Psychotic Academy

Cadet Christopher Olding placed his kitbag on his bunk nervously, and glanced around the austere quarters that were to be his new home for the foreseeable future. He still wasn’t certain Starfleet was the place for him, and the flurry of orders, shouts and probably rude hand signals that had accompanied his processing into the Academy weren’t doing much to make him feel better about being here. His family had been in Starfleet for generations now, an Olding serving aboard one of the original NX-class vessels Earth had launched over a century before, and so the current generation had signed on, just like his father before him. Commodore Tom Olding was still in the service, commanding Space Station D-4 out near Tholian space, having amassed a reputation as a disciplinarian second to none. It was a record his son wasn’t certain he could live up to.

The younger Olding knew he had the academic ability to join Starfleet, and a career as a science officer would probably be good for him, but deep down within his heart of hearts he wasn’t certain that he had the necessary authority to really pull it off. He supposed all that would come with training, though. After all, four years would be more than enough time to develop some command skills, wouldn’t it?

“Ah, hello, dear boy!” A voice announced from behind Olding, who spun rapidly around to face its owner. Another cadet had just entered the quarters, with his own kitbag slung jauntily over his shoulder. “I take it you’re to be my new bunkmate, what? Splendid!”

“Uh, m-m-mornin’.” Olding stammered a little, a habit he thought he’d lost some years ago.

“Indeed!” The new cadet flung his kitbag into a corner, then stood, legs akimbo and hands on hips, surveying his quarters in much the same way as a king would regard his court. Then, he theatrically slapped his hand against his head, and said, “But where are my manners? I should introduce myself post-haste!”

The hand that had been doing the slapping was abruptly flung forwards at Olding, who shook it limply. “Horatio Cholmondely-Smythe, at your service, dear boy!”

“C-C-Christopher Olding.”

“Absolutely splendid to meet you! I’m sure we’ll get along famously!” Cholmondely-Smythe paused, then stared closely at Olding. “Wait, are you Tom Olding’s son?”

“Y-y-yes.”

“I thought so! Recognised you straight orf! I do believe your father worked for mine aboard the jolly old Inflatable!”

Olding looked blankly at Cholmondely-Smythe for a long moment, before the memory suddenly clicked in. His father, ten years previously, grumbling over lunch about his commanding officer. “C-C-Captain Horace Cholmondely-Smythe was your father?”

“Admiral now, young cadet, and we musn’t forget that! Yes, I am his offspring. How absolutely splendid! Nice to see we’re following in our respective families’ traditions! I’m sure we’re going to get on famously!” Cholmondely-Smythe smacked Olding on the back in a bluff, boisterous, big brotherly way, and Olding grimaced with the pain.

“Now hear this. All cadets report to the main briefing hall.”

“They’re playing our tune,” Cholmondely-Smythe said. “Come on, chop chop, we can unpack later.” He hustled the feebly-protesting Olding out of the room, and drove him sheepdog-style all the way to the briefing hall.

 

The rest of the day passed in something of a blur for Olding, as he struggled to assimilate a mass of new information about how his life was going to be run for the foreseeable future. Through it all, though, and usually at vastly inappropriate moments, his subconscious would offer up another nugget of memory about his father’s relationship with Cholmondely-Smythe. Tom Olding had bitterly hated serving under the man he had called on more than one occasion, “A great southern pansy,” and, even more frequently, “that pompous, arrogant, talentless… nyargh!”

The screams of pain were something that Christopher remembered only too well. And now, it seemed, history was repeating itself. He was going to be serving under another generation of Cholmondely-Smythe.

Their relationship had established itself within minutes, Cholmondely-Smythe taking the lead and Olding following. For the most part, it suited Olding, who found it easier to hand over the decision making to someone else while he did his best to learn. But, deep down, buried so far inside his subconscious he didn’t even know it was there, something primeval began to stir.

 

That evening, at dinner, the cadets were seated in the main Academy mess hall, tucking into the meal of the day and engaging in the nervous conversations common to any large group of people who had never met before. Thus far, Olding had answered the question, “So, what planet do you come from?” seventeen times. It wouldn’t be so bad if he had a more interesting answer than, “Earth.”

He ate his dinner on autopilot, his mind on other things. At least, it was trying to be. Every time he tried to slip off into his own thoughts, he was interrupted by Cholmondely-Smythe, who had quickly established himself as the figurehead of any given group. This time, he was trying to summon a steward. “Garcon, garcon,” he said loudly, clicking his fingers.

Rolling his eyes, a steward stepped forwards. “Sir?”

“I say, frightfully bad show on the drinkies front,” Cholmondely-Smythe said, indicating the pitcher of water in front of him. “Care to produce a winelist?”

“Sir?”

“A winelist, garcon, a winelist! Chop chop now, we’re parched!”

“We have no winelist, sir. This is not the officer’s mess.” The steward was falling back on the absolute politeness that was his ultimate weapon against awkward customers. Cholmondely-Smythe, however, was oblivious to this.

“I see. No winelist. Dashed bad show. Very well then, what would you recommend?”

The steward was taken aback by this, whilst all the other cadets tried not to meet each others eyes out of shared embarrassment. Recovering quickly, the steward said, “Would sir care for red or for white?”

“Well now, there’s a question! We’re eating…” Cholmondely-Smythe’s voice trailed off as he examined the meat on the end of his fork. The grey, unidentifiable matter hung limply, dripping what could loosely be termed as gravy. Cholmondely-Smythe studied it intently for a moment, before he pronounced, “We’re eating meat! And that demands a red, I think! What reds do you have?”

“We have a Findanese vintage 2260, Chateau Stalin, sir. A robust yet eminently drinkable red, fullbodied and earthy, sir.”

“Excellent! Bring two bottles, garcon. Chop chop!” The steward rolled his eyes again, but obediently about turned, and marched back to the kitchens to fetch the desired bottles. Cholmondely-Smythe rubbed his hands together eagerly in anticipation.

A moment later, the steward re-appeared with the requested bottles. Cholmondely-Smythe grabbed a bottle from him, in order to study the label intently. Everyone’s embarrassment increased tenfold as it became increasingly clear he couldn’t read Findanese. Cholmondely-Smythe handed the bottle back, and, waving his hand imperiously, said, “Well, open it and let’s sample a splash, there’s a good chap.”

Next to him, Olding was struggling with a new sensation. In the past, and indeed up to this point, he’d always tended to sit quietly and try to ignore any unpleasantness happening around him, but the constant, grating sound of Cholmondely-Smythe’s confident tones were sparking off the desire to intervene somehow. And beneath that, dark and urgent and strong, came the entirely new feeling of… anger. For the first time in his life, Chris Olding wanted to do something, and do it loud. He struggled to keep this new temper under control, reasoning that Starfleet would want even-tempered officers, but something told him that this was a struggle he would lose. It wasn’t as if he even wanted any wine.

Sighing almost imperceptibly, the steward poured a small amount of wine into Cholmondely-Smythe’s wine glass. Cholmondely-Smythe swirled the wine around, sniffed deeply, then took a swig. “Excellent!” he pronounced. “Pour away, if you would be so good, and some for these chaps as well!”

The other cadets, including Olding, reluctantly took their glasses, and, very conscious of the stares from the water-drinking cadets all around them, drank their wine. Cholmondely-Smythe smacked his lips and said, “Absolutely top-hole!”

And Chris Olding’s temper notched up just that little bit further.

 

Over the next few weeks, Olding couldn’t shake off Cholmondely-Smythe. Granted, they lived together, messed together and had the same classes, which was going to make completely avoiding the other cadet impossible, but somehow Olding always found himself sat next to his nemesis, or in the same seminar group, and every time Cholmondely-Smythe would treat him, and anyone else around, as his personal lackeys. Many of the other cadets buckled under, accepting their fate, but Olding found a spirit of defiance within himself. Admittedly, he hadn’t yet vocalised any defiance, but he was discovering a host of new skills. There was the frown, for example, which Olding had tried in the mirror and intimidated himself with, and also the eyebrow quirking upwards. Previously, Olding had assumed that the eyebrow thing was a Vulcan trademark, but he seemed to be quite good at it too. There was also the beginning of a suggestion of a pointing gesture now, when he was particularly aggravated about something or other.

The source of his aggravation strolled nonchalantly into their quarters. “Good evening,” Cholmondely-Smythe said, flinging himself onto his bunk and placing his hands behind his head.

“Evenin’,” Olding said, deciding not to explode into anger just right then.

“Us chaps are planning to make a foray into San Francisco’s nightlife in a short while. Thought you might appreciate joining us,” Cholmondely-Smythe announced magnanimously.

Olding’s frown kicked in, and he said, “Well…”

“Splendid! Nothing like an evening out with the lads, is there?”

“Suppose not,” Olding said to himself, resigning himself to another uncomfortable social evening out.

 

Two hours later, all his worst fears had been realised. Cholmondely-Smythe had ignored all the pleasant-looking bars and watering holes that occupied San Francisco’s waterfront in favour of a swanky, brightly lit and expensive wine bar. The four cadets who he’d corralled into being social stuck out in their official off-duty outfits like sore thumbs, and were being given a wide berth by the rest of the clientele.

Olding sipped the cocktail Cholmondely-Smythe had ordered for him and regarded his companions miserably. The other two had regressed into private worlds of their own, drinking slowly in that catatonic state that said they didn’t want to be there. Cholmondely-Smythe was busy exuding an aura of ‘hail fellow, well met’ that had guaranteed an exclusion zone of approximately ten metres around them in every direction. This massive unpopularity hadn’t discouraged Cholmondely-Smythe at all, who seemed completely oblivious to the lack of company around him.

Olding, for his part, wished he were back in barracks studying. It wasn’t that he was anti-social, he just didn’t like the venue and didn’t like the company, and desperately wanted to go home. And what was worse was, Cholmondely-Smythe still insisted on talking at him.

“I do remember dear papa telling a wonderfully amusing story about your father. Let me see… Ah yes, the Inflatable was on standard patrol in Sector 223…”

Olding had actually heard the story before, from his own father, and knew the outcome, which, as it turned out, was very different in Cholmondely-Smythe’s version. Needless to say, in this version it was the heroic Captain C-S who saved the day by a stroke of inspired genius, rather than the four hours worth of hard graft and patient analysis that had actually occurred whilst the Captain flounced about.

As Cholmondely-Smythe droned on, Olding felt his temper rapidly approaching boiling point. Previously, he’d kept his temper internalised, studying it as an interesting change in himself and wondering what would happen if it should ever make a public appearance. Now, he decided to find out.

“So then papa said to the crew, “I don’t care what’s in the manual, I know that this ship and crew…”

“Wait just a bluidy minute!”

Heads turned, the other cadets carefully put their glasses down, and everyone looked shocked as Olding’s voice shot from it’s usual softly-spoken whisper to a full throated roar. Cholmondely-Smythe himself stopped dead in his tracks, and for the first time ever, regarded Olding with an expression other than supercilious superiority. Olding himself, trembling slightly with rage, felt his eyebrow shoot upwards as his finger jutted out to jab the other cadet in the chest. “I think we’ve heard just about enough from you,” he said, his voice echoing across the room.

Cholmondely-Smythe’s jaw opened and closed a few times before he began his own frown, and said in a dangerously low voice, “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard. I’m sick and tired of your bluidy posturin’.”

“Dear boy, if you…”

“Don’t you ‘dear boy’ me!” Olding almost snarled. “I’m not your bluidy servant, and you’re not a bluidy admiral. And I suggest you go read t’ logs for t’ cruise o’ t’ Inflatable before you tell any more ridiculous stories about your oh-so-heroic ‘papa’!”

“What are you insinuating?” Cholmondely-Smythe said, his own temper starting to flare now. The other cadets were glancing around them looking for cover and wondering what was going to happen next. For his part, Olding was beyond caring now. He’d never felt so annoyed, so fired up, and so ready to be blisteringly sarcastic, and, most disturbingly of all, so right. It was like an essential part of him that had been missing for his entire life had suddenly made an appearance.

“I’m not bluidy insinuatin’ anythin’! I’m bluidy tellin’ you! I don’t know where you get your stories from, but they’re a load o’ complete nonsense!”

“I’ll have you know that I am just relating the stories that my dear father used to tell me. Are you implying that the Admiral may have been lying?” Cholmondely-Smythe’s face twisted into a darker version of his usual supercilious smile, and even through his anger Olding realised he could be in trouble here. Regardless of provocation, calling a serving Admiral a liar in a public place would not do his career any good at all.

“I’m askin’ if you’ve read t’ logs,” he said, keeping enough power in his own voice to hide the fact he was suddenly finding himself on weaker ground.

“No need, surely,” Cholmondely-Smythe said.

“I’d say there’s every need,” Olding responded.

“May I remind you who I am?” Cholmondely-Smythe responded haughtily, and Olding pounced.

“A freshman cadet, sunshine. Same as me. Now go look up t’ bluidy logs!”

 

They stalked back to the Academy, the other cadets scurrying along in their wake. Cholmondely-Smythe brushed aside the guard at the gate with nary a second glance, whilst Olding prevented him from doing anything more than watch them go with a careful use of the glare he was coming to discover was incredibly effective. Without a word, they entered the library and Cholmondely-Smythe grimly accessed the logs of the USS Inflatable. He was about to delve straight into the captain’s logs when Olding said, “No, access t’ internal recorder logs.”

As Cholmondely-Smythe tapped away, Olding became aware that a growing crowd had formed behind them. The cadets who had witnessed their first argument had summoned reinforcements, and now it seemed that a substantial portion of the academy freshman class were clustered into the darkened library.

Finally, the recorder logs appeared on the screen, and everyone leaned forwards in anticipation. “Well?” Olding demanded. Cholmondely-Smythe didn’t answer for a long moment, as he scan read the relevant sections. Olding snorted in derision as he saw the other cadet’s mouth moving as he read. Finally, his eyes wide, Cholmondely-Smythe leant away from the terminal.

“Well?” Olding said again, and the crowd held it’s breath.

“It seems,” Cholmondely-Smythe began, “That one’s dear father may have been, uh, factually inaccurate at various points in his previous narratives.”

“Roughly translated as, he was makin’ it up!” Olding stormed. “So, next time you want to tell stories of how great your bluidy family is, either check your facts first or shurrup!”

A cheer went up, filling the room and taking both Olding and Cholmondely-Smythe by surprise. Cholmondely-Smythe hissed, “I won’t forget this,” before stalking away. His attempt at a dignified exit was hampered by the crowd, though, who blocked his route and reduced him to shouldering his way out through the crowd.

Olding’s own attempts to leave the library were also made difficult, although this was more to do with the fact that he was hoisted onto cadet’s shoulders and carried out at the centre of a cheering procession. “Uh, wait a mo,” he began, as he saw the low-hanging doorway approaching him at speed. Unfortunately, the noise of the crowd drowned his protests, and he was carried headfirst into a duranium beam. His last thoughts of the night were that he could get used to the new, more forthright him.