make these choices. They are dictated by circumstance."
"So we take over from here… all the way?"
"It is the end of our role as teachers."
"There should have been warning," Martin said.
The War Mother said nothing.
"This will be a shock… it's a shock to me."
Still silence.
Martin fumbled for a means of explaining to the children what he had just heard, a rationale. "You're trying to knock us into action, break us out of our lethargy? You think that's psychologically appropriate?"
"It is necessary. We can lead you no further."
For the first time in his life, Martin became so furious with a mom that he felt he might lose control. He turned and ran from the schoolroom.
* * *
There had been five previous Pans, one for each year of their voyage. They had finished their year-long terms and returned to their groups and families, equal with all the children, but Martin always felt their eyes upon him: Stephanie Wing Feather, the first Pan, and her successors, Harpal Timechaser, Joe Flatworm, Sig Butterfly, Cham Shark.
All five followed Martin from the schoolroom to his quarters in the second homeball, saying little as they laddered and walked. This gave him time to calm down and frantically think. Everything's skewed now, all our frames bent. How do we lead in this mess? How do I lead?
In Martin's quarters, the ex-Pans took up positions in the center, in a cubicle of flexible tubes that Martin had made several years before. In zero g, the cage was for floating in while awake or exercising, or for guests to be close without being jammed together. Now that up and down had settled, the cage was just large enough to seat six.
"I'm going to need more help," Martin said.
"Why?" Stephanie asked. She was a year younger than Martin, a muscular gray-eyed woman of medium height with fine black hair tightcurled in a single ball that when liberated stretched a meter and a half. She was proud of the hair and took scrupulous care of it; Theresa would have said it was her thread.
"The moms expected something from us and I didn't provide it; they wanted us to design the exercise before we went out, to test our own skills and find our own weaknesses. That's why the drill was such a mess. They aren't going to make up any more tests for us."
"They should have told us earlier," Harpal said.
Martin shrugged. "I should have guessed. They want us to be more independent. Hell, I'm sorry. I'm not stating this exactly. I still can't believe it. They're not going to be teachers any more. We're on our own. We design strategies based on what they've taught us, and we control the Dawn Treader and all the weapons. They say they'll answer questions, give us information, but…"
"We've had trouble with their stinginess already," Harpal said. He was of medium build, black, with a long, sympathetic face. He wore wraparounds rather than overalls, and within his wraparounds he had hidden pockets that constantly carried surprises. Now he pulled out an orange and peeled it. They hadn't been fed oranges for fistfuls of tendays. He must have put several away in personal storage.
Stephanie shook her head in wonder. "They could have pushed us into this more gracefully," she said.
Sig Butterfly was less constrained. "God damn it all to hell," he said slowly, softly. Sig, dark skinned, with generous features and long hands that wrestled with each other as he spoke, continued, "I thought they understood human psychology. This is devastating. We screwed up thoroughly, and now they tell us we should have…"He shook his head and closed his eyes as if in pain.
"Maybe they do understand our psychology," Joe Flatworm said. Joe reminded Martin of California surfers, minus the tan. He kept his light brown hair shaggy above a friendly face that simply inspired friendship and confidence. When Stephanie groaned, Joe cocked his head to one side and smiled. "I mean it… playing Devil's advocate."
"I feel like I've dropped it all," Martin said. "I should have seen
"So we take over from here… all the way?"
"It is the end of our role as teachers."
"There should have been warning," Martin said.
The War Mother said nothing.
"This will be a shock… it's a shock to me."
Still silence.
Martin fumbled for a means of explaining to the children what he had just heard, a rationale. "You're trying to knock us into action, break us out of our lethargy? You think that's psychologically appropriate?"
"It is necessary. We can lead you no further."
For the first time in his life, Martin became so furious with a mom that he felt he might lose control. He turned and ran from the schoolroom.
* * *
There had been five previous Pans, one for each year of their voyage. They had finished their year-long terms and returned to their groups and families, equal with all the children, but Martin always felt their eyes upon him: Stephanie Wing Feather, the first Pan, and her successors, Harpal Timechaser, Joe Flatworm, Sig Butterfly, Cham Shark.
All five followed Martin from the schoolroom to his quarters in the second homeball, saying little as they laddered and walked. This gave him time to calm down and frantically think. Everything's skewed now, all our frames bent. How do we lead in this mess? How do I lead?
In Martin's quarters, the ex-Pans took up positions in the center, in a cubicle of flexible tubes that Martin had made several years before. In zero g, the cage was for floating in while awake or exercising, or for guests to be close without being jammed together. Now that up and down had settled, the cage was just large enough to seat six.
"I'm going to need more help," Martin said.
"Why?" Stephanie asked. She was a year younger than Martin, a muscular gray-eyed woman of medium height with fine black hair tightcurled in a single ball that when liberated stretched a meter and a half. She was proud of the hair and took scrupulous care of it; Theresa would have said it was her thread.
"The moms expected something from us and I didn't provide it; they wanted us to design the exercise before we went out, to test our own skills and find our own weaknesses. That's why the drill was such a mess. They aren't going to make up any more tests for us."
"They should have told us earlier," Harpal said.
Martin shrugged. "I should have guessed. They want us to be more independent. Hell, I'm sorry. I'm not stating this exactly. I still can't believe it. They're not going to be teachers any more. We're on our own. We design strategies based on what they've taught us, and we control the Dawn Treader and all the weapons. They say they'll answer questions, give us information, but…"
"We've had trouble with their stinginess already," Harpal said. He was of medium build, black, with a long, sympathetic face. He wore wraparounds rather than overalls, and within his wraparounds he had hidden pockets that constantly carried surprises. Now he pulled out an orange and peeled it. They hadn't been fed oranges for fistfuls of tendays. He must have put several away in personal storage.
Stephanie shook her head in wonder. "They could have pushed us into this more gracefully," she said.
Sig Butterfly was less constrained. "God damn it all to hell," he said slowly, softly. Sig, dark skinned, with generous features and long hands that wrestled with each other as he spoke, continued, "I thought they understood human psychology. This is devastating. We screwed up thoroughly, and now they tell us we should have…"He shook his head and closed his eyes as if in pain.
"Maybe they do understand our psychology," Joe Flatworm said. Joe reminded Martin of California surfers, minus the tan. He kept his light brown hair shaggy above a friendly face that simply inspired friendship and confidence. When Stephanie groaned, Joe cocked his head to one side and smiled. "I mean it… playing Devil's advocate."
"I feel like I've dropped it all," Martin said. "I should have seen
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