by J. N. Chaney
I followed and watched the sideways glances from the students headed into their respective classes.
I suspected I knew what this was about, given our previous exchange.
The halls were quiet for a while before I arrived at the headmaster’s office. His door was cracked, as though it were waiting for me to find it.
Corrin stood inside, and I could already see the unsteady posture, a nervousness in his stance. He had the look of a man distraught and overcome with too many thoughts, his gaze reminiscent of the admiral on his shelf. I closed the door and noticed an empty garment bag strapped across the inside handle.
The headmaster’s shirt was rumpled, his tie missing, and the faint smell of booze and cheap food rose from the nearby trash.
I took a seat and waited a moment. The headmaster remained fixed at the window. His breaths were uneven, and several times he straightened briefly before slumping and resigning himself to leaning against the wall.
A band of light skin revealed the absence of his ring. “You saw them,” I said.
He looked away from the window then, his eyes sunken and red at the edges. He struggled for a step and slumped into his chair, pausing for several seconds before finally giving me a single defeated nod. “I followed her,” he admitted. “After the last time you and I met. I called up the car service and tracked her.” He sat back in the chair and stared at the ceiling, sniffling. “One search led to another. She went to a neighborhood far from home. Some apartment building. When she finally returned to our house, I confronted her, showed her the records . . . demanded an answer.”
“Did she admit to it?” I asked.
“Not at first, but it didn’t take much to get her to talk,” he recalled. “It was like she”—he paused, almost searching for the right words—“like she wanted to tell me and all it took was a nudge. She confessed right there in the foyer. Two years, she said to me. For two years, she’d been seeing a former teacher of this institution. A colleague and man I thought of as a friend.”
I nodded, a sense of pride welling in me. I’d always liked the headmaster. He was a fair man, professional and courteous. Unlike some educators, he took his job seriously but didn’t allow himself the preening self-assuredness that led to conceit.
“I’m glad I was able to help.” I stood up and approached the door. “I will do my best to keep you informed of anything else I come across.”
Corrin croaked out a syllable. “No.” His gaze gained a remarkable concentration but did not move away from the desk. It looked as if he was trying to see through both it and the floor beneath. “No, Alphonse. I don’t want you telling me anything. You’re—”
I sat back down and waited for his thought to conclude.
“—being transferred,” he finally said. “You will be going to our sister school, Quintell Academy. I’m sorry, but you leave tomorrow morning. First thing, before classes start. Return to your room right now and pack your things.”
That was when I saw it—that the gaze he had been giving wasn’t filled with sadness at the betrayal of his wife, but of something else entirely. Since I had entered, I’d felt him acting at a different cadence, a distant tone in his voice that I’d mistaken for distraction. In truth, it had been his way of separating us, emotionally distancing himself from what he thought he had to do.
I’d been so foolish to think that sharing his wife’s affair with him would prove beneficial. How could I have been so arrogant? Of course, it could only lead here.
My father’s words echoed in my mind, and all at once I understood. Arrogance is a poor face worn by a fool.
The quaking in Corrin’s voice and the slight tremble in his hands were not anger at the misdeeds of his wife or the betrayal of his former colleague. It was fear. The same fear I’d seen in my father when he sent me away. The same fear that I’d tried so hard to avoid.
A brief moment of that day flashed in my mind. Father, angry with me for telling him about his brother’s behaviors, not wanting to believe it but knowing it was the truth. Mother clinging behind him and crying.
I had intruded on the headmaster’s life. Without knowing it or understanding it, I had invaded his privacy and turned his world inside out. It was happening again, and now I would have to leave. I was a victim of my own pride, impaled upon my ego.
“Leave, Mr. Malloy. Just . . . leave.” He thrust a hand at the door and leaned heavily with the other planted on the desk. His eyes had not moved.
“Thank you for the time here, Headmaster,” I stated, turning away and walking out the door.
I saw the secretary feigning interest in her screen. A security officer tried to look both official and invisible against the far wall. Everyone would soon know that Alphonse Malloy was being sent away. Word would spread through the halls as gossip always does, and theories would emerge in a matter of days.
I walked to the hall, keeping a normal pace, and soon returned to the dorms. I tried my best to ignore the outside world, to focus on what would come next. Somehow, I sensed two men in the distance, far behind me, always keeping my pace. Security officials, perhaps, tasked with keeping an eye on the troubled boy with too much to say. I could tell they were there, but I didn’t know how.
3
The next morning, I found myself in front of the headmaster’s door. Classes were still an hour away. It was clear that my removal was to occur before the normal day resumed.
The hallways were still dark. The only light came from inside the office and a few emergency track lights.
I could hear voices. One was obviously Corrin’s, but the other I didn’t recognize. I couldn’t make out any specific words, but the tones were adversarial.
The secretary wasn’t even there. The only other presence was of the security official that had brought me from the dorms. He stood near the entrance and waited to escort me to wherever my next destination would be.
The argument inside the office was short. Only a few words were exchanged before the door was thrust open. Corrin stood in the doorway with far more purpose than he’d expressed the day before. Gone was the slump and the tremors in the hands.
He gave me a fixed gaze and a quick nod. As he gestured inside the office, I noted that he seemed more upset at his visitor than me. Or perhaps it was an anger he had come to after the despair of his wife’s affair had subsided.
The second man did not strike me as a school official. He stood too rigid and his shoes were too ostentatious—a thin silver trim against the tip, tapping the floor with each step. They didn’t seem comfortable or well-worn, but rather as though he’d barely worn them at all.
Corrin introduced me. “Mr. Malloy, we are joined by a representative from our sister school, Quintell Academy. This is Mr. Black.”
I gave the strange, tall man a quick nod and sat down as indicated. Corrin stood to the side of his desk and Mr. Black took up the headmaster’s usual position behind it. The role reversal certainly could explain Corrin’s anger.
Corrin did his best to look like he was in charge and in control, his posturing coming off as little more than nervous theatrics to Quintell’s unmoving figure.
Mr. Black smiled at me. “Hello. I’m here to interview you briefly before we leave. Consider it a useful tool for placing you in the right classes and programs at Quintell Academy.”
Corrin balked at the thought. “I’ve never heard of such a placement interview. The transfer is simple and already—”
“Mr. Corrin,” Mr. Black interrupted, “this exchange would be easier if you would excuse yourself for the interview process. Thank you for the kind use of your office.” All of this was without a sideways glance at the headmaster. Mr. Black also outmaneuvered any complaint or resistance from Corrin before it could even be raised.
Corrin frowned slightly, but it was enough to show his discomfort with the old man. He proceeded to take his leave, but paused at the door. He took another look at Mr. Black, furrowing his unmistakably thick brow. “I hope you’ll be quick abo
ut this, sir,” said the headmaster.
Mr. Black said nothing and gave no indication that he cared. His emotionless face revealed nothing to me, not even in the slightest, and I found this most troubling.
Black’s eyes drifted to mine as Corrin shut the door behind me. The old man did not pierce or glare at me but simply observed. He had the face and demeanor of someone you could meet a dozen times and still know nothing about him, with no discernable features to tell his story. No scars or blemishes, and only enough wrinkles to suggest that he was over forty. He kept a dispassionate energy about him, as though he could be doing anything else at this moment.
He moved slightly to bring up a display on the console. The letterhead for Quintell Academy shone bright against the standard lights of the office.
Mr. Black smiled, a short bit of courtesy. “Mr. Malloy, good to meet you. How is the day treating you?” he asked. “I’m sure you’re anxious to get this transfer over with.”
I noted the shift in tone and the way he transitioned from statement to polite questions. “You’re not from Quintell.” I matched his previous tone, leaving no room for maneuvering in my statement to him.
That affected smile presented itself again. “I am here to talk with you. That is all you need to be concerned with.”
“The only reason this is happening is because the headmaster prefers I disappear,” I stated.
“I suppose he does,” said Mr. Black.
The answer surprised me. I had expected resistance to my accusation, given the seriousness of its implication. “If you know that, then why are you going along with it?” I asked.
“I have no reason to interfere with Headmaster Corrin’s work,” said Mr. Black. “Nor should you, in point of fact.”
“How do you mean?” I asked.
“I don’t know the details of your behavior, nor do I care enough to learn. However, what I see leaves me with enough information to deduce that you would be better off elsewhere, Mr. Malloy. In this case, as a member of Quintell Academy.”
I settled in, allowing myself to observe the whole room and take in the information without focusing on anything specific. Again, mirroring the energy and affectations of Mr. Black. “I know you’re not from Quintell, or any other academy. What are you actually doing here?”
“That man was happy to hear your theories in the past, I suspect,” continued Mr. Black, paying no mind to my accusations or questions. “He likely enjoyed having you around to feed him information on the goings-on inside this institution. But the way he looks at you, the way he acts around you”—he paused, presenting a smile—“you’ve made him afraid of you.”
I said nothing.
“Shall we begin?” asked Mr. Black. “Question one. What is your name?”
I noted that my name was already printed on the screen, along with several file names that my records and transcripts must have included. Also, Corrin had introduced me when I came in. “Alphonse Malloy.”
Mr. Black continued. “Question two. Have you ever committed an act of violence that was not to defend yourself or another?”
Despite the leading wording, it was still clear that the question was meaningless; the answer was known in advance and also irrelevant. “I’ve never so much as raised a hand against anyone.” I waited a beat before continuing, long enough to disrupt the back and forth but before it was an interruption. “How do you know if I’m telling you the truth?”
Mr. Black gave no reaction to the delay or the follow-up question. He simply continued. “Question three. How old are you?”
“Fourteen years, three months, five days.”
“Question four. What is your earliest memory?”
There was something in that last question. A tiny hint of a spark in Mr. Black’s eyes. The transition was slight, but there was no way he would know the answer this time.
I took a second, momentarily letting my own gaze shift as memories returned. “I was in a car, my mother and father in the front. It was sunny. Late afternoon and spring. I was two years old.”
“Question five.” He punched a button on the display and an image replaced the academy letterhead. It remained visible for two seconds then went back to the letterhead. “List everything you just saw.” His tone was a touch eager but more clinical than the previous one.
“The foreground is a busy street. Forty-seven people total. They are of varying heights and proportions. There are three couples: two hugging and one engaged in a kiss. There are Sixteen unique hairstyles and twelve colors.” I took a quick breath. “Six figures are fighting or at least at odds. There are twelve buildings. The architecture suggests early century Berrinian. There are five animals: a dog, two rodents, and two cats. The yellow cat is giving chase to a rodent.”
Mr. Black listened to the descriptions without comment or reaction. He took no notes. “Question six. What would you like to do with the rest of your life?” The question was once again asked as a formality with no regard for the answer.
The question caught me by surprise, and for a brief moment I shifted in my chair. “I would . . .” I paused, unable to find the words. “I am going . . .” Again, nothing. It wasn’t a question of fact but opinion, and I had no answer ready to give.
Mr. Black dropped his smile and frowned. “You’ve never considered the future?” The phrasing suggested something, but I couldn’t place what.
“My parents were programmers. Maybe that.” The answer seemed flat and hollow, even to me, and I knew it was a lie.
Mr. Black turned off the letterhead projection. “Does programming interest you?”
I heard myself mutter, “I don’t know.”
Mr. Black nodded and stood up. “Very well, then. That’s all. I’ve everything I need from the test. You will depart for Quintell Academy at once.” He walked to the door and paused. “Good luck, Mr. Malloy.”
He looked at me in that moment. Actually, truly, at me. Not around or through, but into my eyes. It was more than any of the teachers had done, more than the other students, and I didn’t know what to make of it.
4
I considered the gravity of my situation as I strapped into the seat of the shuttle. Around me, new travelers and weary frequenters busied themselves with pre-flight rituals. I went through the motions of my own checklist while considering the past day and beyond.
I realized I was in a memory freefall when the launch warning beeped. A voice spoke through the individual speakers in the seat and listed the final checklist items. “Launch in five minutes, expect ignition turbulence. All crew strap in. All passengers are green lit.”
I was disturbed to realize I had memory-dumped myself through the verticalization stage. My legs were above my chest, my back parallel with the ground. It was a strange feeling, gravity weighing you down in this position, but it was one I’d experienced a few times before. It was far easier to load the shuttle horizontally and then move it into position on the staged boosters. This both ensured comfort for the passengers in boarding and compliance for takeoff, as anyone that failed to strap properly would tumble as the zenith moved past a grade of fifty degrees.
“Three-minute call. Second stage ignition ready.”
There was a deep rumbling from below and around as the primary booster built pressure and the secondary systems were super-cooled to avoid depressurizing before they were needed. I lacked the engineering prowess to understand exactly what was needed to establish a space elevator on the planet, but part of me wished the government had chosen to build one.
“Fuel pressure maximized. Beginning initial acceleration.”
It was hard to look around at this stage of a launch. The g-forces began to build and push me back in the seat. My field of vision was also drastically reduced by the full helmet. Minors, which I was counted as, were required for insurance reasons to be fully suited for takeoffs. It was an outdated and, frankly, ridiculous policy. I was allowed to remove the gear once we achieved orbit, the one place where it would do any good.
/> Still, the helmet did give some extra support on the neck. It didn’t take too many launches to start seeing demyelination of the spinal cord. That and the low gravity demineralization were reasons to avoid constant travel on commercial transports.
“Activating stage two propulsion and accelerating to escape velocity.”
My idle fascination with the specifics of extra orbital flight were not enough to keep me from being annoyed that I was also forced to listen to the play-by-play. It was assumed that, psychologically, minors were less prone to panic if they knew exactly where the ship was in the launch process.
Fear of exploding in atmosphere or crashing via bad telemetry was almost laughable. The last mishap of that sort was a half-century past and attributed to impact with a falling object. A fluke so rare they didn’t even institute additional scanning protocols to counter it.
“Final stage firing, leaving orbit en route to dock with designated transport vessel.”
Another beep and the controls for the screen in front of me unlocked. I saw Provinka City drift away in the onboard replay. Direct broadcasting of the on-site cameras was blocked during launch. They were prone to sudden cut-outs at velocity shifts, which could cause panic to a young viewer live. So the footage was recorded and edited to give an impression of a smooth takeoff. The final blanket for the poor psyche of space travelers from long ago. Regulations and safety measures didn’t evolve with sensibilities.
The imagery of Provinka City reminded me of my sole experience with space flight. I was ten and recently removed from home by my father. It was “recommended” that I would be better off in boarding school off-planet. I had been sent systems away, literally lightyears away so they could feel safe.
Even then, years ago and one of my first experiences outside of my parents’ watchful care, the safety features for minors had been annoying. The video playback was more interesting to me, though. I recalled the way my home had drifted below me, growing smaller and becoming obscured by clouds, then seeing the curve of the atmosphere and finally the darkness of space. I knew, subjectively, in what direction my original system lay, but I hadn’t bothered to identify the specific star. It was just a place that I had been.