Galileo Academy’s classrooms looked normal enough, even though they were brightly lit with high ceilings, wasting a ton of space. Rows of desks lined up in front a wall-size vid display. But the desks didn’t have terminals. They were just flat surfaces with chairs behind them.
“Where are the terminals?” I asked, put out, wonderi
ng what the joke was. How were we supposed to look up things? How were we supposed to take notes?
The instructor, standing at the front of the room, cleared his throat and drew our attention.
“All right, students, listen to me.” He was a nondescript guy with pale skin and dark hair, heavyset in the way of all Earthers. He was reading from a hand terminal. “Sit when I call your name, starting with the front left-hand side of the room, working across rows.” He started reading off names.
We couldn’t just sit where we wanted to? Ratty.
“Newton, Polly,” he called. The next desk in line was smack in the middle of the room. No escape.
“Where are the desk terminals?” I asked him.
He frowned. “You don’t have them. You’ll have to put away your handhelds as well. Here at Galileo, you’re expected to think on your own.”
“What is that—” He’d already turned back to his terminal, reading off the next names. One of the Earth girls giggled.
Charles was eyeing me, and I decided not to do anything—anything else—that would give him the satisfaction of acting superior at my expense. I’d do what he did: wait, watch, pretend it didn’t matter. But no desk terminals seemed really primitive. Wasn’t Earth supposed to be all advanced and amazing?
We settled into our places, and I prepared to listen. I was already thinking too hard.
The instructor introduced himself, “I’m Professor Iyan Piotr Broderick. You may call me Professor Broderick. I’ve transmitted to each of your accounts the texts we’ll be covering in class this semester and I expect that you will read them in a timely manner and be prepared to discuss them in class.”
If we had desk terminals, or even ports that interfaced with our handhelds, we could look up the information right now.
“Let’s get started. We’re going to be covering the nineteenth century C.E. forward, with a focus on the political and social dynamics that led to the current climate of nation-conglomerates in loosely associated alliances. Can anyone tell me the names of the first efforts toward a globally recognized political body?”
My hands moved to type at a keypad that wasn’t there. I could have looked it up. That was what online databases were for. But five kids put up their hands—including Charles, which didn’t surprise me.
Broderick called on one of the Earth kids. Elzabeth. “Yes, Ms. Rockney?”
“The League of Nations first, then the United Nations.”
“That’s right. Very good. And what prompted their creation?”
Again, hands went up—Charles’s first; Broderick didn’t call on him, but on another Earth boy.
“The twentieth-century wars,” he said.
“More specific, please?”
He deflated, disappointed, and one of the other students said, “World Wars One and Two.”
Charles was stewing. His expression didn’t change, but the gleam in his eyes got dark. Nobody but me would recognize that he was getting frustrated.
Then I realized: this wasn’t just a class; it was a competition.
It went on like that. I didn’t know the answers to any of the questions, because why would I? What was I supposed to know about Earth two hundred years ago? On the other hand, I could tell him every single important event that happened on Mars since the Viking probes landed back in the 1970s.
But this wasn’t about teaching the answers to things. It was about seeing who in the class was the best and showing everyone else up.
“What about Mars?” I said finally.
Frowning, Professor Broderick glanced at his class roster. “Ms. Newton? We raise our hand in class when we have a question.”
We do, do we? Fine. I raised my hand straight.