Opening Day - Revised

Opening day

         The strident voices resounded down the hall, the sound bouncing off the uncarpeted floor and tile-lined walls of the central building of the Grissom Space Institute.  As if on cue, the buzz of conversation abruptly stopped, and heads turned to a point behind Pete. Jolted out of his reverie, Pete turned and saw a familiar-looking attractive blonde in a loud argument with a lanky man with a metallic sleeveless T-shirt. The man gestured, almost hitting the blonde in the face. 

         That's Janet! Pete thought in surprise. Looks like she needs help. Leaving his place in line, he strode down the hall towards the pair.

Mr. Sleeveless Shirt's face turned red.  "That's not what I meant at all, J-freak!"  Again he gestured wildly, but as his hand approached Janet, Pete put his arm in the way.

"What the hell?" Sleeveless shirt turned to Pete. He wore a military patch which said 'Campbell.'

"It looked like you were about to hit her," Pete shot back.

"Well, he wasn't," Janet bit off, in tones scarcely less angry that Campbell's.  "I have this handled.  I do not need your protection!"  She turned back to Campbell. "Look, Steve, as I was saying..."

"Forget it!"  Steve Campbell stalked off.

  Janet glared at Pete.  "Rescuing again?" she said in tones of deep disgust.

"Sorry," Pete mumbled.  "It looked like you could use some help."

Janet sighed.  "Watching too much 'Star Explorer' again."  A small smile flickered across her lips.

"I guess," Pete replied, heart sinking.  "I apologize," he added, turning away.  Even when I knew her in college, it always seemed as if, around her, I only opened my mouth to switch feet.

"Hey, Pete," Janet broke into his self-pity. "I'm glad to see you, even if you haven't quite lost your habit of inflicting unwanted rescues. There's someone I want you to meet. Here he comes now."

Coming from a side corridor was a tall, thin man, also in his mid- twenties, with skin the color of chocolate milk.  As he came up to Janet, they hugged. 

"George, this is Peter MacDonald," she explained, "a friend who graduated a year behind me in college. George," she said, turning to Pete, "is my husband."

George's handshake was firm. "Glad to meet you, Pete.  Any friend of Janet's is a friend of mine."

Pete grinned. "I owe Janet big time anyway for helping me back in school." Pete paused, feeling a bit awkward, "So you're... ?"

"Married," Janet put in.

"Just back from the honeymoon," George added.

Well, it's not as if I ever really had a chance with her.  "Congratulations," Pete acknowledged, while internally flailing around for a way to change the subject. "So you want to go to Alpha Centauri?" 

"You bet!" George exclaimed.  "I've wanted to go to the stars ever since I watched 'Star Explorer' as a kid."

"You too?" Pete enthused. "I loved that vid! I grew up wishing I could be Captain Semyonov, space hero extraordinaire."

"So I see," Janet deadpanned, and Pete cringed internally.  Another attack of foot-in-mouth disease.

"I've always wanted to go to space," Janet added. "I'm a certified nurse now, by the way." 

"Congrats!" Pete said.  "I bet that won't hurt your chances of making the crew, either."

"Ahem" said someone in front of them.  The line had moved quickly, and they were now at the front. 

"Let's meet for dinner," Janet invited Pete.  

"Sure," Pete pulled out his ecomm, molded a microphone, and pointed it at Janet.

Janet said a string of numbers, and Pete added "Janet Hathaway"

"Actually Yablonsky, now." Janet corrected.

Changed your last name too? Pete thought. Extremely traditionalist.

Pete's room was a standard college dorm room in a utilitarian college block dorm; plascrete walls, small closet with refresher unit for clothes, a single bed, a bureau with a few drawers, desk and chair, sealed window, and two screens on the walls. The window looked over a central square, with the common building where registration had taken place to the right, and an imposing academic building across. Along one side of the square was a gatehouse and fence. Why a security fence?  Didn't think the protestors were that bad.

Pete turned to the mirror, staring at himself for a moment. His thin, square face with a military crewcut and blue eyes (really blue, not with implants, thank you) gazed back.  No trace of the black cloud. Pete had traveled light, and within minutes, his few clothes were arranged in drawers and in the closet and the ecomm dock was on the desk, keyboard inflated.  Pete lay back on the bed, ecomm propped up, still finding it hard to believe he was here.

It had been a long shot, applying to be one of the American students in the first ever class of the Virgil Grissom Space Institute.  Two hundred students, representing over fifty countries, comprised this first class, of which forty were to be chosen for mankind's first interstellar mission, a colony ship, named the Santa Maria, to the Alpha Centauri system  Competition to get into the Institute had been very tough, but here he was. One more step for this one guy, and I'm in space, and hopefully on the Santa Maria.

                             *                                        *

Pete's ecomm ponged, waking him from a nap he hadn't realized he was taking. "We're meeting for dinner, right?" George asked.

"Sure, just give me a few minutes," Pete muttered. George's image faded. Pete stood, glancing out his window, then he stopped and stared.

Outside the gatehouse was a restless sea of demonstrators. Guess that answers the question of 'why the fence'.  Pete could see a bunch of religious extremists, or fundies, but the main crowd seemed to be Home First, a vocal group opposed to the Alpha Centauri mission. Wait, he thought, something's odd about that crowd.  

Curious, Pete grabbed a cap and walked out of the dorm, flashed his pass, and went through the gate  He made his way towards the Home First demonstrators, who were carrying professionally printed signs and some electronic displays with shifting messages.  Seems to be some money behind...

"REPENT!" exploded in Pete's face. He turned to fine a male fundie stepping unexpectedly right in front of Pete and spraying Pete's face. "THE DAY OF JUDGEMENT..."

Pete's two hands, flattened out, struck the fundie in the chest, roughly shoving him backwards.

"That's assault!" the woman accompanying the fundie cried, vid camera in hand.

"You're right!" Pete barked back.  "What he did was invade my personal space and spit on me.  Under Section 5 of the Anti-Harassment Act, passed seven years ago, what he did to me constitutes assault, and I have a right to respond appropriately." Without waiting for a reply, Pete turned, striding rapidly for the gate.  As Pete walked, he folded his ecomm into a camera and started taking pictures.

"REPENT!" Pete heard.  Glancing back, he saw the couple following him.  The man was almost on his heels. Can't take a hint?  Okay, buddy, you're asking for it. Pressing a button and folding his ecomm once again, Pete turned it into a simultaneous front-and-back camera and perched it on his shoulder.

"REPENT, SINNER!"  roared in his ear, as Pete came just in front of the gate.  Here's a good spot.  Pete abruptly stopped.  The man, predictably, ran into him. Without looking back, Pete rammed his elbow into the man's stomach, folding him over.  Pete turned.  "Sorry, but you ran into me," he proclaimed to the figure gasping on the ground and the woman with the vid camera , then, rapidly turning, badge already out, went through the gate.

"Hey," the guard said.  "If you need a witness, I'll speak for you,"  He smiled.  "I'm so sick of these guys."

"Thank you," Pete nodded, walking towards the common building, almost feeling the portable vid cameras focused on his back and taking deep breaths to calm himself.

"Mr. MacDonald!" A voice snapped to him from just inside the doorway to the common building.  "A moment, please."

Pete's surprised glance caught a barrel of a man, middle-height and somewhat stout, with arms and hands that indicated regular sessions in the gym. Shouf!  That's Karl Schmidt, head of Institute security!

Schmidt got right to the point.  "Somehow, Mr. MacDonald, you managed to get into two near-fights on your first day here.  Are you having a bad day or something?"

Pete shrugged.  "I wasn't looking for fights..."

"So why did you go outside the gate?"  .

"The Home First demonstration looked funny to me. I think they're all hired."

"Look, cadet," and Schmidt made the title sound like an insult, "Your job is to study and try and prove yourself worthy of the mission, or at least of Space Force.  Leave demonstrators and security concerns to the professionals. And a piece of advice, cadet," Schmidt growled. "I'm told that the Santa Maria is a small ship,with only forty crew.  They need peacemakers, not troublemakers.  Be a peacemaker."  He turned and stalked away.

Great.  Now I'm on Security's shouf list, and it's only my first day. Pete could feel his personal black cloud crowding him from behind.  Reflexively, he took three deep breaths and walked into the cafeteria.  Keep moving ahead. Let it go.

Pete had just come out of the cafeteria line when he caught sight of George and Janet across the cafeteria.  They had their heads bowed, and hands folded on the table.

They're saying grace!  Pete stood, frozen, shocked.  Then, he abruptly turned right, strode until he found an empty table, and sat down, hands shaking.

They're shoufing fundies! Just like the idiots outside!

\No, came a voice within him. They are believers. Believing in a God does not make them fundies.

Not to my father!

You are not your father.  You understand why he felt the way he did about all believers, but you know better. Heck, you knew Janet was a believer back in college, and you went on a date with her.

  For the second time in ten minutes, Pete found himself gulping large breaths to calm himself.  He stared for a few minutes at his dinner, which was looking more and more unappetizing.

So, are you just going to sit there, or are you going to have dinner with your friends?  Pete could almost hear Mom saying that.

Slowly Pete got up, picked up his tray, and made his way towards where he had seen George and Janet. When he glanced up, however, there were three people standing in front of their table, one that Pete recognized, shouting something.  George said something back, but Pete could see him tense.  This is a fight about to happen.

Pete was about to step in when he stopped.  Maybe they don't need rescuing. In any case, I better not get into a third fight today. Pete then remembered his camera, still perched on his shoulder.  Maybe this can be handled without fighting.

"We don't like no fundies here!" Steve Campbell proclaimed, and his two cronies nodded in unison.

"Why should a private act of prayer bother you so much?" Janet asked coolly.

Campbell slammed his fist down on their table, spilling their stew across the surface and into their laps.  "You shoufing bigots..."

"Excuse me, sir," Pete projected his voice. "What you just did constitutes an invasion of their personal space and violates the Anti-Harassment Act, Section 5, passed seven years ago."  Pete indicated his camera.  "I have it on good authority that Schmidt keeps a close eye on our behavior.  If you back out now, I'm happy to delete the segment I just shot, but if you don't I might just turn it over to Schmidt."

One crony pulled on Campbell's arm.  "It's not worth it."

Campbell stared at Pete for a moment.  "I'll remember you," he muttered, turning and leading his two companions away.

  "Let's get out of here," George grumbled. "I had hoped that the Institute would be an improvement, but I see that some people here are just as prejudiced as some outside."

"If you leave now, they win," Pete argued. "How about I save the next table over while you get another round of dinner?"

George looked at Janet, who nodded.  "See you in a few minutes."

They had scarcely walked away when Schmidt came by.  He looked at Pete for a moment.  "That's better, Mr. MacDonald," was all he said before ambling off in the direction of Campbell's group.

"I hope you're not in trouble," George said as they returned with fresh portions of the evening stew.  "I thought I saw Schmidt talking to you."

"I don't think so," Pete replied.  " He took a spoonful of his stew, now stone cold.  "So, how was your day?" he asked with false cheerfulness.

"Pete," Janet looked him in the eye.  "Why did you turn away when you first saw us?"

Pete stared at her for a moment.  Typical Janet.  Never beats around bushes. One of the things I like about her, actually. And evasion never works.

"When you were saying grace?" Pete asked.

  Janet nodded. George stared at Pete. Pete thought carefully on what to say.

"As you know, Janet, "he began, "I was raised in a strongly secular household.  When I saw you saying grace, I realized you both were believers. I then had to have a little talk with myself in private. After that, I came back, and I'm glad I did."

"What do you have against believers?" George demanded.

"Nothing," Pete assured him.  "However, I do have a problem with fundies, which I define as someone trying to push his or her belief on me.  I ran into some earlier tonight," and he told them about his encounter beyond the gates.

"I'll grant you," George grumbled, "that the people you ran into tonight were overzealous..."

"No, they were trying to trap me into a civil lawsuit," Pete interrupted.  "It's a tactic I've seen before.  And the fundie..."

"Please stop using 'fundie,' in our company," Janet broke in.  "We both find that term offensive.  A fundamentalist," she continued, "holds certain beliefs based on the Bible.  It has nothing to do with bad behavior in public."

Okay, now I've managed to offend both of them.  Pete took a deep breath. "Religious extremist, then," he essayed, and Janet nodded.

"As opposed to the anti-religious extremists tonight?" George demanded.          "Frankly," Pete retorted, "I have a problem with anyone forcing their views on someone else.  I saw enough of that in Kosovo, on my peacekeeping mission, to last a lifetime. And yes, George," Pete plowed on, as George was about to speak, "that includes the anti-religious extremists that attacked you. I have no use for them, either."

George took a breath or two. "I'm sorry. I overreacted," he muttered.

Pete nodded. "No need to apologize.  "We're all on edge."

"But why that initial reaction, Pete?" George persisted.

Okay, I didn't want to go there, but I guess I have to.  Pete glanced at Janet. It might have been Pete's imagination, but it seemed that she gave a tiny nod.

"During the Troubles, my dad was beaten up and shot in the leg by a group called God's Chosen.

"God's Chosen renounced violence during that time," George objected.

"They did, after this incident," Pete corrected.  "Their claim was that a local group got overzealous. Anyway," Pete took a breath,  "Fortunately, he had a button camera that recorded the entire incident.  He showed that clip to someone in the national office of God's Chosen, and, as a result, they gave him three million dollars, and publicly renounced violence. It wasn't much, but with it, he bought a house, and himself a set of artificial legs.  But he never forgave them, and he never let us forget it."

"So that's why you hesitated," George stated.

"Yeah," Pete admitted.  "I'm not perfect. I hope you two can live with that.  But I came back."

Janet reached out and took his hand.  "Thank you, Pete, for coming back, and for being open about yourself." She squeezed it, once, and let it go.  "I'm not sure we can continue eating here," she continued. 

"You can't stop," Pete argued. "Then they win.  It's like the civil rights movement over a century back.  The more you let prejudice have its way, the more it grows."

"Well," George replied, "maybe we'll slow down, at least. This place is stressful enough without having to cope with," and George smiled, "anti-religious fundies,"

"George," Janet warned.

"I get it," Pete replied. "But I'd sure as heck miss you guys if you don't eat here occasionally." 

"We can do better in our apartment," Janet noted, eyeing Pete's half-eaten stew with distain. "And, we'll be happy to invite you to dinner with us."

"I'd appreciate that," Pete replied. 'How about if we eat in the cafeteria at least once a week, and I eat at your place once a week?  After all, we can't let the extremists win, now can we?" He smiled back at George, who hesitated, then nodded.

"You know, Janet?" George turned to Janet.  "I think we found us a friend." Janet nodded in agreement.  "But," George continued, "we may have some bad news for you." 

"What's that?" Pete inquired, unsure of himself.

George lowered his voice so that Pete could barely hear him.  "At the assembly tonight, they're going to tell us that they aren't going to pick individuals for the mission. They're going to pick Pairs."

"Pairs?" Pete's stomach fell through the basement.

"Declared couples," George clarified. "Same or opposite sex doesn't matter, but they'll share a sleeping capsule on the trip to Alpha C."

Pete stared at George, his stomach in free fall. Shouf! I worked my tail off in college to get the grades I needed to get here! I can count the dates I had there on the fingers of one hand, and they were all disasters! And now...  The room faded around him, and Pete felt his personal black cloud descend like a chilling ocean fog.  What the yatz am I going to do?

Then Pete raised a hand and slapped the table, hard, and the pain roused him. Take a breath. Then another one. Pete told himself sternly. You're going to keep moving. Work your tail off. Meet the challenge. One step in front of the other.

Pete raised his eyes to see both George and Janet staring at him.  George looked puzzled, but Janet's eyes radiated concern and sympathy.

I don't need your sympathy, Pete shouted inside his head, but aloud, he said.  "I could use some friends."

Janet sighed, perhaps in relief.  "So could we, Pete.  Sounds like a deal."

"Amen to that," George added, extending his hand, and Pete took it gratefully.