Colony high, p.1
Colony High, page 1
COLONY HIGH
SKY HORIZON SERIES
BOOK 1
DAVID BRIN
NOVUS MUNDI PUBLISHING
CONTENTS
School is Out
1. Extra Credit
2. Special Assignment
3. Homework
4. Individual Tutoring
5. Class Discussion
6. Pop Quiz
7. Announcements
8. Honored Guests
9. Study Hall
10. Essay Questions
11. Parental Notification
12. Field Trip
13. Evaluations
14. Visitors
Adult Supervision?
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Colony High
By David Brin
Copyright 2023 by David Brin
Cover Copyright 2023 by Top of the World Publishing
Cover Design by
Cover Patric Farley
Map by Mike Knopp
Interior illustrations by Laura Givens and Scott Hampton
All rights reserved.
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-961511-12-5
Print ISBN: 978-1-961511-13-2
First printing: 2021, 1632, Inc.
Published by Top of the World Publishing, a Texas limited liability company, inclusive of its affiliates, subsidiaries, imprints, successors and assigns, with offices at 1008 S. Main St., Georgetown, TX 78626.
topoftheworldpublishing.com
Printed in the United States of America.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the express prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
Publisher’s Note
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
COLONY HIGH: SKY HORIZON
By David Brin
For Robert Silverberg
With thanks for a Revolt on Alpha C …
And in memory of Robert Heinlein and Andre Norton
For tunnels and adventures in the sky …
And for Jeff …
SCHOOL IS OUT
Another sharp jolt of displaced air shook the chopper, whose pilot struggled, yanking hard on the stick and throwing his throttle to full. Desperately climbing.
From the other front seat, Dr. Karen Polandres-Behr stared at the vast Garubis ship, perched on three towering legs over a California desert town. Whatever the mighty vessel was doing — manipulating powerful forces – Karen knew it was beyond human experience. The detector console on her lap told her that much, before every dial and screen burned out.
Frenzied queries rattled her ears — frantic demands for information, shouted by officials in New York, Washington and Belize. But Karen could only answer with a low cry as the Garubis tripod trembled visibly. It changed color before her eyes, from reddish to yellow, to green and finally intense blue.
Then, from the alien vessel’s rim, there fell a curtain of dazzling light, dripping slowly, as if liquid.
In terrified dismay, Karen saw the radiant cone broaden — catching two nearby earthling aircraft in its hem, melting their rotors and tossing them like gnats, sending them a-tumble toward Mojave dunes. Then the curtain tightened inward, narrowing to fit snugly within the great disk’s trio of spindly legs. The fierce illumination seemed to solidify into a bubble of palpable brilliance.
Roaring light heaved around her. Karen held on for dear life as the helicopter dipped, rattled and shook. Alarms wailed. The control panel erupted with red warning flashes. For a minute, all seemed lost.
Then, abruptly, the sensation of powerful energies simply vanished. In seconds the air calmed, releasing her pilot to sob in relief. And Karen’s head was out the door, turning. Peering frantically.
A pall of sparkling dust hung over the town of Twenty-Nine Palms, especially the part near Olympic and Rimpau, obscuring everything beneath. Out of this fog, blew a storm of small cylinders – components of the fast-unraveling tripod, now returning to the mothership. Several thousand of the hollow tubes could be seen rushing skyward, joining their fellows in the belly of the giant, hovering disk. Soon all were recovered and the big hatch closed.
With an audible groan, the mighty vessel began climbing away.
“What happened? What happened? What just happened?”
For a moment, Karen couldn’t tell where the question came from — a simultaneous chant emitted from her headphones, from everyone in the chopper and from her own dazzled mind.
Then, as the starship started moving, an amplified voice took over the radio waves, every channel and frequency, speaking English with weird, alien tonalities.
Thus, repayment is accomplished.
With this gift, our debt is erased.
Where the tripod had been, just minutes before, a stiffening breeze now tugged at the dust cloud, unraveling it — along with every shred of hope Karen had been vainly clutching. For under the clearing haze, she now saw what had become of Twenty-Nine Palms High School and several surrounding city blocks.
A quiet, crystal clarity settled over Karen’s senses. Through headphones she heard someone in authority shout a protest that was immediately translated into Garubis chatter-gabble – the aliens’ tongue — as humanity’s complaint chased after the fast-departing vessel.
“You ugly space bastards! You call THIS a gift?”
FOUR MONTHS EARLIER…
1
EXTRA CREDIT
Rumors can take on a life of their own. Sometimes, they spread like a virus.
The latest bit of hearsay?
Some of the Math Club geeks have got their hands on a real live alien!
They’re keeping it hidden in a basement rec room, no less.
Mark had listened to some wild tales while growing up, wherever Dad happened to be stationed at the time. Just as soon as he could pick up some local dialect, Mark would foray to the nearest village or town and tap the gossip mill, fascinated by the bottomless human appetite for preposterous lies. From conspiracy theories murmured in a Lebanese bazaar to scandals about local pop stars, circulating through Manila alleys — the things people believed!
Still, it wasn’t till Dad got transferred back to Southern California that Mark realized — there’s no place better to breed wild stories than an American high school.
Especially Twenty-Nine Palms High, where the football team mascot, Spookie, wore a huge trench-coat, a floppy hat and big black eye-mask. Beyond all the nasty stories that kids typically spread about each other, and hearsay concerning the dating habits of certain teachers, there were always colorful rumors about what went on at the nearby airbase. Or within the top-secret, opaque walls of Cirocco Labs.
But this one — about the Math Club guys having an extraterrestrial of their very own?
Well, it beat all.
Not that Mark believed a word of it.
California homes don’t have basements, for one thing.
Besides. A captive alien?
Such a cliché. A stupid movie rip-off. Couldn’t the nerds come up with a better hoax? Crap, some of their parents worked at Cirocco. What good are brains if you can’t be original?
When some of his classmates said they were going over to see for themselves after school, Mark begged off. He had other things in mind. Especially an hour later, staring down at the varsity soccer team —
— girls varsity, in blue shorts and yellow tops. They charged across the athletic field in formations as intricate as Dad’s squadron during inspection week … but a whole lot more alluring. The star forward, her tawny legs pumping, somehow made sweat and cutthroat ferocity seem, well —
“Bam?” A voice called to him from above. “Bamford, what are you doing?”
The words made him twitch, almost losing his precarious perch upon a stub of concrete, jutting from the wall. Mark dug in with three fingertips of his left hand while probing desperately for a ledge to set his right foot. His heartbeat jolted and spots danced before his eyes like flashing balls.
“Are you all right? Bam?”
“Ye — yeah,” he grunted, short of breath.
“Well stop staring at Helene Shockley and focus!”
“Not … staring …” he grunted, both irritated and embarrassed. “Slack … Gimme a lot.”
Some tension left the rope, easing pressure from the climbing harness on his thighs and groin, freeing him to lean and traverse, seeking a higher footing. This part of the wall was tricky, designed for competitions in a brand-new league. He would have to master it in order to make the team.
“More slack!” The rope still wasn’t loose enough for this reach.
“But …”
“Come on, Alex … I’m fighting the clock here. Slack!”
There was time to make up — precious seconds stupidly wasted during that blank stare at the socc
“Well, fine.” She sounded dubious. “But concentrate!”
The rope loosened still more. He bore down, focusing on the task at hand.
Relax, you’re in a California desert suburb. No lives are at stake … this time.
Unlike that cliff in Morocco, when his father had to stay with a critically injured aid worker, sending Mark cross-country for help. One steep shortcut shaved an hour off the round trip … and Dad later blistered his ears over taking the risk.
The lip of Mark’s left shoe found a crevice. Hardly more than a ripple in the wall. He tested it …
“That one’s iffy,” commented the voice overhead.
Be quiet. But he didn’t have breath to say it. Shifting his weight to the narrow ledge and feeling a sudden burn in his calf, he launched himself upward, reaching ambitiously past a safe hand-hold, grabbing at the last one before the top. For an instant he glimpsed Alex, scowling with concern, her cropped brown hair framed by blue desert sky.
This’ll show her I know what I’m —
His hand brushed the knob — the same instant that his shoe slipped. Mark clutched frantically, two fingers bearing all his weight as both legs dangled, desperately seeking a purchase, anything at all. Specks of rough concrete crumbled under the pressure. Pain lanced down his wrist and arm.
“Mark!”
He saw Alex try to reach for him, and suddenly remembered. I asked for slack. I hope not too much —
The knob seemed to tear away with deliberate malice — and the ground swung up. Mark glimpsed shouting figures below, scattering out of the way.
Almost too late, the autotensioner kicked in, yanking the safety line hard enough to empty his lungs, stopping his plummet just short of impact. Splayed with arms and legs flung apart, facing the sky like a crushed flower. Like roadkill.
For some unmeasurable time he hung there, tasting acid, blinking away pain-dazzles and struggling to catch his breath till Alex popped the release, easing him down the rest of the way.
Those scattered figures returned, crowding around as Mark’s vision cleared — youths who were bigger, stronger and sweatier than most. Well, everyone agreed that the Climbing Wall stood too close to the Free Weights area.
The tallest body-builder leaned over, expressing false concern. “You okay there, Bamford? Want a pillow?”
Jeez. All I need right now is Scott Tepper, Mark thought.
And yet — there was no choice but to clasp the blond senior’s offered hand. Better to stand quickly, ignore the pain and try not to groan, even if that meant swaying for several heartbeats.
“You’re lucky Coach wasn’t here,” Scott continued, still looking down at Mark from half a head taller. “He’s already ticked off that they put this stupid climbing wall here.”
“Yeah,” growled Colin Gornet, nearly as towering as Scott but much heavier, pushing close and poking with a finger. But that wasn’t what made Mark recoil. The big lineman packed aroma.
“You could’ve killed somebody, Bamford! When Coach finds out, your ‘ascent team’ will be history.”
Brushing Gornet’s jabbing finger aside, Mark glanced at the nearest weight station. It lay at least three meters from the base of the wall. Plenty of room! He was about to argue the point when Scott Tepper raised a palm.
“No need for Coach to find out.” He interposed, keeping Colin’s persistent arm from poking again. A good thing, since Mark had had enough.
“But Scott, next time this moron falls …”
“There won’t be a next time. Will there, Bamford?”
Mark couldn’t think of anything to say. Though fuming inside, he knew it was a losing proposition to argue, or compete in any way with Scott Tepper, whose charm seemed to rise out of some infallible instinct. Coupled with good looks and serene confidence, it let Scott manipulate any teacher, win any school office, smooth-talk any girl.
So much confidence that he could offer generosity — at a price. You owe me, Bamford, said the look in Scott’s eyes.
Others were joining the crowd of onlookers, including members of the girls’ soccer team. Helene Shockley, tawny and gorgeous, slid up next to Tepper with a questioning smile.
Mark shook his head, eager to get out of there.
“No, Scott. It won’t happen again.”
Alexandra Behr wasn’t as easy to deal with.
“Do you have any idea how hard we lobbied Principal Jeffers to get that wall? It’s our shot at getting some X-Sports accepted inside! You better not blow it for us, Bam.”
Mark shot her a glare as they walked toward the bike racks. He’d never liked the nickname — Bam-Bam … later shortened to Bam — though its macho quality beat most alternatives. High school could be a social nightmare for any transfer student, especially if you got off on the wrong foot. Anyway, the Extreme Sports bunch had been first to accept him. Mark couldn’t skateboard worth a damn, but none of them had ever gone trekking in the Atlas Mountains, so it all evened out. Why not help pioneer a new sport at TNPHS?
“It won’t happen again,” he told Alex.
This time the promise felt sincere. He had let her down, foolishly losing focus. In the real world, a slip like that could be fatal. Besides, he needed the ascent team, to boost upcoming college applications. Lacking Alex’s grade point average, and a bit short for his age, this might be his one chance to varsity at anything.
“Well, okay then.” Alex nodded, accepting Mark’s word. She punched his shoulder, knowing uncannily how to strike a nerve. He quashed a reflex to rub the spot.
Dang girls who take karate. Mark had grown up with the type, on a dozen military outposts around the world. Oh, they could be great pals. But a more feminine style also had appeal. Anyway, Alex was only a sophomore — not even sixteen and still gawky. Mark inclined toward ‘older women’ like Helene.
Unfortunately, they went for older guys.
Barry Tang awaited them at the bike racks, his Techno already unfolded with gleaming, composite wheels — hand-made for last year’s Science Fair. With unkempt, glossy black hair and a misbuttoned shirt, anyone could tell how he interfaced with Alex — on her non-athletic side. They were both Junior Engineers.
“What kept you two?” Barry asked, a little breathlessly. “I want to show you something!”
Mark groaned.
“Gimme a break, will you? My carcass is still practically twisted in half and covered with bruises. And I gotta be at work by four.” Not that he relished bagging groceries. But Dad said any kind of job built character. In lieu of allowance, he pitched in a buck for every one Mark earned himself — mostly for the college fund.
“So? You’ve got twenty-three minutes, and Food King is right over there.” Barry pointed to the supermarket, beyond Jonathan’s Shell Station and across the street from Twenty-Nine Palms High.
“Well —”
“Come on, Bam.” Alex took the back of Mark’s neck with one slim, strong hand and started kneading. “I’ll work these knots, if you like.”
He suppressed an impulse to brush her away. Alex was a pal, after all. Though every now and then …
Barry Tang glanced over at the two of them with a grimace of feigned jealousy that was maybe partly real. “Are you rewarding this guy for messing up, at practice? Maybe I should get some bruises too. Somebody’d rub my — hey! Stop that!”
Mark had grabbed Barry in a headlock and was knuckle-digging his temple, not very hard. Just enough to be true noogies. When he protested again, Mark let go.
