With that thought, he got back up to tackle the gate. He didn’t care if it killed him, he couldn’t give up when Eto Mahs didn’t.

It was full dark and they were trudging up the steep slope, when the computer voice announced, “Your time is up. Thank you for participating in Communications Course #105.”

The mountainside glimmered, flattening into the holoprojection before disappearing. Titus blinked wearily up at the orange‑gridded walls. All he could think was–it’s over!

As the door slid open and two lab techs with padds entered, Titus quickly stuck out his hand for Vestabo to shake. He even clasped his other hand over the kid’s, looking at him intently, wishing he could warn him. He hoped Vestabo wouldn’t get stuck with someone like him on the tough round.

This time, Titus was shown directly into a room where a white‑coated scientist was waiting. She smiled perfunctorily, getting up with a device in hand and coming around the desk. She pressed the device to his throat. She was a little taller than he was, very slender with short reddish‑blond hair. She was also nearly two decades older than him, but he felt an immediate sense of attraction.

“I’m Professor Joen B’ton,” she told him. “There, you can speak now, Cadet Hammon Titus.”

“That was a psych project, wasn’t it?” he asked, rubbing his throat.

“No, a communications project,” she told him, returning to her seat. “But psychology is an integral part of communications, since it concerns a common system of symbols.”

“I failed, didn’t I?” Titus asked.

Her blue eyes widened slightly. “There is no failure in this project, we simply gather data. The fact that you completed the course two days in a row is excellent. I wanted to thank you–”

“Thankme?” he interrupted, wondering if maybe she had missed Eto Mahs on his way out.

“Yes, you’ve provided us with some valuable data, Cadet Titus.” Professor B’ton held out her hand. “Thank you for volunteering your time.”

What could he do? Titus shut his mouth, shook her hand, and got out of there.

But the sour taste in his mouth stayed with him as he packed and left the Academy. Even during the transport to Paris, where he checked into his assigned quarters at the Federation Assembly dormitories, there was a nagging sense of something left incomplete. He unsuccessfully tried to distract himself with the new sights and sounds of European Earth.

Idly checking over his rooms, he actually wished he had a roommate, someone to help fill up the silence. He decided he didn’t like absolute quiet anymore, not after forty‑eight hours of it. He said, “Computer!” intending to request music.

Instead, he asked, “Do you have an Academy field assignment for Cadet Eto Mahs?”

“Ensign Eto Mahs has graduated and is currently on leave in Rumoi, Hokkaido.”

“What will his assignment be when he returns?”

“That information is not available,” the computer said sweetly.

“Thanks a lot,” Titus muttered.

“Incoming message,” the computer responded.

Titus practically leapt for the desk. “On screen!”

The image of Professor Joen B’ton appeared on the screen, her cheeks rounded in a smile. “Cadet Titus, it’s good to see you again.”

“Uh, you, too, Professor.” Titus felt himself go cold inside, despite her pleasant expression. The waiting was over. He had somehow known there was an ax hanging over his head all this time, ready to fall.

“We’ve had three complete runs, projects 104, 105, and 106,” she told him. “That’s your two, and Cadet Vestabo completed his final round. Since you are the linking factor for this remarkable series, I wanted to inform you that I have placed a letter of recommendation in your record.”

“You did?” he asked, shaking his head. “What about Eto Mahs?”

“Cadet Mahs and Cadet Vestabo will also be acknowledged. But Eto Mahs did not complete his first round because his partner ended the program.”

“Oh.”

“It’s rare we have two completed courses in a row. There’s only been a couple of times that we’ve had three consecutive rounds, which gives us a consistent baseline for the data.” Professor B’ton beamed at him, as if she had personally cheered for him the entire way.

“Professor B’ton,” Titus told her, unable to smile in return. “I don’t deserve your praise. Give letters of recommendation to cadets Eto Mahs and Vestabo, not to me.”

Her smile became more sympathetic. “Your participation was an integral part of this success, Cadet. Anything else is a matter for your own conscience.”

“I don’t deserve it,” he repeated, glancing down. He hated to disappoint the professor, but he couldn’t lie anymore about what he had done. “Didn’t Eto Mahs tell you how awful I was to him?”

“We have the data,” Professor B’ton reminded him. “This course was designed to provoke strong feelings, so we could study the common ways humanoids communicate through nonverbal movements and gestures. You’d be surprised how clearly people speak without saying a word.”

Titus swallowed, imagining the professor, along with a bunch of young lab techs–including the one with the black hair and merry eyes–reading his movements like he was writing on a wall. He felt himself go red.

“Relax, Cadet,” Professor B’ton told him, chuckling slightly at his embarrassment. “You deserve the recommendation. Do a good job at the Assembly, and I’m sure you’ll get whatever field assignment you want.”

His eyes went wide. Could she read his mind?

“Never underestimate a communications expert.” She winked at him, exactly like the young lab tech the day before. “Good‑bye, Cadet Titus. I believe you have an interestinglife ahead of you.”

Chapter Seven

Third Year, 2370‑71

“MOVE A LITTLE TO YOUR LEFT,” Starsa called out.

Louis Zimmerman, Director of Holographic Imaging and Programming at the Jupiter Research Station, inched slightly to his left.

“Now to the right–” Starsa started to say.

“That’s good enough,” Jayme interrupted, realizing from Starsa’s smirk that she was having a good time at the director’s expense. She had to put a stop to it before Dr. Zimmerman’s dissatisfied expression turned on them.

“Hold . . . three, two, one,” Jayme said. “That’s it. You can move again.”

“I appreciate that,” Dr. Zimmerman said dryly, returning to his computer.

Starsa ran the hololoop to make sure they had gotten a good feed. “If you hadn’t made yourself the template of the Emergency Medical Hologram, then we wouldn’t have to keep bothering you.”

“And who would you prefer the EMH to look like?” Zimmerman inquired, concentrating on his screen. “One of you?”

Starsa giggled and raised her hand. “Pick me, pick me!”

Zimmerman looked at them closely. “You aren’t my regular holotechnicians. Where are they? Well, speak up! Are the cadets the only warm bodies we can muster around here?”

“The others got sick,” Starsa said artlessly.

“They have a couple of emergencies down in the power station,” Jayme corrected, giving Starsa a hard look.

“I see,” he said, as if he doubted their sanity more than anything else.

Jayme kept smiling, trying to push Starsa out of the director’s lab. They couldn’t tell Dr. Zimmerman that the technicians had eagerly shoved the dozens of routine imaging checks that had to be run every few weeks onto the unsuspecting shoulders of the cadets on field assignment from the Academy. It only took a few days to figure out why–Dr. Zimmerman wasn’t the most pleasant man when he was interrupted, and that’s what they had to do in order to run imaging checks.

But Starsa was perversely drawn to the imaging devices sitting on the counters of the room, supporting half‑completed holographic models.

“What’s this?” she asked, sticking her finger through an engineering schematic.