finished with a silently mouthed “Captain,” and another
wink before drifting toward the kitchen.
Without bothering to look up at his otherwise-engaged parents, Carswell pulled his book bag toward
him and removed his own portscreen. Just as he was turning it on, though, his father cleared his throat.
Loudly.
Intimidatingly.
Carswell glanced up through his eyelashes. He probably should have noticed an extra layer of frost
sitting over them this morning, but really, who could tell anymore?
“Would you like a glass of water, sir?”
As a response, his dad tossed his portscreen onto the table. His coffee cup rattled.
“The school forwarded your status report this morning,” he said pausing for dramatic effect, before
adding, “They are not up to standards.”
Not up to standards.
If Carswell had a univ for every time he’d heard something wasn’t up to standards, his bank account
would be well into ‘young investor’ status by now (interest rate: 5.2%).
“That’s unfortunate,” he said “I’m sure I almost tried this time.”
“Don’t be smart with your father,” said his mom in a rather disinterested tone, before taking a sip of
her coffee.
“Math, Carswell. You’re failing math . How do you expect to be a pilot if you can’t read charts and diagrams and-“
“I don’t want to be a pilot,” he said. “I want to be a captain.”
“Becoming a captain,” his dad growled, “starts with becoming a great pilot.”
Carswell barely refrained from rolling his eyes. He’d heard that line a time or two, also.
A warm body bumped into his leg and Carswel glanced down to see that Boots had fol owed him
and was now nudging his calf with the side of his face. He was just reaching down to pet her when his
dad snapped, “Boots, go outside.”
The cat instantly stopped burring and cuddling against Carswell’s leg, turned and traipsed toward
the kitchen-the fastest route to their backyard.
Carswell scowled as he watched the cat go, its tail sticking cheerfully straight up. He liked Boots a
lot-sometimes even felt he might love her, as one does with any pet they grew up with- but then he
would be reminded that she wasn’t a pet at all. She was a robot, programmed to follow directions just
like any android. He’d been asking for a real cat since he was about four, but his parents just laughed at the idea, listing all the reasons Boots was superior. She would never get old or die. She didn’t shed on
their nice furniture or paw at their fancy curtains or require a litter box. She would only bring them half-devoured mice if they changed her settings to do so.
His parents, Carswell had learned at a very young age, liked things that did what they were told,
when they were told. And that didn’t include headstrong felines.
Or, as it turned out, thirteen-year-old boys.
“You need to start taking this seriously,” his dad was saying, ripping him from his thoughts as the
cat-door swung closed behind Boots. “You’l never be accepted into Andromeda at this rate.”
Janette returned with his plate of pancakes and Carswell was grateful for an excuse to look away
from his dad as he slathered them with butter and syrup. It was better than risking the temptation to
say what he really wanted to say.
He didn’t want to go to Andromeda Academy. He didn’t want to fol ow in his dad’s footsteps.
Sure, he wanted to learn how to fly. Desperately wanted to learn how to fly. But there were other flight schools - less prestigious ones maybe, but at least they didn’t require selling six years of his life to the military so he could be ordered around by more men who looked and sounded just like his dad, and
cared about him even less.
“What’s wrong with you?” his dad said, not taking his eyes from Carswell, even as he swiveled a
finger at Janette. She began to clear his place setting. “You used to be good at math.”
“I am good at math,” Carswel said, then shoved more pancake
wink before drifting toward the kitchen.
Without bothering to look up at his otherwise-engaged parents, Carswell pulled his book bag toward
him and removed his own portscreen. Just as he was turning it on, though, his father cleared his throat.
Loudly.
Intimidatingly.
Carswell glanced up through his eyelashes. He probably should have noticed an extra layer of frost
sitting over them this morning, but really, who could tell anymore?
“Would you like a glass of water, sir?”
As a response, his dad tossed his portscreen onto the table. His coffee cup rattled.
“The school forwarded your status report this morning,” he said pausing for dramatic effect, before
adding, “They are not up to standards.”
Not up to standards.
If Carswell had a univ for every time he’d heard something wasn’t up to standards, his bank account
would be well into ‘young investor’ status by now (interest rate: 5.2%).
“That’s unfortunate,” he said “I’m sure I almost tried this time.”
“Don’t be smart with your father,” said his mom in a rather disinterested tone, before taking a sip of
her coffee.
“Math, Carswell. You’re failing math . How do you expect to be a pilot if you can’t read charts and diagrams and-“
“I don’t want to be a pilot,” he said. “I want to be a captain.”
“Becoming a captain,” his dad growled, “starts with becoming a great pilot.”
Carswell barely refrained from rolling his eyes. He’d heard that line a time or two, also.
A warm body bumped into his leg and Carswel glanced down to see that Boots had fol owed him
and was now nudging his calf with the side of his face. He was just reaching down to pet her when his
dad snapped, “Boots, go outside.”
The cat instantly stopped burring and cuddling against Carswell’s leg, turned and traipsed toward
the kitchen-the fastest route to their backyard.
Carswell scowled as he watched the cat go, its tail sticking cheerfully straight up. He liked Boots a
lot-sometimes even felt he might love her, as one does with any pet they grew up with- but then he
would be reminded that she wasn’t a pet at all. She was a robot, programmed to follow directions just
like any android. He’d been asking for a real cat since he was about four, but his parents just laughed at the idea, listing all the reasons Boots was superior. She would never get old or die. She didn’t shed on
their nice furniture or paw at their fancy curtains or require a litter box. She would only bring them half-devoured mice if they changed her settings to do so.
His parents, Carswell had learned at a very young age, liked things that did what they were told,
when they were told. And that didn’t include headstrong felines.
Or, as it turned out, thirteen-year-old boys.
“You need to start taking this seriously,” his dad was saying, ripping him from his thoughts as the
cat-door swung closed behind Boots. “You’l never be accepted into Andromeda at this rate.”
Janette returned with his plate of pancakes and Carswell was grateful for an excuse to look away
from his dad as he slathered them with butter and syrup. It was better than risking the temptation to
say what he really wanted to say.
He didn’t want to go to Andromeda Academy. He didn’t want to fol ow in his dad’s footsteps.
Sure, he wanted to learn how to fly. Desperately wanted to learn how to fly. But there were other flight schools - less prestigious ones maybe, but at least they didn’t require selling six years of his life to the military so he could be ordered around by more men who looked and sounded just like his dad, and
cared about him even less.
“What’s wrong with you?” his dad said, not taking his eyes from Carswell, even as he swiveled a
finger at Janette. She began to clear his place setting. “You used to be good at math.”
“I am good at math,” Carswel said, then shoved more pancake
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