by K. A. Excell
“As a class, it focuses on social engineering of different time periods and how that can be used in a myriad of ways; extracting intelligence, moving unseen in social circumstances, even using blackmail to avoid a fight. In short, we study how social structures can be used as a weapon. Occasionally, we do supplementary tactical exercises to try and put those social structures into practice.”
An entire class studying people? Unlike the other kids I’d grown up with, I didn’t learn social skills by observation. Society was the one thing I couldn’t quantify or explain—the one thing my lines could not help me with. I didn’t learn social skills instinctively, which meant I would be starting at a disadvantage—both in the class, and in life. If Mom were here, she would sign me up in an instant. She’d spent so long talking with me and helping me try to understand the people around me. I knew a lot now, but not nearly enough. There was a little icon pinging in the back of my mind that wondered if I would have been able to avoid Zachary if I had only understood society a little bit better. Maybe I would have seen the signs. Maybe I would have seen his invitations to ‘hang out’ with him and his friends as the trap they were, instead of being flattered that someone was finally paying attention to me. Maybe I wouldn’t have mistaken the signs that screamed ‘predator’ for ones that said ‘friend’.
But I’d spent so much time trying to learn all this; what made me think I would do anything except fail at this class? If I couldn’t understand the basics of society, how could I hope to apply it as a weapon?
More than that, what would happen to my chances of getting a scholarship to University if I failed this class? More information might ensure my safety, but it also might ensure that I never succeeded as an engineer. For a moment, I wondered which one was more important.
Ms. King’s grin faded a bit. “You’re not going to ruin your GPA, Farina. You might spend an awful lot of time learning the material with me in detention, but you won’t fail the class. All you would have to do is your best.”
I looked up. “If you know how much extra work you would be taking on to help me learn this subject, then why do you want me in your class?” The behavior indicated a deviation from normal teacher behavior. Deviations could be dangerous.
“You are interesting, and I try to collect interesting students.”
So the question became whether or not I minded being in a collection.
I eyed the Sociology textbook. If I accepted, it meant almost every moment of my waking life would be spent reading textbooks. Did I really have the time for that?
Still, there might be answers if I took Ms. King’s class.
Mr. West and Mr. Mccoy had secret, invitation-only classes, just like they were the only other teachers who had offices other than their classrooms.
How else would I figure out what was going on at this school? Briefly, I wondered if I should ask West about his class. He sponsored me into the school, after all. Then an image of him meeting my eyes through the mirror flashed through my head, and I frowned. No. Mr. West wouldn’t give me any answers. My best shot at finding out what was going on here was with Ms. King. Besides, what did I have to lose?
I tuned out the sound of the gong ringing as Ms. King stared at me, completely unreadable.
“When would I start the class?” I asked.
Ms. King bared her teeth in something that my lines told me was a smile. Her eyes glinted with predatory anticipation for one sharp moment before they snapped back to that icy cold.
“Now.”
Chapter Eight
I followed Ms. King through a side door originally hidden by the mirrors and into another classroom. My blue lines flicked over it quickly and then stilled. I rubbed my temples, grateful that this room wasn’t so visually busy as her office was as I reviewed the data my lines brought me.
The room was of medium size—not really any bigger than any of the other classrooms—but the ratios were telling as I compared it to the internal map of Martial Academy. There was another door on my right. It was identical to the door that had led into Ms. King’s office, down to the old brass handle. I scanned my memory to see if Ms. King’s office had another entrance to her classroom, but there was nothing. In fact, there had to be another room that backed up against Ms. King’s office wall and, based off my map, it had almost three times the space this classroom did.
I stored the numbers in a folder marked ‘mystery’, and cross-referenced it with Ms. King, Mr. West, and Mr. Mccoy. Only then did I scan the faces in the class.
Immediately, I found Tabitha’s eyes among the group. She radiated satisfaction, even though she looked at the ground instead of up at me, which was consistent with what data I had on her. The others I’d never seen before.
“Alright, girls, pick a time period and make your introductions,” Ms. King said.
The entire class straightened, and even Tabitha looked up from the ground.
They lined up with a giant, broad, dark skinned girl in front. She made a curtsy low to the ground and then looked up at me with calculated curiosity in her eyes. “It is wonderful to make your acquaintance. My name is Luna Burton—may I ask yours?”
I told her my name—hopefully that was what she wanted from all those words.
Ms. King shook her head. “You decided to head the group with that introduction?”
One of the girls in the back of the line sighed, and Ms. King gestured for her to speak.
“Dean, would you care to rectify her mistake?”
A short, wiry girl crept out of the crowd. “Yes, Ma’am,”
She straightened just a bit, but kept her eyes coyly to the side as she approached. I focused my attention on her and cleared everything nonessential from my queue so I could process her words—but she didn’t address me.
“Miss Burton, might I have the pleasure of an introduction?”
Burton’s eyebrows narrowed, but she turned to me. “Miss Farina, this is Miss Velma Dean. Miss Dean, this is Miss Crystal Farina.”
Ms. King jerked her chin down in a half-nod. “Well done Miss Dean. Now, does anyone have a variation on that introduction?”
Miller stepped forward and, with that same graceful curtsy said, “Miss Farina, I am overjoyed that you could make it.”
“That wasn’t an introduction,” one of the girls near the back of the line said.
Ms. King tilted her head. “It was unorthodox for an introduction, but recall the criteria for the assignment. Miss Smith?”
Tabitha stepped forward, eyes still on the ground. She lifted her head just enough for me to see the grin on her face before she let it back down. “You asked us to pick a time period and give our introductions. You never named a scenario or expanded on the initial parameters, which leaves us free to adjust.”
Ms. King nodded. “And Miss Wong, why is Miss Miller still within the parameters I set forth?”
Wong stared at Ms. King’s lips a moment before answering. Finally, she spoke in mashed-though-intelligible words. I wondered if that was what I sounded like while I was a kid, trying to learn to speak.
“Introduction has a broad denotation and an even broader connotation.”
Ms. King pursed her lips. “I’m looking for something more specific.”
Dean’s hand came up, and then down almost as quickly as it had come.
“If you have thoughts about it, either share them or don’t—but you have to make up your mind,” Ms. King said. Admonition hung in the air thick enough that I could almost see it. Then it was gone.
Velma Dean blushed red and tucked her chin into her chest. “I was going to say that connotation varies per person. The closest to quantifying it we can come is an average.”
Ms. King tapped long fingernails on the table surface, then turned so she could see everyone. She snagged my eyes.
“Using only the data readily available to you, compute the
percentage of an average class that would have deviated from the normal in a similar manner to Miller.”
I narrowed my eyes as red notices started to cloud up my vision. “This makes some assumptions—first being that this class constitutes an average class. Equally important is the assumption that I have data on a class that bears a statistically significant similarity to this class.”
Ms. King’s eyes narrowed. “Are you telling me you can’t compute it?”
“The numbers I get won’t apply to this class.”
She motioned for me to continue, and I rattled off the numbers.
“Basically,” I said, “the number would be proportional with error to how many others had followed the same thought-path Miller had.”
“Now why do you think that is different in this class?” Ms. King asked.
“Because this school has an incessant—though constant—deviation from standard behavior. I don’t know how that deviation will manifest.”
Ms. King seemed to accept that, and motioned for the introductions to continue.
Wong executed a bow and spouted off a string of Chinese Mandarin that I could identify as a greeting phrase, but not quickly enough to translate.
I sorted through the Mandarin course I’d gone through online and found a response phrase. The pronunciation was sure to be jumbled, but the ‘social niceties’ program had started dancing in the corner of my vision. Wong’s eyes widened.
“Do you speak Mandarin?” she asked in English.
“I read it, but I’m too slow to do much else.”
She gave another bow and moved off to the side.
The other introductions were mostly a variation on modern and medieval introductions, with just enough time between them for me to record their names in blue above their heads. When the last girl shook my hand, everyone turned to Ms. King. She grinned.
“I would like you all to note the time and the fact that none of you are seated.”
A few of the girls groaned, but most restrained themselves. I only frowned and reached for the context I was lacking—but my blue lines came up empty. I shoved a wave of anxiety down. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
“On the bright side, we have a reward for our game today and an opportunity for extra training. Find your seats, and I’ll give you your briefing on the scenario.”
I waited for everyone to establish a trajectory, then threaded a path toward the only seat not taken around the large horseshoe table in the middle of the room, next to Wong and a more heavyset brunette named Burton.
Once everyone was seated, Ms. King nodded. “The game is Capture the Flag. You’re already seated in teams. Equipment is standard, those who can are running unlocked. There is a turncoat in play, and I’ve talked with her outside of class. You have three minutes to strategize. Burton, you’re team lead on yellow. Smith, you’re lead on Blue. Miller, you’ve got lead on Red. Planning starts now.”
Luna Burton and Janice Wong stood and hurried to a small table in the southwest corner of the room. They turned to me almost immediately.
“Your job today is to watch, learn, and stay out of the way. Got it?” Burton said.
I nodded. “Sure. What are we doing?” I understood the instructions, but not the parameters of the game. I needed more information.
She sighed. “Capture the Flag. Three flags are hidden over the field; one for each team. You want to find and secure your own flag and steal and secure the other two. As a plus, you can shoot—or lock down—members of the other teams. You lose points if you get locked down. The team with the most points at the end of the time wins. The other two teams get detention; that’s what she was saying earlier about us not being sat down before the bell rang. Now Farina, listen close. I don’t intend to stay here tomorrow. I’ve got a cousin’s wedding, and my mother will kill me if I can’t go. Stay out of the way, and don’t get locked up.”
“Time’s up, finish briefing en route. Burton, you’re through first.” Ms. King said.
Burton sighed as we all stood and moved toward the extra door I had noticed earlier. She stopped in the doorway and accepted a card from Ms. King, which she tucked into her bra.
“Who else is running unlocked?” she asked.
“You and anyone else who is authorized.”
“And who else is authorized?” Burton pressed.
“Figure it out and give the class a report later.”
Burton blushed. “Yes, Ma’am.” She hurried through the door and down the hall. I squinted in the dark ambiance as the light from the classroom faded away. The farther along the hallway we got, the more smoky it became. The particulates in the air were consistent with a smoke machine.
The hallway opened into a room with racks along the hall filled with suits and play laser guns with LEDs that flashed every once in a while.
Burton and Wong put the suits on without hesitation, strapping them on over their clothes. I followed as best as I was able, but it was hard to interpret the black straps without knowing what it was supposed to look like. I still managed to secure it only eight seconds after Burton and Wong had finished. Burton shoved a holster at my chest and crossed the room to grab a headset and bundle of wires.
“Turn around,” she said.
She fitted the headset to my head as Wong grabbed two more sets.
Burton did Wong’s up, then turned so Wong could do hers.
“Communication equipment?” I asked. Burton nodded.
“Stay off it as much as you can. You never know when there are bugs on the line. There are always a few on the field.” Burton said.
“Now come on. Smith and the rest of Blue are coming down the hall.”
I followed Burton out of the equipment room.
“What did Ms. King mean about a turncoat being in play?” I asked.
Burton stopped halfway down the hall. “A turncoat being in play means that someone on the field is not being scored with their team. After the game starts, she will have ten minutes to present herself to another team of her choice and notify them that she is being scored with them.”
“So one team will be playing with four people?”
Burton nodded. “And one team will be down to two. The problem is that anyone can say they are a turncoat, but all their actions can still go toward their original team. If you are approached by someone claiming to be a turncoat, get Wong or I before you believe them. We don’t want to throw away a valuable resource, but we also don’t want to get stabbed in the back.”
I nodded and started to inspect the weapon as we walked. It had a trigger, but no mechanism to allow it to be cocked. Upon depression of the trigger, it emitted a red laser. My blue lines started flashing over it as I noted an abnormality in the design. How hard would it be to get a screwdriver in here to take it apart?
“Hey, careful with that,” Burton said, and danced to the side as a second laser blast nearly caught a sensor on the lower part of her vest. “If that laser hits a sensor on the suit, you’ll lock whoever you hit down, whether they’re on your team or not.”
“Lock down?” The term was obviously some kind of jargon.
“The suit’s got motion sensors. If you get hit and then continue to move, it’ll hit you with a nasty shock. Hurts like nothing else, but it won’t permanently damage anything. The effect is that you get to lay there until the lock down timer runs out. The timers are set for ten minutes unless the whole team is out. Then you’re out of play until the game is over.” She gave me a sly look. “Of course, any shots coming from a suit in lockdown still count—just like friendly fire. You’ve got to be careful on the field, not that a newbie like you would understand.”
She finished her explanation as the hallway emptied into an arena full of smoke. On the right was a padded black tower lined in yellow LEDs. In the center was a second, identical tower lined in blue, and on the left was a
nother one in red.
We jogged through a gate made of that same padded material the gate was made of, and passed other pieces of cover carefully arranged to provide areas of both dense and thin cover.
This entire field was designed to teach ranged combat tactics.
The realization sent a shiver down my spine, and I looked down at the laser gun as numbers started clouding my vision.
If I had the materials, I could have made one of these that was deadly. I’d almost made one to deal with Zachary, but I hadn’t been able to actually do it. It would have been a weapon built for killing, and I wasn’t a killer.
This was a field designed to train people to kill.
“Wong, you find our flag. I’ll seek.” Burton started toward the red territory across the field.
“What about me?” I asked across the growing distance.
“Find somewhere you’ll be out of the way and stay there—and don’t forget to turn on your com!”
Looking around, there were very few places where I could stay out of the way without cutting off my lines of sight. I started toward the top of the tower—the one place where I would be able to see all lines of approach and be out of the line of fire.
“Where are you going?” Wong asked.
I turned to face her. “The top of the tower. If someone comes, I’ll let you know.”
She pursed her lips a moment.
“Game begins in thirty seconds. Vests active in ten seconds.” A voice said over the intercom.
“Go,” Wong said.
I hurried over the tower and began to climb straight up the side. There was a path that wound around a few times before it finally would posit someone at the top, but the shortest distance between two points was a straight line, and my climbing speed wasn’t far enough below my average walking speed to make up the difference. Five minutes after the game started, I was hot, sweaty, and at the top of the tower.