said you bought it?  Who sold it to you?”

Tainesbott was none too anxious to answer.

“You’re going to tell
somebody
, I promise you.  May as well be me.”

“I bought it from…Dole Vardon,” Tainesbott finally admitted.

Dumbfounded, Dorsey shook his head.  “Vardon?  Dole Vardon sold you this?”

“Yeah.  He made me a good price.
  They usually go for twice what he was asking.  That’s what he told me.  He did it on account of the coming emergency.”

V              V              V              V

Dole Vardon closed the heavy door leading to one of the hundreds of storage pods lining a long, darkened corridor several levels below the main living platform of Sykes.  An approaching light caused him to turn and hold up his hands in immediate surrender.

“Vardon!  What the hell are you doing?” came Dorsey's voice from behind the light.

“Professor Jefferson?” Vardon asked, lowering his hands slightly.

“I said,
‘what the hell are you
doing
?’”

“Closing up.”  The response was uttered with a surprised innocence.

“Closing up?  Closing up your sale of disarmed flurry dispensers?”

“Right.  I’m sold out.”

Dorsey ran his hand-light over the door of the storage pod, looking for signs of a break in.

“Are you okay, Professor?”

Dorsey, incredulous, turned his light back on Vardon.

“Why would you be selling these things to students?  Are you beyond reason?”