Free Teacher of the Century by Robert T. Jeschonek Page A

poto.”
    Half the time, the godlings communicated with each other via brainware implants, silently passing radio signals from head to head. The rest of the time, they communicated by speaking aloud, but almost always using their own indecipherable language--Twister--when talking to one another. As often as she had heard it used, Cilla could never make out more than a few stray words of it.
    â€œChaka luweena,” said Ludwig, angrily poking a finger in Cilla’s direction. “Mantabuda cristacuchina elar !”
    Though she didn’t understand a word he said, Cilla caught the drift of it. The angry tone and the simple fact that he refused to speak English meant that she had no hope. There would be no negotiations. She had reached the end of the line.
    Another boy padded up from behind and urinated on her, but she didn’t break eye contact with Ludwig. “Please,” Cilla said to him. “I taught your father and mother. I taught your father’s father. Don’t do this.”
    â€œCromo!” Ludwig said sharply, and then he spat on the ground. “Shavaka cromo!”
    That word, Cilla knew. “Cromo” was Twister for “parents,” expressed with as much contempt as was humanly possible. It was the most profane word in the godlings’ vocabulary.
    Cilla wondered what the godlings’ parents would think if they could see them now, if they could watch what they were about to do to her. They saw everything that took place in the classroom, usually, thanks to the personal A.I. drones that hovered over each student’s shoulder during class. Now, though, the airborne eight-balls floated around the perimeter of the room, lenses staring at the walls; obviously, the godlings had figured out how to render the drones dormant when they didn’t want their parents to see what they were doing.
    Not that the parents would have cared, thought Cilla, even if they could have seen what was about to happen.
    The circle tightened around her. She could see that some of the boys were aroused as they moved toward their prey. Why, she wondered, with all the advantages they had, did they slide back so completely into the primitive?
    If it would have done her any good, Cilla would have pleaded further with the godlings. She would have told them that it wasn’t necessary to kill her, since they had already driven her to request early retirement. She’d be gone in two weeks anyway, she would have told them.
    But she knew it would not have done any good to tell them that...just as she knew it would not do her any good to scream for help. The other teachers and administrators knew better than to interfere in godling affairs; the penalties for intervention could be quite severe. Just ask the vice principal who had tried to break up a godling orgy in the library two years ago, or the teacher who’d been dumb enough to give a godling an “A minus” just last month.
    And now, it was her turn to be the object lesson. Resigning herself to death, she closed her eyes and said a silent prayer that the end would come quickly and without too much pain.
    She felt the heat of the students pressing in on her from all sides. She smelled the animal musk and funk of their naked bodies.
    Then, all of a sudden, she heard a new voice in the room. It was a young, male voice...and most surprisingly, it was speaking English.
    â€œSorry I’m late,” said the boy. “Is there a seating chart?”
    Cilla’s eyes shot open and fixed on the new arrival. The godlings turned as one in his direction, halting their predatory approach.
    For once, the teacher and students had a common reaction to something. None of them could believe what they were seeing.
    The newcomer had sandy brown hair and bright green eyes. He looked about seventeen years old and five foot seven, with a slim build. What was unbelievable about him, though, had nothing to do with his physical characteristics.
    It