Spoilerific: PMF 7, Chapter Two (more) (Patreon)

Hey again! Long set of sneak-peek scenes today!

PMF 7 is moving along, and I'm currently starting the climax arc. When that's done, I expect a bunch of revisions to tighten up the first half of the book. PMF 7 has considerably less boom and pew pew pew and MUCH less military stuff than previous novels, but that context is all still there... and it's still a Poor Man's Fight book. It won't end quietly.

This book also brings in a new(ish) ensemble. As a first draft, I've pushed hard with Tanner and the main plot with an eye toward filling out the rest in revisions, but eventually I had to go back and establish a few things before continuing. Patron-tier readers have already seen Chapter Two, which introduces Tanner's current life at Fremantle University and his dormitory floor of freshman chaos goblins. Some of those goblins are central to the story, though, so I already had to go back and establish some things.

Btw, if you've read any of the earlier chapters, you may feel like Rhea is a little left out here. That's deliberate. She's just not as forthcoming as the others, because reasons. :)

* * *

(Scene begins in the morning with Tanner studying, then helping a hungover student)

Tanner headed back to his room, trying to turn his mind back to river volumes, flow rates, and formulas he always worried he'd misremember.

The suite to his left opened as a resident slipped out with the urgency of being late for a final. Tanner mumbled a greeting in passing. He also glanced into the open door out of entirely unconscious curiosity.

“Shit.” Arthur sat up from the couch in the central living area of his suite and killed the spread of holo screens arcing around him. “Hey. What’s up?”

Tanner frowned. He’d have thought nothing of it if not for Arthur’s reaction. “Was that a bunch of Destiny logos?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me it’s something for a class.”

“It’s something for a class.”

“Arthur.”

“You told me what you wanted to hear,” Arthur protested.

“Do not scam a multistellar corporation,” said Tanner.

“I’m not,” said Arthur.

“Alright,” said Tanner, though skeptical. He moved on, stopped, frowned, and turned around. The door hadn’t shut yet. He saw what he remembered. Tanner stepped inside and hit the button to close the door with Arthur watching curiously. “Have you slept?”

“Huh?” asked Arthur.

“That’s the same shirt you wore yesterday. There’s blood on the sleeve.”

“Oh shit.” Arthur lifted his left arm to check his t-shirt. As noted, small red blotches decorated the fabric in a line. “Yeah. Same shirt. Awkward. I’ve got class in two hours. I’ll shower and change first. No worries.”

“Normally after a night like that, I can’t wait to at least shower or sleep. One or the other,” said Tanner. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. I—oh.” Arthur caught on. “I’m fine, Tanner. It was scary, but I’m not freaked out or on edge. When we got back, I meant to get settled for bed. Then I remembered this thing for class today and I got hyper-focused. It happens. Hardly thought about last night.”

“It’s one way to cope,” said Tanner.

“If I need to talk, I’ll let you know,” Arthur assured.

“You might not need it.” Tanner shrugged. “Some people let all the scary shit go without a fuss. I don’t get how, but I’ve seen it. Lack of sleep is still a thing, though.”

“It’s normal for me. I only sleep a few hours a night.” Arthur tapped on his neck. “Tailored pineal gland implant when I was fourteen. My father said it would make me more productive. Said I’d have more time to learn if I didn’t sleep as much.”

“At fourteen?” asked Tanner.

“Yes. I haven’t gone for booster treatments, so it’s dulled, but still there.”

“You don’t talk about family much. Do you get along with him? Anyone else?”

“No. God, no. Mom left the picture when I was little. Dad... I don’t ever want to talk to him again.” Arthur paused. “Why?”

“A move like that on top of you avoiding the family topic says he’s an asshole,” said Tanner. “Implants like that are messy enough for adults. Archangel doesn’t allow them at all except for medical correction. Fremantle, too, I think. You were fourteen.”

“He had high expectations. He didn’t want me to fall behind. If that’s all you know of him, are you sure it’s that bad?” Arthur asked, but it didn’t sound like a defense.

“Yes. You were fourteen. Your parents don’t get to decide who you are. You don’t live for them.”

“Hah. Tell that to him,” said Arthur.

“I will, if I get the chance,” said Tanner.

“I’d pay to see that.”

“Hell, I’d pay for the chance to tell off a lot of parents,” Tanner grumbled.

“I’ll be alright,” said Arthur. “Class is soon. I’ll get cleaned up before and sleep when I’m done. Don’t worry about me.”

“Cool. Door’s open if that changes.” Tanner moved along.

“Tanner?” Arthur stopped him. “What about your parents? I know your mother passed. What about your father?”

“Oh, he’s fine. Step-mother, too. Losing Mom messed me and Dad up, but he tried his best. He just focused in the wrong directions sometimes. Thought some things were okay when they weren’t. Shit happens.”

“What did your parents want you to do with your life?” asked Arthur.

“They wanted me to be happy. That’s all. Whatever that means is up to me.”

Arthur let out a breath. “There’s a concept.”

“I know, right? I’ll be around.”

Tanner went back to his room. His eyes turned to the holo of Lynette, still grinning as she usually did. The picture didn’t track and turn with his movements, as some setups could; that was too weird for him. It did cycle through other shots of Lynette, though. The bikini shots only came up when the device recognized he was alone. She set that part up herself. The setup had other features, too.

“Holosuite. Quote six,” he said out loud.

The image turned to another of Lynette in the captain’s chair of her starship, feet up on a console while in port. It cut to a memorable moment in a recent letter. “It’s college, Tanner. Promise me you’ll get into some kind of trouble at least once. The fun kind.”

Tanner sighed. He had, in fact, promised.

The clock beside the holosuite demanded other things from him. He had places to be.

* * *

(Skip two scenes)

“The reader says you’ve got a bunch of extra meds in your system.” Leonard Rice sat behind his desk wearing his Serious Talk With the Coach face. He also wore sweats and a ballcap just like his rugby team on practice days, but his gear retailed at a significantly higher price. “Painkillers, anti-inflammatories, clotters, topical sealers. What’s going on?”

Analu half-expected this conversation all morning, but the biometer would’ve caught the readings as soon as he’d strapped it onto his ankle and gotten moving. Rice hadn’t called him in until he’d been through warm-ups, drills, and weights. The chair left out for him in front of Rice’s desk seemed to send a message, too. Other chairs in the office had upholstery and armrests, and only one was occupied by an assistant coach. Analu sat in a little classroom chair.

If he asked about that, the coaches would inevitably say he was making something out of nothing and then ask why he was being defensive. Analu knew these guys. And, again, he wasn’t surprised by any of this.

“I got a little banged up over the weekend,” said Analu. “Nothing big. None of the meds are restricted.”

“Not restricted, no, but it’s not an everyday thing, either.”

“Might’ve gone a little heavier than I needed. Didn’t want anything to show,” said Analu.

“What’s the story?” asked Rice.

“Screwin’ around in the dorm. I took a fall wrong and then banged my face getting up.”

“You were roughhousing badly enough to need clotters and sealers?”

“Coach, you know where I live,” said Analu.

Rice frowned. He did, in fact, know that. “God damn it, Analu, were you playing that fucking escape pod shit again?”

“Nah, we got caught before it was a real game, but I was already boxed up at the staircase, and um...” Analu let that hang. He had no trouble maintaining nonchalance when it was how he actually felt. He saw the utility of it, too. Say less, Rhea had counseled, and she wasn’t wrong. Rice came to his own conclusions and frowned deeper. “I’m fine,” Analu went on. “Haven’t taken anything since last night. Practice and workout were both smooth. It’s meds, not enhancer bullshit. I’ve got no respect for that.”

“Hmpf,” Rice grunted. “Well, some enhancers are fine, but we’ve been through that. You’ve got the list.” His stance on banned enhancers had always seemed more like a grudging focus on rules than principle, but he toed the line. The coach did not want a cheating scandal or medical incidents. That was enough. “Alright. Fine. Cut the playtime at home. You’re an athlete. You don’t do the team any good if you’re in a hospital or injury rehab. Get out of here.”

“Actually, Coach? Been wanting to talk to you about something else,” said Analu.

“Aw, dammit, this again?” Rice grumbled. “Kid—you are a kid. I can’t play you through every match. It’s doesn’t matter how good your stats are. Seniority matters, too, and you’re only finishing out your first year. I’ve got guys with two and three years on you and their stats are fine. You’ll get more time next season, but that’s how it works. Experience matters. Size matters, too. You’re nineteen. You’re still filling out.”

Analu’s brow rose with the coach’s first snap, and then a little more with each contradiction from things Rice had said over the last year. That final comment turned Analu’s eyes downward at himself. He dwarfed his little chair. He was bigger than most of the team, too, including more than half the starters. His stats said even more.

“No, it’s not that,” Analu began.

“I need you as a sub, kid,” said Rice. “You’re a good sub. You come in and there’s no gap. The team gets stronger, not weaker with a second string. That wins matches.”

“Coach, it’s not that,” said Analu. “I’m not happy with my grades.”

Rice frowned. “You’re not on probation or catching warnings. I’d know.”

“Yeah, I’m passing, but I’m not doing as good as I could. All my time goes to practice and the team. I need to cut back on the optional stuff so I have time for class work.”

“Cut back?” Rice countered. “You tell me you want more time on the field, and you want to cut back on practice?”

“No, I—” Analu stopped. Rice’s winning record was all the more amazing once a player got to know his coaching style, not to mention how well he listened—or didn’t. The man won in spite of himself, which said a lot about his athletes. “I’m good for the required stuff. I like practice and workouts. The problem is all the other stuff like the extra practice and the team functions. I don’t have time for classwork when I’m busy with that. Most of that time, I’m just standing in the background anyway.”

“Alright, look. You’re not the first athlete with school problems. We’ve got programs for that.”

“No, I’m fine on the requirements. Getting by, at least. But I’m in graphic design and interface tech. That’s not just rote exercises and papers. I’ve gotta sit and fuss with things. It takes time.”

“Graphic design?” Rice made a face. “Christ. That should be an easy major. Push the buttons and let the computer do the work. What’s it matter?”

Analu’s jaw rarely dropped. It wasn’t among his reflexes or part of his body language. This day marked an exception.

“Kid, why are you here? Are you here for rugby, or is the team a ticket to your degree?”

The correct answer to that question always varied from one questioner to the next. Analu had faced it many times before. He didn’t feel like lying today. “I’m the first in my family to go to school full time since landfall. Everybody else had to work and rack up debts. Rugby means a lot to me, but it can’t be everything.”

Rice stared, then snorted. “Fine. I can’t hold you past the mandatories. I can’t promise much extra game time come the next season, either. Not if you aren’t committed. So you oughta think hard about where your future lies. Other guys, I’d say sure, get a backup plan. You? You’ve got a real shot if you stick with the program now and rack up wins for this school. Thirty, forty years in the pros after you graduate. Set for life. I dunno why you’re worried about anything else.”

* * *

“Nope. No worries at all. You’re checked out and good to go.” Phoebe flashed a courteous but genuine smile and slid the open crate of lab gear off of the counter. The knee-high, flatbed roller bot at her side had no trouble with the new burden.

“Oh good.” The guy on the other side of the counter let out a breath and let his shoulders relax. The dark palate and exposed industrial aesthetic feel of the office never gave anyone the expectation of comfort. Or relief. “I thought I had to fill out another document and account for all the stuff I used up.”

“Not at all. They expect you to use up the supplies on the green list. That’s why they’re called expendables.” Phoebe slid her finger through two more lines on the holographic form hovering between them. “The full inventory is back and everything is clean and functional. That’s all that matters. You’re all set. And hey, congrats in advance on graduating.”

“Wow. Yeah, final project. They really can’t stop me now.” Her customer paused with a wistful look before shaking it off. “Thanks again.”

“Anytime. We’re here to help.” Phoebe gave him a wave goodbye and closed up the holographic form. Turning to the bot, she said, “Delivery. Return this to the chemistry section, set to auto-sort, and return to your station.”

“Instructions confirmed. Thank you,” said the bot’s pleasant automated voice. It rolled away again into the hall, leaving Phoebe alone at the front desk.

Facilities support was a solid part-time job. Campus employment came with the understanding of flexibility around class needs. When her tasks were done, Phoebe could study or amuse herself rather than finding busywork for appearance’s sake. The job provided practical experience to match her major and would look good on an application. Best of all, her job helped students and staff, like the graduate who’d just left—and, hopefully, whoever she heard coming when the door opened again.

“Stupid thing. Yeah, I’m here now. I’ll call you back.” The newcomer rounded the corner in a summery skirt and blouse, tall and put together, tapping her earring to kill her holocom call. Beside her rolled a flatbed bot like the one Phoebe had just sent off, but bigger and burdened by a larger crate. “Hey, is this where we return stuff?” the newcomer asked.

“Yep. Check-outs and returns. You’re in the right place.” Phoebe’s customer service smile took a little more effort than usual. “How can I help?”

“Ugh. I’m here for a return, obviously. This stupid thing wouldn’t go into independent mode.” The newcomer flicked an annoyed gesture at the bot. Though the crate covered all but the bot’s wheels, the red glow of its operational light shined beneath the crate’s shadow. “We loaded all the shit we borrowed into the box. Everything’s here. We did the stupid checklist. The bot should be able to tell by weight, too.”

“It’s got a few more parameters that can trip things up.” Again, Phoebe smiled. “We can fix this together. No problem.”

“I really have to stay here? That’s what I’m saying. This thing should’ve come back on its own. I had to walk it here like a dumb dog.”

Phoebe already had a floating holo screen open and paged to the returns menu. “This should only take a minute. What did you check out?”

“Tablecloths and silverware for our sorority gala. Plates and napkins and shit.”

“Gotcha.” Phoebe glanced at the bot and its crate again. She’d loaded checkout packages herself, and knew how neatly everything had to be arranged to close up. If nothing was missing, that pointed to a second obvious catch. Red text on her screen confirmed it. “Did you wash everything before loading it up?”

“Pff. No. Don’t you do that here?”

“It’s in the terms of the equipment loan agreement. I know it seems—”

“Like fucking bureaucracy? Yeah. Because it is.”

“We don’t have staff or machines to clean every checkout when it comes back,” Phoebe explained patiently. “Also, it’s courtesy for whoever uses it next. And basic sanitation.”

“So, what do I have to do? Take it all back and clean it myself?”

“That’s the better option for everyone. You’ve got a few hours left on the checkout. Otherwise, there’s a cleaning fee and—”

“You can’t just waive that?”

“Not during finals week when everyone’s busy and we’re supporting a ton of events,” Phoebe answered—again, patiently. Pleasantly, even. “Sorry.”

“Oh God, how many stupid fucking rules does this... wait.” Her eyes narrowed. Her frown took a turn. “Have we met?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I rushed at the start of the year.” Phoebe gave up on her smile and shrugged. “It’s Kerry, right? Hi.”

Kerry’s mouth opened with a gasp, or perhaps another scoff. “Right. You. You refused the second challenge and walked out. Couldn’t take it.”

“You wanted everyone collared and leashed together while we crawled on all fours and barked to chase a drone rabbit. That’s not safe. And it’s humiliating.”

“It wasn’t a real rabbit. Whatever. Why rush a sorority if you can’t take a joke?”

Phoebe didn’t want to let Kerry get a rise out of her, nor could she get into an argument at work. She also didn’t feel like backing down. The memory still hurt. “New school, new city far from home. I was hoping to make friends.”

“Right. Outback girl. No sorority, then? Freshmen dorms? I heard you wound up on the loony floor. How’d that work out for you?”

“Pretty great, actually,” said Phoebe.

“Uh-huh. Sure.” Kerry glanced left, right, and high at her surroundings, all somehow with the air of looking down her nose. “Maybe someday you’ll move up from this, too. Do something important. I suppose there’s always hope, right?”