Конни Уиллис: Terra Incognita: Three Novellas

“I’ve gone over your application,” the registrar said, “and everything appears to be in order.”

“In order?” I said blankly.

“Yes,” he said, looking at the console. “Application, entrance exams, endurance test results, psychological battery scores. It’s all here.”

“Application?” I said, standing up too fast and nearly shooting over the desk at him. “I told you, I didn’t apply!”

“I also sent for the interviewer assessments and the minutes of the selection committee. You did in fact apply—”

“I did not —”

“—and were duly appointed.”

“I want to see that application. It must be a forgery—”

“Conflicted feelings among new cadets are not unusual. A strange new environment, separation from family, performance anxiety can all be factors. Did you perhaps have a friend who also wanted to get into the Academy?”

“Yes, but… I mean, she wanted in the Academy, I didn’t. I didn’t—”

He nodded sagely. “And now you feel by accepting your appointment you’re betraying that friend—”

“ No, ” I said. “I did not write that application. Let me see it.”

“Certainly,” he said, hit several keys, and the image of the application came up on the screen.

“Theodora Jane Baumgarten,” it read. This is like a bad dream, I thought. Birth date, address, school… Before I could read the rest of it, the registrar had hit the next screen and the next. “You see?” he said, blanking the last screen before I could get a good look at it. “And quite an impressive application, if I may say so. I think you’ll make an excellent addition to the Academy.”

“I want to see the Commander,” I said.

“She’d only tell you the same thing.” He hit several more keys, and the terminal spat out a slip of paper. “I’ve made an appointment for you with Dr. Tumali. He’ll help you sort out any conflicting feelings you—”

“I don’t have any conflicting feelings. I hate this place, and I want to go home,” I screeched at him, and stormed out, slamming the door behind me. Well, sort of. Slams aren’t terribly impressive at two-thirds g, and after I’d done it, I realize I should have demanded another phone call instead, this one to my mother. She’d said she’d secretly hoped I’d apply. Maybe she’d decided to do it for me. Or maybe Coriander had, as some kind of hideous joke. Or Mr. Fuyijama. The more cadets he had, the better Winfrey High looked.

But even if they’d filled out an application and forged my signature, they couldn’t have faked the entrance exams or the interviews. It made no sense, and I had no time to think about it. I had an essay due on asteroid mining and a lunar geography exam to study for. “Help,” I messaged Kimkim.

The display lit up. “Number out of range.”

Three days later, when I had decided I was going to have to do something drastic to get myself expelled and forget UCLA, my phone rang in the middle of rest period. “What was that?” Libby said drowsily.

“A killer meteor,” I said, switching the phone to “message.”

“Are you there?” the display read.

“Yes,” I messaged, “hang on,” and took off at a run for the freefall area. And nearly got caught by a group of second-years playing weightless soccer. I had to wait till they’d finished and left to swing up to my hiding place, hoping Kimkim hadn’t concluded she’d lost me in the meantime.

As soon as I was inside the space, I switched the phone to “voice” and said, “Kimkim, are you there?”

There was no answer. Oh, frick, I thought, and then remembered the lag.

“I’m here,” she said. “Sorry I took so long. I had trouble setting up an encryption so the Academy can’t eavesdrop on us.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “I need you to get a look at my Academy application.”

“I thought you said you didn’t apply.”

“I didn’t, but the registrar showed me something that looked like one. I need you to find out what kind of signature verification it’s got on it, an R-scan or a thumbprint, and what site notarized it.”

“You think IASA faked it?”

“IASA or somebody else. You didn’t submit an application in my name, did you?”

“I resent that,” she said. “If I was going to fake one, I’d have faked my own.”

She called back two days later in the middle of tensor calculus to tell me she couldn’t get to my application. “I was finally able to hack into the Academy’s database and the cadet applications files, but I can’t get into yours.”

“Because it doesn’t exist,” I said after I got to my hiding place.

“No, I mean, there’s a file with your name on it, but I can’t get access.”

“What about having someone they won’t connect with me make the request?”

“I already tried that. I used my sister’s friend’s friend in Jakarta. She couldn’t get in either. Neither could any of the professional hackers I contacted. It’s blocked. I can get into the other applications, but not yours.”

“Well, keep trying,” I said, and hung up. I stuck the phone down the front of my uniform, crawled over to the hatch, and began to slide it open.

And heard voices below me.

The soccer players weren’t supposed to be in here till 1900 hours. I slid the hatch silently shut and flattened myself against it, listening. “It’s my bunkmate,” Libby was saying. “I’ve tried to be friends with her, but she acts like she doesn’t want to be here.”

You’re right, I thought. In more ways than one.

“Libby’s right. Her bunkmate’s got a terrible attitude,” one of her friends said. “I have no idea how she got appointed when there are thousands of candidates who’d love to be here.”

“I know the Academy must have had a good reason for picking her,” Libby said, “but…” and launched into a ten-minute list of my shortcomings, which I had no choice but to lie there and listen to. “That’s why I asked you to meet me here,” she said when she was finally finished. “I need your advice.”

“Tell the dean you want a different bunkmate,” another friend said.

“I can’t,” Libby said. “Inability to foster healthy personal relations is the number one reason for failing first-year.”

“Cut her EVA tether next time she’s outside,” the first friend said, which didn’t exactly sound like fostering healthy personal relations to me.

“Maybe you should introduce her to Cadet Griggs,” another voice said. “It sounds like they’d be perfect for each other.”

“Who’s Cadet Griggs?” Libby asked.

“He’s a third-year in my exochem class. Jeffrey Griggs. He doesn’t like anything or anybody.”

“I sat next to him in mess last week, and he was completely insufferable,” the first one said. “And conceited. He claims he didn’t even have to apply to get in. He—what was that?”

I must have kicked one of the nutrient drums in my surprise. I held my breath, praying they didn’t investigate.

“He claims he was so brilliant they just appointed him without his taking any entrance exams or anything.”

“You should definitely introduce them, Libby, and maybe they’ll move in together, and your problem will be solved, and so will hers.”

My problem is solved, I thought.

As soon as they left, I called Kimkim. “I need you to get into the cadet application files.”

“I told you, I can’t get anywhere near your application.”

“Not mine,” I said. “Cadet Jeffrey Griggs’s. He’s a third-year.”

She said the name back to me. “What am I looking for?”