Safety Tests by Kristine Kathryn Rusch Page B

older woman, arms crossed, head back, eyes closed. She’s been through this before and she doesn’t want to seem too eager.
    “Any wash-outs?” I ask Connie as quietly as I can.
    “Already gone,” she says.
    I grab one of the tablets behind the counter, then raise my eyebrows, asking without asking if someone has washed out because of the chemical components of his sweat or because of a genetic propensity to nervous disorders.
    “Nothing that’s not on the reports,” Connie says.
    The reports. We can’t wash candidates out if they have a doctor’s release or if they self-report the hypertension, the family history of mental illness, the time that they went off the deep end and threatened passengers with a gun. Okay, that would get them disqualified no matter what, but I’m always thinking these people are going to do something screwy like that.
    “All right,” I say tiredly, already dreading the day. “Let’s get to it.”
     
    ***
     
    I take the big guy first. I take him to our smallest cockpit, and he can’t fit into the chair. He asks for another ship, which I give him. His arms brush against the controls. He asks for his own ship, which I deny. We don’t give private ship licenses here. Those cost more money than anyone can contemplate and have a gold standard all their own. You think my job is high-burnout, you should see the folks who do the private license tests. The ships don’t work right half the time, the ships’ safety regs are usually out-of-date, and the controls are often screwy, sometimes not even set up for a co-pilot, let alone a flight instructor.
    My job is crazy; theirs is insane.
    I send Buff Guy to them, and pray he can’t afford the fees.
    The other two guys are by-the-book. Standard mistakes—forgetting the visual check before entering the ship, not reviewing the safety equipment before starting—the stuff that everyone does, and no one gets penalized for, no matter how much I bitch.
    As for the older guy, I was right: alcohol. Three years clean and sober. Hands don’t shake. Doesn’t use anything to keep the alcohol at bay. Has had genetic modification to get rid of the alcoholic tendencies, several schools to get rid of the behavior, but wouldn’t do anything that touches the brain because he wants to get back to piloting.
    He was the only one so far whose visible nerves have no effect on his actual flying skills. I’d fly with him any day, and I tell him that.
    He looks grateful. I think he actually is grateful, not something I get very often.
    Then, the youngish woman.
    She wears too much perfume. It’s some kind of floral fragrance, which would get her kicked out of her commercial flight test. That stuff sometimes interacts with the controls, particularly if it’s on a hand crème or something.
    But I don’t tell her, not even when she gives me a pretty little smile as she introduces herself. Not many people smile when they see me, and usually the pretty ones never do.
    She’s LaDonna something. It’s not my job to remember the names. They’re on the forms and in the registry. Connie has to keep track and make sure the right information gets to the right place.
    I just have to hold the name in my head until the test is over. People respond to having their first name shouted authoritatively better than almost any other command. “LaDonna!” for example works twenty times faster than “Stop!”
    She’s getting her student license so she can pilot cargo ships. I’d’ve figured her for a speed racer, but she’s not that kinda girl, apparently. She wants to work her way up in commercial flights, but not passengers, never passengers.
    She’s one of those hyper types that never shuts up when she’s nervous, which means that for the next hour, I will get to hear about her boyfriend, her parents, her pets, and maybe even her sex life. Not that I want to. Most people aren’t as interesting as they think they are.
    I’m careful not to ask questions. Questions only