and cuddling against Carswell’s leg, turned, and traipsed toward the kitchen—the fastest route to their backyard.
Carswell scowled as he watched the cat go, its tail sticking cheerfully straight up. He liked Boots a lot—sometimes even felt he might love her, as one does any pet they grew up with—but then he would be reminded that she wasn’t a pet at all. She was a robot, programmed to follow directions just like any android. He’d been asking for a real cat since he was about four, but his parents just laughed at the idea, listing all the reasons Boots was superior. She would never get old or die. She didn’t shed on their nice furniture or climb their fancy curtains or require a litter box. She would only bring them half-devoured mice if they changed her settings to do so.
His parents, Carswell had learned at a very young age, liked things that did what they were told, when they were told. And that didn’t include headstrong felines.
Or, as it turned out, thirteen-year-old boys.
“You need to start taking this seriously,” his dad was saying, ripping him from his thoughts as the cat-door swung closed behind Boots. “You’ll never be accepted into Andromeda at this rate.”
Janette returned with his plate of pancakes, and Carswell was grateful for an excuse to look away from his dad as he slathered them with butter and syrup. It was better than risking the temptation to say what he really wanted to say.
He didn’t want to go to Andromeda Academy. He didn’t want to follow in his dad’s footsteps.
Sure, he wanted to learn how to fly. Desperately wanted to learn how to fly. But there were other flight schools—less prestigious ones maybe, but at least they didn’t require selling six years of his life to the military so he could be ordered around by more men who looked and sounded like his dad, and cared about him even less.
“What’s wrong with you?” his dad said, swiveling a finger at Janette. She began to clear his place setting. “You used to be good at math.”
“I am good at math,” Carswell said, then shoved more pancake into his mouth than he probably should have.
“Are you? Could have fooled me.”
He chewed. And chewed. And chewed.
“Maybe we should get him a tutor,” said his mother, flicking her finger across her portscreen.
“Is that it, Carswell? Do you need a tutor?”
Carswell swallowed. “I don’t need a tutor. I know how to do it all; I just don’t feel like doing it.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that I have better things to do. I understand all the concepts, so why should I waste whole days of my life working through those stupid worksheets? Not to mention”—he gestured wildly, at everything, at nothing. At the light fixture that changed automatically based on the amount of sunlight that filtered in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. At the sensors in the wall that detected when a person entered a room and set the thermostat to their own personal preferences. At that brainless robotic cat—“we are surrounded by computers all the time. If I ever need help, I’ll just have one of them figure it out. So what does it matter?”
“It matters because it shows focus. Dedication. Diligence. Important traits that, believe it or not, are usually found in spaceship captains.”
Scowling, Carswell sawed at the pancake stack with the side of his fork. If his mother had noticed, she would have reminded him to use a knife, but she was far too busy pretending to be at a different table altogether.
“I have those traits,” he muttered. And he did, he knew he did. But why waste focus and dedication and diligence on something as stupid as math homework?
“Then prove it. You’re grounded until these grades come up to passing.”
His head snapped up. “Grounded? But mid-July break starts next week.”
Standing, his dad snapped his portscreen onto the belt of his own uniform—the impeccably pressed blue-and-gray uniform of Colonel Kingsley Thorne, American Republic Fleet 186.
“Yes, and you will spend your break in your bedroom doing math homework unless you can show me, and your teacher, that you’re going to start taking this seriously.”
Carswell’s stomach sank, but his dad had marched out of the breakfast room before he could begin to refute him.
He couldn’t be grounded for mid-July break. He had big plans for those two weeks. Mostly, they involved an entrepreneurial enterprise that began with sending Boots up into the fruit trees on his neighbors’ property and ended with him selling baskets