Psychotic Academy

Christopher Olding adjusted his dress uniform, and regarded himself in the mirror for the fourteenth time. He was now in his third year at the Academy, and was for the first time eligible to attend the Senior’s Ball. For most of the cadets, it was a heaven-sent opportunity to look impressive in their shiny new dress uniforms, and enjoy the simultaneous pleasures of an excellent meal and watching their instructors getting increasingly drunk. For Olding, who wasn’t a big drinker and not that enamoured of dress uniforms in any case, the evening promised to be a long unending vista of tedium. Protocol required that he attend, however, and Olding knew better than to mess with protocol.

He dug his finger in under the uncomfortably stiff collar, trying to make some room to breathe. The material refused to budge, and Olding grumbled to himself about the inadequacies of the design. Unbeknownst to him, in nearly every other cadet dormitory in his block, cadets were doing exactly the same thing, in a time-honoured ritual that was precisely the same age as the Seniors’ Ball.

 

Later, Olding and the other cadets were mingling in the Pavel Chekov Memorial Building, the main lecture hall of which had been converted into a bar for the evening. Cadet Zephnek, an Andorian, who was regarding his glass of whisky with some suspicion, turned to Olding and asked, “Why is this building named the Pavel Chekov Memorial Building?”

“Chekov’s Kirk’s navigator and now his security chief,” Olding said. “I suppose somebody thought he was famous enough for t’ building to be named for him.”

“I understand that,” Zephnek said. “But Chekov is still on active service! Isn’t it a little premature to be naming the building after him?”

Olding was about to respond, when instead he realised that he didn’t actually have a good answer for that one. “Maybe someone got him confused with someone else?” he hazarded.

Zephnek snorted in amusement, then said, “Uh-oh.”

“What’s up?” Olding asked, then followed Zephnek’s pointing antennae. Cholmondely-Smythe had just walked in through the door. His dress uniform had been immaculately tailored, and, Olding noticed, seemed to be a little looser in the collar than the standard issue version. Olding instinctively narrowed his eyes, and straightened his back, as Cholmondely-Smythe swept past him, heading towards the bar. Both cadets deliberately ignored each other, although Olding managed to restrain himself from sticking a foot out in front of the other cadet.

Olding hadn’t seen Cholmondely-Smythe a huge amount since the other cadet had been rehoused a year previously. Although the medical staff hadn’t cottoned on, Cholmondely-Smythe had guessed that Olding had been responsible for his humiliation. Fortunately, Olding had destroyed all the physical evidence of his tampering, so Cholmondely-Smythe had been forced to endure the regime the medics had put him through. Now, however, Cholmondely-Smythe was free to attend Academy social events, and always made sure he pointedly ignored Olding at each and every one.

“Bluidy idiot,” Olding muttered to himself, sipping his orange juice. Zephnek swirled his whisky round his glass again, sniffed it experimentally, then hurriedly threw it down his neck. A second later, his eyes crossed, and a second after that, his antennae drooped, and he slumped to the floor.

Olding looked down in surprise, then knelt down to see what the problem was. Zephnek was unconscious, that much was obvious, but his reaction seemed a little extreme. Cautiously, Olding picked up the glass the Andorian had been drinking from and sniffed it. Inasmuch as he was no expert on alcohol, it smelt like perfectly ordinary whisky. He slapped Zephnek’s face, trying to elicit a response. Other than a certain amount of drool, the Andorian didn’t react in any way.

“Hi, handsome,” a female voice purred.

Olding glanced up, and his breath was taken away. Before him stood a vision of feminine loveliness in a long black dress. Her lack of uniform made it obvious she wasn’t a cadet, and Olding wondered who she could be. He cleared his throat, and, as smoothly as he could, said, “Hi. Cadet Olding. What’s your name?”

It was only after he’d spoken the words that he realised the woman hadn’t been looking at him. Her confused glance downwards was enough to confirm that, and Olding felt his cheeks suddenly burn bright red with embarrassment.

“Actually, old fruit, I believe she was talking to me.” Perfect. Just bluidy perfect, Olding thought, as Cholmondely-Smythe stood over him, and extended a hand to the lady. “Wilhelmina, my dear, you’re looking utterly divine.”

“Thank you,” Wilhelmina said smoothly. Olding’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times in an abortive attempt to say something coherent. He gave up when Wilhelmina stepped past him, and returned his attention to the unconscious Zephnek. But, try as he might, he couldn’t focus on the job in hand. His mind kept returning to that horribly embarrassing moment when he’d made himself look like a complete twit, and he could feel that his blush was still flowing stronger than ever.

He was just starting to get a grip on himself when he heard a scream from behind him. A feminine scream. Olding started to stand up, and turn towards where Wilhelmina was, when he was hit by something heavy.

Olding dropped to the floor, landing across Zephnek, who didn’t seem to notice. There was a weight on top of him, compressing his lungs. “What t’ bluidy hell was that?!” he wheezed.

The reply took what little air he had from him completely. “I’m so sorry,” Wilhelmina said, as she tried to scramble off him.

“That’s… okay,” Olding croaked, gritting his teeth as he was pushed downwards onto Zephnek. Finally, Wilhelmina was on her feet, and Olding was able to roll off the now-snoring Andorian.

“Looks like your friend’s had one too many,” she observed.

“He had one,” Olding said, “ That was it.”

“For Andorians, sometimes one is all it takes,” she replied. “For a warrior race, they’re also incredible lightweights.”

“I didn’t know that,” Olding admitted.

“I had an Andorian roommate at college,” Wilhelmina explained. “I must have picked her up off the floor at least five times a week.”

“Care to relive t’ experience?” Olding asked, as he bent down and grabbed Zephnek’s shoulders.

Much to his surprise, Wilhelmina smiled and said, “Why not?” She took hold of Zephnek’s feet, and between them they lifted the cadet off the floor. Before they could start to walk Zephnek to a corner, Cholmondely-Smythe intervened, saying, “Excuse me, my dear. I believe we were about to dance?”

“We were,” Wilhelmina said. “Then you pinched my bottom and now we’re not.”

“Ah. I, er…” Olding would have liked to have stayed to watch Cholmondely-Smythe’s uncharacteristic discomfort, but that would have meant dropping Zephnek, as Wilhelmina was marching away. Besides, he found himself rather wanting to follow Wilhelmina.

 

They deposited Zephnek on a seat in the corner, and it was then that Wilhelmina noticed the spilt remains of Olding’s orange juice decorating his trousers. “Oh! I’m sorry! I didn’t realise you’d spilt your drink!” Before Olding could react, she’d produced a handkerchief from her purse and was dabbing at the damp patch at groin level.

Olding’s eyes crossed with the effort of not reacting in any way. His fingers fluttered at his sides, and he said through gritted teeth, “It’s fine. Honestly.”

“No, I should…” Wilhelmina halted her actions and looked up at him in acute embarrassment. “I should stop rubbing your crotch,” she concluded.

Olding shrugged his shoulders, driven completely mute through a wide variety of conflicting emotions.

Wilhelmina picked herself up and held out a hand. “Let’s start this again. Hi. Wilhelmina Gates.”

“Uh, hi. Chris Olding. Pleased to meet you,” Olding managed, shaking her hand. “Would you like a drink?” he said, trying to keep momentum going.

Wilhelmina giggled, and glanced down again. “I think I owe you one.”

“That’s fine,” Olding said. “You can get t’ next one.” He led her off towards the bar, a wide grin adorning his face, whilst inside he was wondering where the hell the sudden burst of confidence had come from.

Cholmondely-Smythe started forwards towards them, and Olding saw the movement out of the corner of his eye. His attention distracted, he didn’t see the step in front of him and abruptly toppled forwards, crashing to the ground once more with a cry of “Bugger!”

Olding picked himself up and dusted off his trousers, ignoring Cholmondely-Smythe’s exaggerated guffaws in the background. “You okay?” Wilhelmina asked him.

“Fine,” Olding said, trying not to be curt. “Just missed my footin’.”

They made it to the bar without further mishap, and Olding asked, “What would you like?”

“I’ll have a brandy and lime, please,” Wilhelmina said promptly. “No problem,” Olding responded, then double-took. “Brandy and… lime?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay.”

Olding signalled over the barman, and placed the order. Fortunately for Olding’s self-respect, Wilhelmina had turned away from the bar, allowing him to shrug and roll his eyes when the barman raised his eyebrows over the brandy and lime.

As their drinks arrived, Wilhelmina lifted her glass, which to Olding’s eyes was an unpleasant looking greenish brown concoction with ice, and clinked it against his. “Cheers,” she said, winking at him.

“Cheers,” Olding replied, taking a gulp of his orange juice as he frantically tried to think of something sensible to say. Fortunately, the answer occurred to him before he drained the glass. “So, how’d you come to be here?” he asked, then cringed at the cliché.

“You mean, what’s a nice girl like me doing in a place like this?” Wilhelmina asked slyly.

“Somethin’ like that,” Olding said reluctantly.

“Horatio invited me,” Wilhelmina said. “He said it was the only event of the year that cadets were allowed to bring their beloveds to attend.”

“You’re… Horatio’s… beloved?” Olding asked carefully.

“No,” Wilhelmina laughed. “I think he thought he was being smooth calling me that.”

“Oh,” Olding said. The concept of being smooth had never really ranked highly amongst his priorities before. “I see.”

“So you’re here alone?” Wilhelmina asked.

“Uh…” Olding realised that he had to learn smoothness, and fast.

Fortunately, Wilhelmina saved him. “Going stag is probably a much better idea,” she observed, and Olding nodded hurriedly. “It leaves your options open,” she continued in a lower, huskier voice, and, despite himself, Olding swallowed nervously.

“That’s what I thought,” he said, arching an eyebrow in what he hoped was a devil-may-care fashion. He’d got used to being perfectly in control of himself during his time at the Academy, and was completely nonplussed by the way Wilhelmina had successfully knocked him off balance, both figuratively and literally.

Olding took another sip from his drink. He’d learned fast that it was perfect for buying him time to think, and he needed all the time he could get. He was midway through his second sip when a hand clapped him on the back, causing him to splutter and spill orange juice down his front. Cursing, he turned to see who it was, and his good mood was abruptly spoilt as he saw the unsmiling visage of Cholmondely-Smythe behind him.

Ignoring the large damp patch in the centre of his uniform, Olding glared at Cholmondely-Smythe. “What?” he growled.

“Christopher, dear boy, one is impressed by your oafish stubborn continuance of this farce, but we are both aware the young lady is with me. Now, kindly step aside and allow me to escort the young lady to dinner.”

Olding didn’t move, switching on the fixed glare he’d perfected over the past three years. He was rewarded by a twitch appearing in Cholmondely-Smythe’s left eye. The other cadet shifted uncomfortably, but continued, “If nothing else, dear boy, you will need to clean your dress uniform. It’s inappropriate for you to attend a formal event in such a condition.”

Olding had to concede Cholmondely-Smythe had a point. He smelt like a citrus fruit, and, with the meal rapidly approaching, he needed to rectify that.

“Barman, a tonic water please,” Wilhelmina ordered behind them. “And an absorbent towel.”

Olding and Cholmondely-Smythe, still locked in their face-off, paid no attention to her. Cholmondely-Smythe had adopted his air of easy superiority, although his left eye was twitching frantically, and Olding was still glaring at him, the expression a cover for the fact he didn’t know how to break away without losing face.

Wilhelmina tapped Olding on the shoulder, and he reluctantly turned away from Cholmondely-Smythe to face her. She smiled and said, “I’m so sorry.”

“What for?” Olding asked, and got his answer a second later as Wilhelmina threw the tonic water onto his uniform.

“What t’ bluidy hell was that for?!” he spluttered, whilst behind him Cholmondely-Smythe broke into a nasal, braying laugh.

“Take your jacket off,” Wilhelmina said, holding up the towel. Olding still didn’t understand what on Earth (or indeed any other planet) was happening, but shrugged off the jacket, and handed it to her.

Wilhelmina pressed the towel down onto the damp patch, and said, “The tonic water will neutralise the smell of the orange, and hopefully the towel will clear the worst of the mark.”

Olding nodded, his smile returning as he finally understood. Wilhelmina was unorthodox, but she was direct, and Olding was coming to realise he liked that in a woman. Cholmondely-Smythe was still hovering behind them, and said, “But, my dear…”

“Don’t ‘my dear’ me, Horatio,” Wilhelmina said. “I’m not your anything. Now leave Chris and myself alone.”

Cholmondely-Smythe grabbed Olding’s arm and hissed into his ear, “I’ll be watching you. I’ll expect you to behave like a perfect gentleman. Do I make myself clear?”

Olding turned, made eye contact, and raised an eyebrow. Then, without even realising he was going to do it, winked. Cholmondely-Smythe looked surprised, then, apparently speechless, let go of Olding’s arm and stalked away.

“There,” Wilhelmina said, “Almost as good as new.” She handed his jacket back across. Olding glanced at the front panel, and had to admit that she was right. There was still a slight damp patch, but it was fading fast, and the smell of orange juice had gone.

“Thank you, lass,” he said, putting the jacket back on. Before he could say anything more, a bell sounded, and over the intercom there came the announcement that the meal was served.

 

The meal itself, much to Olding’s relief, went smoothly, and he managed to avoid ending up with any further stains across his dress uniform. The wine flowed smoothly, as did the conversation, although Olding could see Cholmondely-Smythe at another table, watching them intently. Whilst he was enjoying the evening far more than he thought he would have, he was not looking forwards to the inevitable confrontation.

Olding tried to put it to the back of his mind, concentrating instead on what Wilhelmina was saying. She’d recently received her doctorate in advanced theoretical physics, and was working as a civilian contractor for Starfleet “doing something very technical and boring.” Olding, with his scientific bent, was able to keep up with the more complex parts of what she was saying, and wondered how Cholmondely-Smythe, for whom science and technical subjects were “something for the junior bods, what?” had ever managed to impress this woman.

At the end of the meal, as the cadets stood to allow the serving staff to clear the tables to create a dancefloor, Olding felt tense. It was partially because he had no clue about how to dance, but mostly because he could see Cholmondely-Smythe approaching them.

Wilhelmina saw him as well, and, wrapping her arm around Olding’s, said, “Persistent, isn’t he?”

“Like a virus,” Olding grunted, and Wilhelmina laughed.

“Wilhelmina, my dear,” Cholmondely-Smythe said, “I understand why you’ve chosen to spend the meal with this young man, and believe me, I have learned my lesson. I apologise for my earlier behaviour, and will conduct myself in a manner appropriate to an officer and a gentleman from this moment henceforth.”

Olding struggled to contain his instinctive annoyance at the use of the word “henceforth” and simmered noticeably as Wilhelmina sighed, and said, “Horatio, you have no idea why I’m spending my evening with Chris. Now leave us alone, and don’t bother calling me later.” She squeezed Olding’s arm, and continued, “I won’t be in.”

Cholmondely-Smythe’s mouth dropped open in outright shock, and Olding felt his eyebrow raise. He wanted to laugh in the other cadet’s face, but figured he’d got this far by being restrained, and didn’t want to blow it now.

“Chris, care to show me to your room?” Wilhelmina said, and, with a major effort of will, Olding said, “I’d be happy to.” He’d intended it to come out as a calm drawl, but it ended up being high-pitched and clipped.

Before he could walk away, Cholmondely-Smythe had one last thing to say. “Olding, I will not forget this,” he said. “From this day forth, a vendetta exists between us. Is that clear?”

“Oh, perfectly, dear boy,” Olding dead-panned, knowing he had the upper hand now.

“You seem tense,” Wilhelmina said to Cholmondely-Smythe. “I know lots of ways of relaxing. I’m sure Chris will be able to tell you all about them. Tomorrow morning.”

Olding’s grin reappeared, and he decided that now he could afford a brief moment of immaturity. To Cholmondely-Smythe’s shock and Wilhelmina’s great amusement, Olding stuck out his tongue, and blew the loudest raspberry he could. Then, with Wilhelmina on his arm, he marched out of the dining hall and back towards the cadet block.