P Deutermann - Darkside

This security guy must be taking things seriously. I’ve tapped into his E-mail terminal, but he doesn’t use E-mail for his cop stuff. I’ve scanned into the Yard cops freq., but that’s all seriously routine, total admin crap. You wondering how I do all this? It’s easy, really. Well, you know, they teach us how. All those years of electrical and electronic engineering, computer science, mechanical engineering, materials, chemistry, physics, and lots and lots of math? Well, shucks, I actually use it. Most of my classmates are welded to the get-through treadmill. You know, grind through the courses, pass the daily quizzes, pass the weekly tests, scurry for the Gouge, and then sweat through the exams. And then what do they do? They do a core dump and set up for the next required course. They learn nothing.

Not me. I actually learn it. I actually like it. But, of course, I see all the tests and exams beforehand. And if my classmates treated me better, so would they. It isn’t hard, you know. The faculty dweebs are basically lazy. And they’re bureaucrats. Which means they use test questions from a database (and all God’s databases were made for me to break into). AND, they have to get the test approved by the department head. AND, they use E-mail to do the approval process. AND, I can read any E-mail riding the Academy’s intranets. Piece of cake. They don’t even really encrypt the stuff-of course they have fire walls to protect against outside penetration, but not from someone who can place his own fire-wire port in the faculty server bank. Most importantly, they don’t expect us mids to do this shit. They expect us to hunt for Gouge, but not to read their internal mail.

But I’m not just any mid, am I? Not by a damned sight. I came from nothing much, but everywhere they sent me, I learned all about working the system. There’s always a system. Now we wait to see what the security wienies do next. So little time, so many opportunities for fun down below. Eventually, they’ll figure out they’re playing on my ground. And if they bring a crowd, well, hell, I’ll go have a beer in the Goth lair. Or maybe in my own lair. I do have one, you know.

Did you know that black cop who met up with the vampire Dyle the other night was NCIS? Just like the redhead who got a steam bath last night. I’d better be careful, right? ’Cause NCIS is also investigating the Dell incident. They get lucky, it might be them getting the twofer… You, too, need to pay attention now. This Dell thing’s like an oil spill in water. It can spread out and get all over you.

Ev went into his office at nine o’clock that Sunday morning. He had twenty-three senior term papers left to grade, and nothing in particular holding him at home on a Sunday morning. In fact, Sunday mornings were not a good time for him to be at home. Too many memories, and that intrusive silence in the house.

An hour into the exercise, the words began to run together. Yet another dissertation on the World War I naval battle of Jutland by yet another midshipman who obviously had missed the entire strategic point of the battle. Suddenly tired of things academic, he stepped outside into the sunlight, thought briefly about finding a cigarette, then walked up Stribling Walk toward Bancroft and found a park bench halfway up. Chapel services were in full swing and he could hear the enormous Moeller organ rumbling away in the Academy’s cathedral-sized, 2,500-seat “chapel.” There were some early-bird tourists walking around the grounds, but, compared to the hustle and bustle of a Saturday morning, the Yard was empty. The few people strolling around the brick walks, passing among the aging bronze cannons and marble monuments, actually looked more like townies than real tourists. Except for the couple coming down the double walk from the chapel precincts. An older-looking man was pushing a woman in a wheelchair. The man was overweight, with a reddish face, steel-colored gray hair cut short, and a weary expression on his face, as if he’d been pushing that wheelchair for a long, long time. The woman in the chair was wrapped up in a voluminous blanket. She was also round, but she had an unhealthy pallor, lank gray hair tied back in a bun, and an oxygen line clipped to her nostrils. The chair had an IV stand attached, on which hung the green oxygen bottle. Ev watched them pull abreast of his bench and then look around at the beautiful vistas of the Yard. The Severn River shone like a big blue mirror between the white academic buildings down the walk. The couple was close enough to Ev’s bench that he felt obliged to say good morning.

“Your first visit to the Academy?” he asked.

They both looked at him, but it was the man who answered. “Nope. Been here once before. August. Hotter’n hell. This is much better.”

“August?” Ev said. “Parents’ weekend?”

“Yup,” the man said, turning the wheelchair so that the woman didn’t have to crane her neck. “Much good that it did us.”

Ev didn’t understand that comment, but he let it pass. It must have been a real effort to bring this woman into the crowds of parents’ weekend. That was when parents got to see their sons and daughters looking like midshipmen for the first time. The transformations were always something of a small but proud shock. The woman was having trouble breathing, and Ev suddenly realized that she was weeping.

“Is there something wrong?” he asked, leaning forward on the bench. “Can I help you?”

The man wiped a tear out of his eyes. “Don’t think you can,” he said, patting the woman’s shoulder. “See, our boy’s dead. Our Brian. That’s why we’re here. There’s gonna be a memorial service. Up there, in that big church. This afternoon. We got here too early.”

Ev felt a chill settle over his shoulders. These were Midshipman Dell’s parents. He tried to think of something comforting to say, but his voice was stuck in his throat.

“You work here, sir?” the man asked.

“Yes, I do. I’m a professor in the Social Sciences Division. I teach naval history.”

“You know our boy, maybe? Brian Dell?”

“No, Mr. Dell. I didn’t. I teach mostly first classmen. Seniors. Your son was a plebe. I-I heard about what happened, of course. I’m very sorry for your loss. We all are.”

“Doubt that,” the woman wheezed, speaking for the first time. “Sumbitch who killed him isn’t sorry.”

“Killed him?” Ev said, and then felt stupid. Of course they would have learned of the rumors. “I thought he, um, fell.”

“He fell all right,” Dell’s father said. “But there’re some folks think he had him some help. That some bastard pushed him, maybe.”

“I really can’t imagine that,” Ev said. He thought he should stand up, but then he’d be towering over both of them.

Dell’s mother grunted, and then concentrated on her breathing for a long moment. “Brian was small,” she said, exhaling. Her voice was raspy and wet at the same time. “Kids picked on him in school. He shouldn’t oughta come here. Everyone’s too big. Like you.”

“Well, not everyone,” Ev said, thinking of the women midshipmen. Then he thought of Julie, who was hardly petite. “And everyone gets picked on for the first year. Even big guys like me. It’s part of the program.”

“You say so,” the woman said, and then began to cough. Her husband did something with the oxygen bottle’s valve, and the coughing subsided. She closed her eyes and concentrated on her breathing again.

“You go through here?” Mr. Dell asked.

“I did. Almost thirty years ago. And I have a daughter who’s about to graduate.”

“How come you’re a professor, then? How come you’re not in the Navy?”

“I was in the Navy for thirteen years. Flew carrier jets. Got tired of it, being away all the time. Having a wife and daughter I rarely saw.”